This memoir is a compelling story about a woman who relapses after twenty-six years of sobriety and winds up in a state mental institution to begin her journey back into the beginnings of recovery. The story is a hard look at what goes on internally and externally as she gives it her all to survive the battle of her life. The fast-paced read is relentless and unforgiving at times, yet it brings you the fragility of the human spirit.
This memoir is a compelling story about a woman who relapses after twenty-six years of sobriety and winds up in a state mental institution to begin her journey back into the beginnings of recovery. The story is a hard look at what goes on internally and externally as she gives it her all to survive the battle of her life. The fast-paced read is relentless and unforgiving at times, yet it brings you the fragility of the human spirit.
The EMTs were frantically running into the room as they were kicking away the nips of whiskey, vodka, and wine bottlesâsome still had fluid inside of them. As I lay lifeless on the bed, overhearing a parametric saying, âDianne, can you hear me?â barely was I able to open my alcohol-induced, swollen eye slits, and could not respond to his voice. âHer vitals are not looking so good and neither is she,â I faintly overheard the EMTs talking frantically to one another over me. I glanced up at my friendâs bedroom door and saw his face. That was filled with fright. Through my haze, he must have called the EMTs because there was no one else around. Fading in and out of consciousness, and I close my eyes, feeling this will be the last time I will see my small, minute world again. âDianne, come back to us. Weâre not going to lose you, this time.â Of course, this was not the first time they saw me this way. I had hit many bottoms before. Neither the EMTs nor I knew which one would be my last one. It was apparent this time would very well be the end. Gasping for air, the rescuer put an oxygen mask around my nose and mouth to help me breathe. Trying to stabilize me in bed seemed to take hours while I was continually going in and out of consciousness. If I could open my eyes and see them, through the poisonous, venomous cycle of my organs failing, their expressions would have probably been as hopeless and helpless as I felt. The allergy of alco- Dianne Corbeau Six Days in Detox 2 3 hol in my system now affected my esophagus, preventing me from breathing while going in and out of life-threatening seizures. There were not many thoughts in my mind; just a visualâ Live ~ Die. Which way would this go? As a drenched, dying alcoholic, I had no control over myself or what was happening on all levels. My life rested completely in the hands of professionals. Surely looking like another statistic, the EMTs gave it their all to stabilize me. My absolute was that I had no power in my hands to stop drinking. Utterly powerless and at deathâs door. Through the mist of my vision and muddled thoughts, they must have brought me back to life. The next memory I have was the oxygen mask over my face, vital equipment on top of my lap as they picked me up and placed me on the stretcher to take me into the ambulance for the all-too-familiar ride to the Cape Cod Hospital Emergency Room. During the ride to the hospital, I felt that this time was going to be different. I was done. The OUI was my bottom, or so I thought. Now the pain and suffering for the last drop of any type of alcohol profounded me into the next orbit, this Dimension of Hell, both physically and mentally, I have never felt before. The whole previous week was spent locked in that dark bedroom, gasping for air, while still every few minutes shaking and drinking, along with my tremors, to prevent me from having seizures. I knew for sure, this time, my organs were going to give out or I was going to completely lose my mind. Once we arrived at the Emergency Room, they kept me stabilized. Already the staff knew who I was, and I felt the more ashamed and embarrassed than ever before. My bed was waiting for me in the Emergency Room, until I could be stabilized enough, and a bed opened up in the âPurple Room.