FIVE DAYS OF DETOX: DAY THREE

'Mommy's Feeling Better'

The following stories are introductions to those who struggle through detox
at the Walter A. Slim Thorpe Recovery Centre.

You'll probably see characters much like the people you know -- people like
you. There's a gray-haired construction worker, a soccer mom, a boyish
farmer, a young mother, an oil rig worker, a young professional, and a writer.

Their faces and names won't appear on these pages, but their stories continue.

This is Day Three of Five Days of Detox.

The construction worker and the young farmer both went home this morning.
The counselor says they looked good.

"They were ready to go," she says.

But there's already a new body in the recently vacated beds. The new
person's withdrawal symptoms have left her too sick to get up.

The counselor is busy with people coming and doesn't have time to show a
video or lead a session. The group has the afternoon off. They sit around
tables in the cafeteria to chat and watch the snow through big, living
room-like windows.

The soccer mom introduces herself to a new face at the table. He says he's
already been sober for a few days, but needs a short stay in the detox
centre before entering the four-week drug treatment program.

"You're in detox?" the soccer mom asks with surprise. "I thought you were
just visiting. What's your drug of choice?"

"Crack cocaine."

Asking about someone's drug of choice in detox is like asking a new
co-worker where they grew up.

No one seems more than slightly surprised to meet a crack addict. He's a
young man who moved out West to cash in on the oil patch. He looks strong
and healthy. The only visible evidence of his crack habit are the dark,
tired rings around each eye.

He says rig work leaves people in isolated areas with stacks of cash and
little to do. His crack addiction started as something to do with the guys.
Then it became something he did alone. Soon he started going without sleep
for days and selling furniture to pay for his next hit.

"Then you start getting paranoid," says the young rigger. "What if the cops
notice you've had your lights on for a week?"

There's no sense of paranoia in the young rigger's voice now. He's friendly
and matter-of-fact as he describes his addiction. He talks about trying
drugs in junior high as easily as someone else might remember trying out
for the basketball team. He remembers trading a bag of pot for his first
hit of crack as though they were hockey cards.

The rigger's girlfriend dropped him off at the detox centre this morning
and took away his keys.

"I wish I had my PlayStation 2," he says. "That Tiger Woods game -- now
that's addictive."

The young professional's boyfriend hopes to get into the detox centre when
she's done. The centre doesn't take couples. Both are hooked on a
prescription drug that acts as a synthetic form of heroin. The pills cost
anywhere from $2 to $10 each. She bought some before checking in. She
planned to sell them for several times what she'd paid, but she used them
instead.

She took one last hit just before driving to Lloydminster and wished she
had just one more by the time she arrived.

The young professional didn't get out of bed much during her first day in
detox.

She didn't try drugs until she was past 30. She quit drinking a few years
ago. She says it wasn't hard. She simply outgrew the youthful party scene.

Then she took some prescription pain killers. It felt good so she kept
taking them. Then she started feeling sick if she didn't take them.

The rigger nods. His head throbbed, and he puked his guts out during his
first day without crack.

The young professional can't stay still. She's still suffering from
withdrawal. As she sits at the table and chats, she fidgets. She looks like
a child with chicken pox or a sunburn or chills. But her skin doesn't itch
or burn. The crawling sensation is below her skin.

The chills are real though. Withdrawal is cold. She couldn't warm up for
days. That's why she wears the funny fleece cap with ear flaps when she
goes out for a walk.

Everyday she's in detox, the young professional announces she's going to
leave. People have convinced her to stay so far, but it's becoming a joke
within the group. She's supposed to stay five more days.

But she wants to get back to work. She's already taken a few days off.

And there's someone she wants to talk to.

"I can't wait to tell the guy we bought the drugs from to get out of our
lives," she says. "His Christmas was great. We had nothing."

Beside her, the young mother sits quietly as usual, but she seems happy.
She called her little daughter on the phone this morning.

"She asked if I'm feeling better," she says.

"I said: 'Yeah, I'm feeling better.'

"She said: "Mommy's feeling better.'

"She could hear it in my voice."

The young mother smiles.

"She's a little cutie."

After a few hours of drinking coffee and rotating through different
conversations as people periodically step outside for a smoke, I stand up
to go.

"Good luck with your story," the young professional says.

I thank her, but say I'll probably be back tomorrow.

"I might be gone," she says laughing.