Doc: A Memoir (31 page)

“You didn’t introduce yourself as ‘Buttafuoco face shooter,’” she explained.

Oh, boy!

Lou, Amy’s husband, heard that and flew into a rage. “That’s disrespectful,” he said.

Jeremy’s sister said she was only making a “sweet, funny joke.” But Amy wasn’t laughing and neither was Lou. Soon, Lou was up in Jeremy’s face like some kind of mobster.

“Be careful the way you talk to my wife,” he warned. “It’s my wife, and I take it personal. Just be cool about that. Do we have an understanding?”

“I’m comfortable with my truth,” Jeremy replied evenly, “and I pray you get comfortable with yours.”

They might have been a little too California calm for Lou.

“I’ll kill you, you motherfucker!” Lou screamed. “I’ll bury you where you stand!”

That sent Jeremy’s sister into a panic attack. Hyperventilating into a white paper bag, she phoned the police and reported Lou’s foulmouthed threats. The cops showed up, demanding to speak with Amy’s husband.

Dr. Drew, who wasn’t usually opposed to a little drama for the cameras, did not seem pleased at all. This was getting out of control. The two people who’d lit the fuse, Lou and Taylor, weren’t even addicts or officially on the show.

Through it all, I was sitting a few feet away with Dwight Junior. Dr. Drew came over and tried to calm everyone down.

“The last thing we want is big trouble over nothing,” he told Jeremy. “You be cool.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jeremy said.

Before we left Pasadena, Dr. Drew called together all eight of the celebrity rehabbers and asked us each to write a letter to our addiction. That seemed a little weird to me. I understood why we might write letters to those we loved and hurt badly. In my case, writing a letter to my son had helped me say things I never would have been able to say if I hadn’t written them first. But a letter to my addiction?

Dr. Drew used me as an example for the group. “Dwight,” he said, “your disease has had such, such a dramatic effect on your life. Knowing you now, and everyone would agree, you’re one of the greatest guys anyone would ever want to meet.”

I wasn’t sure about that. Not after some of the things I’d done. But the other people all nodded, which made me feel good.

“You really are,” he went on. “And one of the greatest baseball players of all time. And this goddamn disease deprived you of being those things that you are. It just robbed you.”

“I’ve been in this a long time,” I said. “I had to dig deep, deep inside myself. I know I have a good heart. But I haven’t been good to myself.”

Or to others, I might have added.

“That’s right, Dwight,” Dr. Drew said. “That’s right, man. You deserve better.”

Michael Lohan spoke up. “You’ve got a great heart,” he said. “You’re a gentle giant. You really are.”

I started crying again. “Thanks,” I said.

“Let it out, big guy,” Michael said.

Even though I thought Michael was an attention hog, he did have a way of connecting. With his volatile daughter, he’d been around a lot of emotional uproar. He was far more experienced at that than I was, not that I wanted to use him as a role model.

“It’s tears of joy,” I told Michael. “This time. It’s tears of joy that I don’t have to get that way anymore.”

Dr. Drew looked relieved to hear that.

“You’ve got a good-bye letter for us?” he asked me.

“Actually, this letter’s to myself,” I said. And then I read it. For Dr. Drew. For his team. For the others in my little group there. For my fans. For my family. Most of all, for myself.

“Dear Dwight,” the letter began.

“I am writing you this letter to let you know how much you are missed. Everyone you feel you have hurt has forgiven you. It’s really time you forgive yourself and understand it was your disease most of the time. You tell yourself all the time you want to get better. You want to be a better father, but it all starts with you. If you’re not right, you can’t be right for anyone else. So please, start right now. I ask God to forgive you and to forgive yourself and to continue to grow. You deserve it. I love you very much. Welcome back.

“Love, Me.”

The others all started clapping. I was crying. Others were crying too. I was finally able to say what I had been trying to say about where my life had gone.

Not to let myself off the hook.

Just to recognize what I had allowed these drugs to do to me and to give myself the strength to begin my life again without them.

Staying Strong

Y
OU SEEM TO BE DOING GOOD
,” Bob Forrest told me before I left the cocoon in Pasadena. “But you’ve been doing good a hundred times before.”