â The Purple Room was infamous and known by the mentally ill on Cape Cod, as patients await their fate to which mental hospital was either best suited for them or where the first available bed opened up. Weakly attached to the hospital machines, I was still shaking like a leaf on a hurricane dayâeven my cheeks were vibrating. The staff said my vitals were way above normal even though they were trying to help me with the acute withdrawal. As the alcohol was still in my system, withdrawal had already begun to take its toll. At this point, I would withdraw from alcohol, if I did not drink every half an hour, even if I would have to force it down while getting sick. The physical and psychological withdrawal that was already beginning were beyond torturous. My dear friend, Alexander, walked into the room. He placed his coat on a chair beside the bed and sat down. Automatically, he folded his hands, as if a pupil ready to study a professorâs lecture, but crossed his legs, as if closed off to this lecturerâs experience. His eyes were not in judgment, but of concern. The background he had was as a professional counselor and caseworker, and he stood by the dying patients who had AIDS back in the 1980s and 1990s in San Francisco, California. Most of the time, he was their only confidant. After they passed, he went to their apartments and packed up their belongings. He was, then as he is now, a unique soul. My experience echoed in his expressions and mannerisms as he faced me and simply stated, âI will not leave your side.â The Emergency Room doctor came and gone to check my vitals and make his rounds. Now, the nurse came in and gave me the protocol medication. She explained with a professional but kind tone, âThese are your prescribed medications, from us and your psychiatrist, Dr. Holden. You will start feeling better with these medications back in your system as well.â She handed me the cup filled with my manic-depressive cocktail, which I stopped taking for a while, along with and the hospital medication to help me, as much as it could, through the withdrawal process. Without hesitation, I took the cup of pills, followed by the water. âThank you,â I said gratefully to the nurse. Dianne Corbeau Six Days in Detox 4 5 âYour welcome,â she said, then added, âYou should feel somewhat better soon, and now Dr. Holden is involved too. We will also keep an eye on you until a bed opens up in the Purple Room.â She smiled and walked away. Now I was relieved that Dr. Holden has been informed; I felt he was someone I could trust. After swallowing the pills, I sat back in the hospital bed, preparing for the fight to live. The agony of insufferable pain of withdrawing to the never-ending cycling of mental illness. There was no strength left inside of me. I completely surrendered. The smell came from my unwashed selfâalcohol stench seething through my pores was accompanied by my rotting organs. The idea of a shower or water hitting any part of my skin would not only sound but feel like razor blades scraping against my existing cells. A bed finally opened up in the Purple Room. As I continued in my worsening of agony, a staff member brought a wheelchair over to the side of my bed and placed me gently into the wheelchair himself because he knew, by the looks of me, I could not do it. He wheeled me to the Purple Room and, again, helped my exhausted bag of skeletal decay into the bed. This generous staff member cradled me like a baby and placed me onto the clean linens of the daunting bed. Upon thanking him, he shook his head and walked away slowly. I could tell this affected him and he was a kind soul. I was placed in one of the high-on-call-watch beds, closest to the nursesâ station. Instead of walls, there were curtains, which separated me between the other patients awaiting their new destination. Immediately, a male nurse came in and gave me a pill. Alexander automatically took upon the role to be my advocate. He professionally and sincerely explained to the staff my need to stay at the Cape Cod Psychiatric Unit. But my heart knew it was the luck of the draw, and in being in there two previous times, chances were that they were not going to take me in for another time. The nurse came into my draped room, and politely explained, âWe will try our best to get Dianne into our psychiatric unit, but honestly, they do not treat dual-diagnosed patients and chances are you will be going off Cape Cod.â The nurse took his breath as he must have seen the fear in my eyes. He assured me by saying, âBut donât worry, we will find you a good place to take care of you and will meet your specific needs. I will be back to check on you, and your meal will here soon.â I turned my head to Alexander who now sitting on the right side of my bed. We looked at each other both thinking the same thing: We are up the creek. Alexander rose up from his chair and went directly to the nursesâ station, once again trying not to make a fuss but letting them know that I was comfortable there, and I needed to stay on Cape Cod. They reassured him by explaining, âWe will do the best we can, with her best interest and health at heart.