Lost At Home, Abroad
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Danny, who owned the market, was a kind Arabic man in his early forties who had taken a liking to his cute red headed junkie neighbor. It was not uncommon for him to advance me hundreds of dollars in groceries, or to hold a check until the end of the month until Naoji got paid. 'I need to cash a check Danny," I urged trying not to look too desperate. 'Toni, Toni' he replied with his Arabic accent. 'I can not. You owe me now $3900.00. When I get my money, Huh? Let me see your arms." He grabbed my left hand and forced my sleeve up revealing black and blue marks along my veins indicating my last coke run. 'You're pretty bad, girl. In God's name stop'. 'I need $100.00 to pay the phone bill, Danny, if I don't pay it they will shut it off,' I scammed. 'I can't do it Toni," he stated with finality. What next? No money. There was no way I could ask Naoji for some money. I was Jones n like a motherf**ker, and Burt burned me. The thought occurred to me that the only thing I had of value at the moment, were my wedding rings. What kind of a person hocks their wedding rings for a fix? A Junkie. I was a f**king Junkie! I hopped into the Mazda and headed for Babette's apartment in Oakland. Babette was my connection and my friend. She used to be a He. She had surgery three months prior in Colorado and was still recuperating and out of work. She was able to pay the rent and buy groceries as well as stay high with her cocaine business . She was blond, well defined, about 5 9" and had a better body than mine. She was an attractive woman, as transsexuals go and very interesting. Formally Robert, she found, she says, she was a woman trapped in a man's body. She came into a large sum of money after a legal settlement where she was the victim of an automobile accident. With this money she bought her womanhood and now determined she was a lesbian. Figure that. Why didn't she just keep the dick and be straight. Anyway, Babette had a heart of gold and took me under her wing. At that time I was a 26-year-old upper middle class housewife, married to a Japanese businessman and could afford luxuries such as a nanny, shopping sprees at Nordstrom s and lunches with my girlfriends on Union Square. Not consistent with the junkie image, I'll admit, but I loved the double life and our money enabled me to stay fucked up and strung out for years. 'Hey Babette. Got any coke? I need a line.' 'Did you bring any money, you already owe me 350 dollars?' 'Well, I was wondering if you could front me $300? I met a guy that can get some 'D's'. 4mg. We can turn them over for $50.00 a piece. I'll pay you and get some coke too.' 'Sure Toni, that's bulls**t. You can't sell them, you know they'll be gone in a week." 'I swear, man, I'll be back by 8 o clock tonight. Please Babette.' I begged. There was something in her eyes at that moment. Pity. We had used together for nearly three years, mostly coke and pot, but I had started shooting up and she just wasn't into that sh*t. It scared her. She was scared for me. Babette reached into her cash box and grabbed a handful of bills, 10's and 20's, and threw them into the air. I watched as they floated to the floor. 'Get down on your hands and knees and crawl for the money, Toni, just like an addict would', she said with a sadistic smirk on her face. She was good at that. She had worked part time at the Chateau, a bondage and discipline salon over in the Mission district of San Francisco, prior to her surgery. I promptly got down on my hands and knees and picked up the bills thinking only, "I'm going to be high tonight".
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Ward 5 , a 32 bed, multi-service ward had patients admitted for Surgical, Internal Medicine, Pediatric, Psychiatric, and Orthopedic Services. We were a catch all for the Heidelberg patient population and run an average census of 12-15 patients. To work on this ward you needed to be a jack-of-all-trades, master of none, as nursing goes and I was simply a psychiatric nurse with a counseling license. Misplaced, and disgruntled, I bit my tongue and bided my time. Everything in the Army is temporary, as it is a Management by crisis organization .
'A Briefing in the theater' the captain repeated as I copied down the results of the CBC the lab tech rattled off 'WBC's 24, RBC's 3.5, Hematocrit 40, Hemoglobin 15... The patient had an infection and I needed to notify the doctor. She needed to be prepped to go to surgery stat for an emergency appendectomy and my head nurse was bugging me to go to some stupid briefing.
'What is this about?' I asked. She handed me a single sheet of paper.
'Your orders are changed. You are re-assigned to the 214th MASH," She stated calmly.
My brain screeched to a halt. M*A*S*H, Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, deployable, Bosnia, war, death and dying. I felt nauseated. Wasn't it enough that I had come to Europe on my first tour as a new nurse? Now I was working as a medical nurse and I was not a f**king medical nurse. I was a psychiatric nurse who specialized in therapy for drug addicts. Treatment and detox was what I did, not medical nursing. Certainly not MASH nursing. That was for the trauma nurses; the ones that thrived on blood and guts. I was a mellow, 12-step, let s discuss your feeling sort of nurse. The needs of the Army, however, came first not the needs of the individual or family. This was a warring, fighting, killing sort of institution, and not a job placement service. You did what they said. You went where you were told you to go. This was the United States Army and I was screwed.
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About the Book
Lost at Home, Abroad is one woman s candid memoir that uses brutal honesty to recount her struggles with drug addiction, military life and the effects it had on self, family and friends. The story relates the harsh realities of balancing a life as an upper middle class housewife and mother with hard-core drug addiction and the resulting moral decline. The story poignantly relates her path of addiction beginning with obtaining legal prescription narcotics, soliciting unnecessary surgeries to slamming I.V. heroin in the Haight Street projects in San Francisco while her children waited at school for a ride home. The memoir moves between flashbacks of the author s first marriage, her heart-wrenching experiences as a neglectful addicted parent, and her struggles to stay clean while serving on active duty over-seas. The author finds hope for recovery through divine intervention, in spite of numerous failed treatments, multiple hospitalizations and subsequent relapses. Lost at Home, Abroad is a story of desperation and hope, personal failure and triumph, and graphically shares one woman s long battle to gain control over her addiction and her gratitude for recovery.
About the Author
Toni Marie was born and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. She received her Bachelor s in Nursing from Grand Canyon University and her Master s in Nursing from the University of Phoenix. She lives in Arizona and works as a Psychiatric Clinical Nurse Specialist at a treatment facility specializing in treating drug addicted pregnant and post partum women. She is a published researcher in the area of Spirituality and Addiction and has presented at multiple professional conferences. She is dedicated to recovery and focuses on the special needs of women. Her family resides in Phoenix, and her sons are currently enrolled in College in the Phoenix area. Her first book Lost at Home, Abroad is dedicated to her sons. She continues to serve in the Army Reserves as a nurse.