He was right about that.

“I’m going to keep in regular contact with you,” Bob said. “I’m very concerned about whether you stick to it this time or fade away.”

Bob was right to worry. I was worried too. More like terrified. Getting off drugs was never my biggest challenge. Staying off was. My win-loss record in that game was 0 and some number I didn’t even want to think about. I kept coming out to the mound, and the batters kept hitting me out of the park.

I felt a little better knowing I wouldn’t be disappearing off Bob’s radar. Of all the people at
Celebrity Rehab,
he was the one I left feeling the closest to. In the fight against addiction, there is no substitute for some battle scars. And I definitely left the show feeling as though my life
had changed. I was genuinely pumped about my ability to live clean and sober. I had confronted shame and guilt that I’d been carrying for decades. I had said some painful and difficult things. I felt like my son and I were on a positive path. I got fresh insight into why I’d chosen so often to hide in the comfort of drugs. Dr. Drew, I thought, was dead-on about me and the bathroom. For the first time ever, I could see all that plainly. I’d been given this chance to pull myself out of my downward spiral. If I didn’t, I knew there wouldn’t be too many rest stops between here and that cemetery at the bottom.

Not bad for a cable TV show.

But would the progress last? That was the big question hanging over me. And I was the only one who could answer it.

I knew I had to think of my recovery as a lifelong journey, and that journey had barely begun. Twenty-five years of bad habits would never be reversed in three weeks, no matter how smart the counselors or how psyched I felt now. Dr. Drew and his team were good, but not that good. I wasn’t even close.

Thankfully, the
Celebrity Rehab
people were clued into that. I didn’t have to push or plead with anyone. From the moment I first spoke to Ben-the-booker on the phone until our last-day send-off in Pasadena, everyone made it clear: follow-up was a vital part of what we were doing. The counselors had pushed Jessica extremely hard when she said she didn’t need follow-up treatment. They knew Sean would have an extra-tough time, going home to a husband who was just as addicted as she had been. I’d been on this road before, and I knew: I would need major reinforcement for a good long time. Until I tried living on the outside, I wouldn’t really know how I’d do without my alcohol and drugs.

When I got back east, I immediately checked into the Evergreen Substance Abuse and Addiction Treatment Program at the Bergen Regional Medical Center in Paramus, New Jersey. It was only a twenty-minute
drive from my house. Dr. Sharp made the arrangements. He said I should think of Evergreen as a job. I went there three days a week and stayed for hours every time. The program was a lot like
Celebrity Rehab
—minus the cameras, the California sunshine, and the drama queens. We had group therapy meetings, one-on-one counseling sessions, and the same in-your-face confrontation. The one big difference was we got to go home at night.

When I wasn’t at Evergreen, I attended twelve-step meetings at AA or NA, going to one or the other almost every day. Gerry Cooney, the former professional boxer, agreed to be my sponsor. His toughest fights, Gerry made clear to me, were not against Jimmy Young, Ron Lyle, or Larry Holmes—but in the ring with heavyweight brawlers like cocaine and alcohol. It was crucial for me to hear about the efforts of others, realizing that in this battle I was far from alone.

Getting back to my daily life in New Jersey wasn’t easy. I knew I couldn’t call my drug-using friends or the guys I used to hang out with in bars. My marriage to Monique had pretty much fallen apart. Without the rush of drugs, I worried that my days and nights would sometimes feel mundane, like I’d lost a friend who had been there for me. A very high-maintenance friend. But a friend I had counted on for company, for fun, for protection, against some of the hard things in life. Isn’t that a bizarre way of thinking—that my biggest enemy was my friend? That’s how drug addicts think.

I just tried to stay as busy as I could. Besides the day program at Evergreen, my manager, Ron, arranged some public events for me—autograph signings and speeches and sports banquets. It felt so great knowing people still wanted to see me. The people were always encouraging. “You look good,” they’d say. “Hang in there, Doc. We’re pulling for you.”
Celebrity Rehab
wasn’t airing until the end of June. But there’d been a few more stories in the papers and on the Internet saying I’d been there.