â As the day progressed, so did my withdrawal symptoms, and as soon as I thought I have seen the worst, the worst was yet to come. The previous minute of body and mind hell pain was tripled by the following minute-to-minute all-encompassing hell of pain. I gave the staff credit as they continuously kept in touch with me and Dr. Holden. We worked as a team on both diseases. As my mind got better on some levels, I would hallucinate from the alcohol withdrawal. They would keep me on Dr. Holdenâs strict medication regimen, along with their hospitalâs withdrawal center medications for the seizures and keep me out of the danger zone. Second-by-second day then grew into minute-by-minute nighttime. I was checked in and helped with the embarrassing, ongoing bathroom visits. In the bed, I lay in unwavering silence. Alexander sat there by my side, with only the occasional movement. Throughout the night, the other patients were sleeping, and even with all this help, I was alone. But without their help from Cape Cod Hospital, I would have gone mad and/or killed myself. Breakfast came and the other patients began to wake up. We took morning medications along with getting our vitals checked. Chances were the longer it took them to find me a bed, the worse possible place I would be going. My friend did not speak many words throughout this period, as we knew, subconsciously, that we were on the same page. Knowing that he could, should, and would Dianne Corbeau Six Days in Detox 6 7 never know what I was going through, it meant the world to me that he bore witness to such a horrific human experience. As time moved forward, my paranoia and suspicions grew stronger. I was afraid to reveal myself outside the curtain as my body needed to use the restroom from the constant withdrawal. They tried more medications already on top of what I was given to just keep me from laying on the bathroom floor. I was very much appreciative of them saving me from embarrassment. Still, the withdrawal symptoms mounted, and the bathroom assistance became more and more frequent. Every second of every minute, I was obsessed with getting a bed to open up, and at this point, I did not care if it was in China. I just wanted to be well. Alexander stood up from his torture chambers and told me, âI am going to see what is going on, and if anything is happening, you need to get somewhere fast.â In minutes, Alexander returned with answersâconcrete answers. He began very excitedly, but his tone was mixed with disappointment, âDianne, they did find a bed for you. It will be an hour off Cape.â He saw my look of disappointment, but continued to try to be positive, âIt is a newer place, and the nurse reassured me this place could and would take care of you and have specifically designed units to help people with a dual diagnosis.â He added, âThey are coming to pick you up by an ambulance, and transport you, in one hour.â I responded, âOkay,â then asked him, âBut why did they not come in and tell us when they found out? Do you know about this place?â He quickly answered, âBecause they just found out. And no, I have never heard of them, but they sound good. The nurse explained itâs a place specifically designed to treat manic depression along with severe withdraws from alcoholism and addictions.â Something still did not feel right. I looked at him, and stated, âIf this staff took such good care of me, then they must be trusting this place to be one of the best.â Desperately, since I needed and wanted help on every level, I complied. He reassured me again, âI will come to visit you every night, and when you are finished there, you can come back to my cottage. You can sleep downstairs, and I will go sleep upstairs.â He continued, âIt will get better and work out, I promise.â Alexander finalized the news by explaining, âThey are now getting your paperwork ready to transfer you and letting Dr. Holden know all the details, so he will be completely involved in your recovery.â Our conversation ended, as the nurse flew in with a clipboard and paperwork, for me to sign before my release. As I was signing the release papers, she informed me, âWe have your final dose of medication. This will get you to Southcoast Behavioral Health Hospital and will help you get to them safely. Once in their facility, they are instructed to give you proper medication protocol from Dr. Holden, adding their treatment for alcohol withdraws.â Weakly, I said, âThank you for your help.â She compassionately looked upon me and said, âHang in there, Dianne. I will be right back with your final medications, and they will be here soon.â When she returned, I took my medications, visited the restroom, and hoped I would survive the trip. Alexander gently suggested, âCan you try to get into your clothes?