"I just want to get out of this stinkin' country."
By the time Bob and Fran leave the hotel the next morning, Bob is feeling a tiny bit better. But the nagging, dull muscle ache and the sour stomach have become constant companions.
Dr. Luna examines his patient one last time. The part of this campaign under his control, exorcising the opiate, is doing fine. Bob's part isn't going so well. The habit has been evicted from the body, but it still controls the mind. Luna reminds Bob that he must take the Revia every day in order to have a chance. He assures Bob that he will continue to feel better, slowly, with each passing day.
Bob spends the trip home working on the excuse he's going to give his boss, since it's become evident that he will not be going back to work tomorrow as was his original plan. It's been four days since they arrived, 80 hours since the last time Bob stuck a needle into his artery. Yet the act continues consuming his every thought.
It's nearly 9:30 p.m. by the time Bob and Fran finally return to the sanctuary of home that Bob has longed for. When he's thinking rationally, Bob realizes that home is probably not a good place for him to be right now. The habit still lives here. But he doesn't care. This is comfortable.
Bob reviews the tape in his mind. They've spent so much money. Everyone's counting on him to kick this. If he can just get through the next few days, he'll be OK. But the fix is there. He knows it's there. He left it there, just in case. And it's calling him.
Before the hour is up, Bob lights a match under a spoon, and the rationalization begins. He needs this. As the hard substance melts into an amber liquid, Bob's conviction dissolves, too. He empties the syringe into his wrist, but doesn't feel a thing. The Revia prevents his body from getting high.
Bob calls his dealer to score again.
During the next two days, Bob leaves messages for Zavell at the CITA office in Los Angeles, but they don't talk. Bob still has diarrhea, still aches. He's tried soup, bread. Nothing seems to settle his sour stomach. Bob can't sleep. The only thing that seems to help is the beer he has each night.
"I've been fucking up," Bob says. He's been home from Ensenada for three days now. He's still taking the Revia, and he's fixing. All he wants to do is get high.
"The goddamn addiction is just so strong. I'm just throwing my money away. I don't feel a damn thing. It's really stupid, but I just can't stop doing it."
He calls one of the CITA guardians who shepherded him around Ensenada, and they talk. The psychologist whom CITA referred him to calls from Los Angeles, but Bob can't seem to relate to him. Bob goes to see a counselor he saw years before, an appointment he made before going to Mexico.
The days tick by, Bob fixing once a day, twice a day. He still feels like he's got a bad hangover that won't go away.
"Fran's getting pretty frustrated with me," Bob says. "I guess that's understandable."
He talks to Dr. Luna, who tells him to try taking half doses of Revia twice a day instead of all at once.
"You know what I'm really afraid of now?" Bob says. "I'm really afraid that this [heroin] is back in my body. So I'm afraid of having withdrawals."
The habit knows what to do. Bob fixes more and more. He's got to feel something. Finally, in one day, he shoots 4 grams of heroin, on top of the Revia, into his newly clean body and winds up violently ill.
A doctor here gives him medication for the diarrhea, and another enema. He suggests a 30-day in-patient program, but Bob's insurance won't cover it. Bob can't take it anymore. The calling. The memory of euphoria. Within a week, he stops taking the Revia. He and the habit make up. He can feel the high now. It doesn't take much to get there anymore. He can go back to work.
It's over.
"I blew it is what apparently happened," Bob reflects. "I should have gone directly into a program when I got back from Mexico. I needed that extra help. I have to do something," he says. "Everything I own is up for sale. I owe Fran so much.
"I just feel like I let everybody down," he says. "I thought I could do it."
Editor's note: Bob and Fran are pseudonyms to protect the privacy of the individuals involved. All other names in the story are correct.