I did notice people checking me out, staring in my eyes to see if
they were bloodshot. Gauging my focus. Did I seem distant or confused? Looking for a sign, any sign, of how I was doing off drugs. “Is he okay?” But I didn’t get the sense they wanted me to fail. They were hoping, praying, and keeping their fingers crossed that I’d be able to rebuild my life. That was great to know. I really did get strength from the encouragement of others.

I kept getting regular calls from Bob Forrest. Just as he had promised, he was checking in on me.

“How you doin’?” he asked.

Nothing formal. Nothing pushy. Listening for trouble spots.

“Strange being out without the drugs?”

Bob understood what that was like.

“You talk to your mom? How’s Dwight Junior? How are Dylan and Milan? You been going to the meetings at the day program? Staying busy?”

“I’m doing good, I think,” I told him, trying to give him an honest assessment. “I think I am.”

Clearly, this was not going to be easy.

I had to get used to leaving clean in a world where drugs and alcohol were always available. That’s a big challenge for any addict. There are temptations everywhere. Living in North Jersey, where I knew lots of people, I felt a lot more temptation than I had being sealed inside a treatment center three thousand miles from home, watched by counselors and cameras twenty-four hours a day.

The fight to stay sober was constant. The lure of slipping back into the comfort of drugs or drinking was everywhere. Even with the full schedule of day treatment. Even with Ron’s events. I knew that boredom was a big reason addicts often relapse. I didn’t want to take any chances getting bored.

I dove back into the lives of my kids. I made a point of staying in extra-close contact with my mom. I had neglected her in that period after the accident. I didn’t want to do that again. She was one of the
main reasons I had for staying clean and sober, not disappointing her. I figured the more I stayed in touch with her, the more powerful my motivation would be.

I went back and forth on the phone with Monique, who was still living in Maryland. Those calls were always tense. We talked about whether I should move down there when I was finished with Evergreen so at least I’d be closer to Dylan and Milan. Or maybe she should move back to New Jersey with the kids. Or maybe we should just stay apart. I still loved Monique, but nothing was ever easy with her. Being available to my kids was hugely important to me, and I knew I had to find a way. I had been so neglectful of my older children when they were growing up. That was one mistake I definitely did not want to repeat sober.

And the criminal case was still waiting for me. If the judge decided to send me off to prison for the Ambien accident, as he had every right to, I knew that could sidetrack my whole recovery.

I was totally willing to admit what I had done. I hadn’t meant to put anyone in danger. I certainly didn’t mean to put Dylan’s safety at risk. I didn’t try to hit that man’s Mercedes. But I had done all those things—I couldn’t deny it. I had used the cocaine, which sent me to the Ambien, which left me dozing behind the wheel. I was ready to accept responsibility. If not me, who else could I blame? I felt like I was on a positive track now. The accident seemed so long ago, like that was almost another person at another place and time. But I knew it was me. I just wanted to put it all behind me and move on.

After months of negotiations, my lawyer, Neal Frank, worked out a deal with the prosecutors. I would plead guilty to one count of child endangerment. In exchange, the prosecutors would drop all the other counts against me. Frank said he thought Judge Venezia would probably give me probation. But there was no guarantee. My sentence was up to the judge. And no one knew what the prosecutors might say against me in court. We knew they’d opposed the idea of
Celebrity Rehab.
That could come up again. Even with a guilty plea, Judge Venezia could still send me to a New Jersey state prison for up to three years. Since I’d already done jail time in Florida after blowing probation down there, my lawyer warned me: prison was a genuine possibility.

I truly didn’t know if I could handle that.

Judgment Day

O
N THE MORNING OF
April 15, 2011, I walked up the front steps of the Bergen County courthouse in Hackensack, New Jersey. The courthouse was a huge gray building with a large dome on top. I thought: Nothing good can possibly happen in here.

Given what was scheduled at 9:30 in room 311, I didn’t want any of my family coming along. Five years earlier, when my mom heard that Florida judge say “a year and a day,” I didn’t know if she would ever climb out of her seat again. Now I was facing up to three years behind bars. I couldn’t drag her up to New Jersey for that.