â I had no choice but to go through the motions. My free will now be the use of chronic willpower, at the lowest, bottom alcoholic, and the mind of a mad person. The feeling of being completely brain-damaged from my alcoholic state, I had no coordination; the quick and swift movements of my body and brain were a thing of the past. I wondered for a moment if any of these qualities I once inhabited would come back but had to refocus any energy on calming down my tremors and getting clothed. This massive undertaking needed to happen quickly, so I could collapse back into the bed. Dianne Corbeau Six Days in Detox 8 9 Alexander saw my struggle trying to clothe myself, and as an infant, he clothed meâpants, shirt, socks, shoes, and done. Finally, I was done, and he helped me back into my coffin of a bed as I slid back into the withdrawal-stained sheets. He placed my duffel bag in the wheelchair next to my bed to give to the EMTs who were going to transport me. Everything I owned was in this bag, which only depressed me more. When Southcoast Behavioral Health EMTs came in, they were all business. Coldly, they signed the papers with the kind staff in the Purple Room. Once they were finished, they stepped into my curtain-boxed room, as if they were two German soldiers looking for their next kill. Aching so badly, Alexander and the Cape Cod Staff were the ones who carefully laid me onto the gurney for transport. Without words, I left knowing this was not good. Alexander trying was to catch up and trying to thank the staff at Cape Cod Hospital for me. The staff at Cape Cod Hospital said, âGoodbye, Dianne.â Their voices had sounded a bit shocked themselves by the Southcoast EMTs careless manner. They loaded me onto the ambulance as if they were unloading a bag of bricks. Alexander asked them nicely to give my duffel bag to me. Obviously, this agitated him more, as he grabbed my duffel bag from him, swung it, then plopped it down on my lap, like a 3,000-pound boulder. He walked out of the back, and into the front of the ambulance with his âbuddy.â Alexander stood there and looked at me still with hope, mouthing the words, through the back ambulance windows, âI will see you soon.â I looked back at him through the windows, knowing if I had any emotions, I would be screaming with terror, and tears would be pouring out of my eyes beyond my control, just like this experience. During the hours of my commute, I was not prepared for what lies ahead of me, almost certain I was going to die, either from withdrawal in my body or the insanity of my head. A small space in me was reserved for faith. Faith in what the nurses said and what Alexander believed to be true about this newer place that could help me. If this new place was as good as they said, then I would somehow survive. Certainly, I could not save myself and my medications needed to be intact by professionals who, hopefully, knew what they were doing. While in not so silent judgment, the EMTs were joking around and carelessly behaving. I tried to ignore them, looking out the windows and kept the focus on the sirens and outside nature. Hoping that someday my freewill will not lead me down a path which I would not ever again survive. Departure from the ambulance was robotic and formulated. The Southcoast Nursesâ Station was built like Fort Knox. I was unable to walk and not feeling sorry for myself. I kept going. It felt as if I was the baby cub walking into the lionâs den. The head nurse quickly unlocked the door and let me in. There was a bright separate room to the left labeled Intake Room. The experience I had with this room was this was where they give you their lay of the land and searched your things. Little did I know, this became the game playing, abusive, threatening, and belittling room. Right from the start, I had a strong feeling I was not going to get the desperate help I needed, let alone stay alive. The intake coordinator came out from behind the head nurse with more files filled with guidelines and paperwork. She wasted no time to inform me, âYour medications will automatically change, and it was up to our psychiatrist, Dr. Yang, to approve any and all of your medications before you receive them.â âSo,â I reiterate, âI am not getting any of my medications that I need for tonight then?â Adding, âEven for withdraw or from my psychiatrist, Dr. Holden, and the other hospital has been prescribing them to me, just to keep me alive? And all of this was agreed upon before I came to this place.