Read Online The End of My Addiction by Olivier Ameisen M.D. - Free Book Online
Authors: Olivier Ameisen M.D.
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wondered how much the celebrities and wealthy people in the private bungalows were paying.
“Then you have to leave.”
“When?”
“Right now, today. The insurance will pay only through this morning.”
“But is that safe? You said my treatment here was a matter of life or death.”
“No, no, that’s not what I said at all. Don’t be dramatic. These things are not black-and-white.”
“But you told me that if I don’t stay, it will be terrible for me.”
“Let’s not exaggerate,” the doctor said.
“But how will I get back to New York? I don’t know if I can reach anyone to come pick me up.”
“There is a train station not so far away. You can walk there and get a train to the city.”
I was trembling with anxiety. I pointed outside the window and said, “In this downpour? Can’t I stay tonight and make arrangements to leave tomorrow morning? I can pay for one night at least.”
The doctor stood up, straightened his white coat, and said, “This is a hospital, not a hotel. I’m sure you’ll do very well.” Then he turned on his heel and left without another word.
I got my things, a few changes of clothes, and put them in the paper shopping bag in which Joan had brought them to New York Hospital.
I didn’t know what to do. Once again I had no credit cards, and only a few crumpled bills that were in my pocket when Joan called EMS. I doubted there was enough for both a taxi to the train station and a ticket to New York. A counselor I had a nice rapport with passed by and said, “You’re leaving us already?”
I explained the situation and he said, “I am sure some other patients will be leaving today. Maybe you can catch a ride with one of them to the station or even all the way to New York City.”
I waited through the afternoon. Around six o’clock an eighteen-year-old kid I had talked to earlier in the week came into the reception area with his things. Other patients said he looked like a young James Caan. He was finishing a rehab stint, by no means his first, for a cocaine problem. His parents were coming to bring him home to New York City, and when they arrived they kindly offered to take me along in their black Mercedes.
We left without any dinner around seven p.m. I was full of rage and thought, “I’ll show these rehab idiots. I’m going to get home and have a nice big drink.” My fellow patient’s parents were going to drop me in front of my place. There was a liquor store around the block, and realizing I had just enough cash, I said, “Oh, leave me at the far corner, please.”
I went into the liquor store and bought a bottle of Stoli. That began a binge that lasted, like all binges, until I could no longer drink because I felt so horrible. After I detoxed myself with Valium, I called my insurance company and learned that my coverage included $15,000 for addiction treatment and that this was a total rather than a yearly figure. Three weeks at Clear Spring in September and one week in November had consumed all $15,000.
I was already paying for my alcoholism-related visits to doctors and other therapists to the tune of $2,300 a month out of pocket, and from now on I would also have to pay for any ER visits, detoxes, and rehab stays myself. Because I was not practicing medicine while I was ill, only a few more stints of rehab, at least at Clear Spring prices, would exhaust all my resources.
For that reason, and because I was outraged by the abrupt, callous shift from “You must stay in rehab here a long time if you want to live” to “If you can’t or won’t pay, get out,” I contemplated suing Clear Spring and was referred to a successful malpractice lawyer who was described admiringly as “a real shark.” He grilled me like he was cross-examining me in court and then said I had an excellent case. But he wisely asked if I was willing to burn all my bridges as a cardiologist at New York Hospital by waging a lawsuit while I was still ill with alcoholism. Hearing
“Then you have to leave.”
“When?”
“Right now, today. The insurance will pay only through this morning.”
“But is that safe? You said my treatment here was a matter of life or death.”
“No, no, that’s not what I said at all. Don’t be dramatic. These things are not black-and-white.”
“But you told me that if I don’t stay, it will be terrible for me.”
“Let’s not exaggerate,” the doctor said.
“But how will I get back to New York? I don’t know if I can reach anyone to come pick me up.”
“There is a train station not so far away. You can walk there and get a train to the city.”
I was trembling with anxiety. I pointed outside the window and said, “In this downpour? Can’t I stay tonight and make arrangements to leave tomorrow morning? I can pay for one night at least.”
The doctor stood up, straightened his white coat, and said, “This is a hospital, not a hotel. I’m sure you’ll do very well.” Then he turned on his heel and left without another word.
I got my things, a few changes of clothes, and put them in the paper shopping bag in which Joan had brought them to New York Hospital.
I didn’t know what to do. Once again I had no credit cards, and only a few crumpled bills that were in my pocket when Joan called EMS. I doubted there was enough for both a taxi to the train station and a ticket to New York. A counselor I had a nice rapport with passed by and said, “You’re leaving us already?”
I explained the situation and he said, “I am sure some other patients will be leaving today. Maybe you can catch a ride with one of them to the station or even all the way to New York City.”
I waited through the afternoon. Around six o’clock an eighteen-year-old kid I had talked to earlier in the week came into the reception area with his things. Other patients said he looked like a young James Caan. He was finishing a rehab stint, by no means his first, for a cocaine problem. His parents were coming to bring him home to New York City, and when they arrived they kindly offered to take me along in their black Mercedes.
We left without any dinner around seven p.m. I was full of rage and thought, “I’ll show these rehab idiots. I’m going to get home and have a nice big drink.” My fellow patient’s parents were going to drop me in front of my place. There was a liquor store around the block, and realizing I had just enough cash, I said, “Oh, leave me at the far corner, please.”
I went into the liquor store and bought a bottle of Stoli. That began a binge that lasted, like all binges, until I could no longer drink because I felt so horrible. After I detoxed myself with Valium, I called my insurance company and learned that my coverage included $15,000 for addiction treatment and that this was a total rather than a yearly figure. Three weeks at Clear Spring in September and one week in November had consumed all $15,000.
I was already paying for my alcoholism-related visits to doctors and other therapists to the tune of $2,300 a month out of pocket, and from now on I would also have to pay for any ER visits, detoxes, and rehab stays myself. Because I was not practicing medicine while I was ill, only a few more stints of rehab, at least at Clear Spring prices, would exhaust all my resources.
For that reason, and because I was outraged by the abrupt, callous shift from “You must stay in rehab here a long time if you want to live” to “If you can’t or won’t pay, get out,” I contemplated suing Clear Spring and was referred to a successful malpractice lawyer who was described admiringly as “a real shark.” He grilled me like he was cross-examining me in court and then said I had an excellent case. But he wisely asked if I was willing to burn all my bridges as a cardiologist at New York Hospital by waging a lawsuit while I was still ill with alcoholism. Hearing
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