â This only made her grow more frustrated with me, as she saw me as an angry, rebellious child, rather than a desperate mentally ill, Dianne Corbeau Six Days in Detox 10 11 alcoholic, and powerless adult patient, in dire need of medical help. It did not just feel twisted, but it was twisted. Shaking, squirming, and leaking from every orifice of my body ready to explode, I knew my pores were widening from organ rotting and alcohol withdrawal by the moment. Here walked in what soon to become my greatest lesson, Medman. He aggressively gaited over to my duffel bag and I knew the words he was going to say even before he even though them. He unzipped my duffel bag dumped my belongings onto the table like it was a pile of garbage in an abandoned dump. My belongings went flying on and off the table. He went through them with a fine-toothed comb, as he shamed me for what I did not have and what he was hoping to find. Medman needed to let me know he was the real boss, and this was his show. Exactly. This was precisely what it wasâa show. I watched his performance with no reaction, only realizing I needed to get to my room, in about two seconds, from delirium and bathroom withdrawal. Once it became obvious, I could care less about anything, including any game he had to offer, the intake coordinator interjected his rant-like ways by saying, âOkay, Dianne, let me show you to your room, and I will explain the rest on the way.â He angrily left. She and I had finished putting my belongings back into the duffel bag, and I carried it down to the room, with all the strength I had left. Walking down the hall, she explained, âFirst thing in the morning you need to shower, get into scrubs, and go to breakfast. Then you will meet with our psychiatrist, Dr. Yang, sometime after breakfast. We expect you to go to groups, at the scheduled time, and once you are on medication, you will be called up it, at the medication window. It is where you entered the unit.â Simply agreeing, I was hoping the morning would never arrive, knowing it most likely wonât, because I am now going into full withdrawal, and now without any of my proper medications. The withdrawal symptoms from my psychiatric medications that were now getting reintroduced into my system, but also withdrawal from the alcohol and pills, were worsening by the moment. Death was not just knocking but barging through my gateway door of hell. Definitely, I knew I was going to die. Not knowing whether to run to the bathroom or bed first, I hugged the toilet bowl, and then I would withdraw in the bathroom for hours upon hours, crawling to my bed in agony. Finally, horizontal on my bed, I surrendered my feet that were running me through the last two years of relapse, along with leading me through three separate lives.
Dianne Corbeauâs Six Days in Detox examines the psychological impact of inpatient care for those confronting addiction and mental illness. She methodically chronicles her residency at Southcoast Behavioral Health Hospital, offering valuable insights into the adversities faced by patients. The author seamlessly crafts a narrative infused with poignant flashbacks.
In this purportedly revolutionary institution, Dianne endures distressing events, including abrupt alterations to her medication and various forms of coercion. She encounters a nurse who was intimidating and abusive. Although she sought assistance from the facility's psychologist, she is met with indifference. She finds solace in the unwavering support of her advocate, Alexander.
Battling a complex combination of addiction and manic depression, Dianne experiences physical withdrawal symptoms and verbal attacks from staff and patients. She strives to overcome her past and address her underlying psychological issues.
Dianne faces mental anguish, learning the vital lesson of acknowledging her flaws and seeking support from her community. The writer grapples with tremors while becoming entangled in a web of intrusive thoughts precluding her from living a fulfilling life. Memories of her upbringing in New York City and relying on drug peddling to survive, flood her mind, making her profoundly wary of others. These intrusions impede her from reaching her full potential.
Throughout the text, there is a steadfast emphasis on the act of taking a leap of faith, to which Dianne ultimately acquiesces in her quest for restoration. As a young artist, she embraced the canvas and fearlessly ventured into the unknown. As a professor and a muse of wisdom, she must once again take a risk to explore uncharted territories and seize opportunities.
With fearlessness, Dianne exposes fragile moments uncovering the extent of her afflictions. The intensity of her emotions is palpable, encouraging engagement in the tumultuous emotional odyssey. The challenges of manic-depressive disorder, addiction, and the suffocating confines of residential treatment are thoughtfully examined. She captures the feelings of helplessness and a yearning for freedom many experience when feeling trapped. Amidst the darkness, Dianne exhibits resilience, introspection, and human connection.
Dianneâs candid storytelling illuminates the intertwining threads of humanity that unite souls amidst daunting trials, as one grapples with oneâs psyche. Through her eloquent prose, the phrase "leap and hope to be caught" is used to convey a sense of courage and openness. The narrativeâs unwavering strength presents a powerful glimpse into the struggles of someone working to find their authenticity.