Dispatches From Treatment #3: Sharp Objects

A cutlery caper and very close call

Photo: EHN Canada

I thought I was getting kicked out of treatment. For the dumbest reason anyone was kicked out of a treatment in treatment history.

It started with an itchy back.

It developed a few years ago. Sometimes my back is so itchy, I think it must be psychosomatic, because the itchiest itches attack in the hardest-to-scratch places: right below my shoulder blades, just out of reach from my finger tips at the edge of insanity.

My doctor says it can be a thing as we age, but she only prescribed epson salt baths. And the novelty back scratchers sold at bookstore checkouts do jack shit— they’re no match for the burrs grinding in back, the invisible fireworks under my skin.

So I adopted a scratchin’ fork. Just a common, run-of-the-mill, household dinner fork. One I keep separate from the cutlery drawer to prevent others from accidentally eating from it, god forbid. Because eating from someone’s scratchin’ fork would be really weird.

Good ol’ forkie. We’ve been through a lot together.

I keep my scratchin’ fork in our home bed because that’s reasonable. The itches are at their angriest at night. My partner is also at her angriest at night, repeatedly rolling onto sharp silverware in her sleep.

Here at the treatment centre there is, of course, a long list of items you can’t bring in. Grooming scissors, perfumes and colognes, unsealed food, smart watches…drugs…alcohol—you know, the usual. Scratchin’ forks didn’t make the list, but I erred on the side of caution and left mine at home. In bed, where it belongs.

I consider myself a star student here. A keener, even. I follow the rules and every principle of recovery, all of which start with fearless honesty. Yet, after my third itchy and sleepless night, I swiped a dining fork from the dining hall, eyeing every domed security camera along the way, and smuggled it back to my room.

Oh, man. The sweet relief of nighttime scratching.

In this top-notch treatment centre—full of people serious about recovery— there’s rarely an incident. Yes, a couple of storm-outs from people that weren’t ready, luggage wheels furiously rolling out the door. And when the in-house store runs out of smokes. That’s pure chaos. Beyond that, the drama level is low.

Which is why it was so jarring when one afternoon, during a rare moment of leisure time reading a non-recovery novel on my bed, one of the support staff opened my door.

Janice, the normally compassionate and loving team member, stood in my doorway. She was unnaturally business-like, unsmiling, and wearing blue disposable gloves.

“We’re doing room sweeps.”

Let me be clear. In this special and serene place of healing, room sweeps are not part of the package. So I asked Janice why, before letting her go through my things. Yeah…why Janice?

“A utensil has gone missing from the kitchen,” she said. “Sorry. We have to check everywhere.”

I froze on my perfectly made bed. Which sat below my perfectly organized desk, my completed assignments organized on top. Which was under my perfectly dusted windowsill lined with my mom’s encouragement cards, perfectly lined in a row.

And just behind my head, tucked under the pillow, lay the weapon in question. I spent nine months on the waiting list…incalculable costs and aid to get here…all my hard work…and I was about to get booted for a fork.

Janice started in my closest, patting down the two collared shirts I had hanging. She rifled through my toiletry bag, her gloved hands feeling over my toothbrush, razors, and the unreasonable number of hair products I packed for rehab. She moved to my socks and underwear drawer, and I could feel the contraband burning a hole through the pillow sheets. My back suddenly became very itchy.

“Janice. Stop.”

I reached below my pillow and pulled out the fork. I held it at arm’s length like a cornered criminal giving up his gun, tines safely pointing down.

“I can explain, I said.”

Janice stared at me. She put her rubber-gloved hands up in mock surrender. Then a faint smile broke through her frown.

“I don’t want to know what you do with that thing,” she said.

She turned to go, shaking her head, adding: “For the record. We’re looking for a chef’s knife that went missing from kitchen duties this morning.”

Yes. The gifts of honesty. The gifts of a higher power. The gifts of a scratchin’ fork.

The next day, the knife in question was found under a slop pile of chow mein and oatmeal in the compost bin, accidentally swept in by another client on chopping carrot and celery sticks for snack time.

I slept soundly that night. My guilt assuaged, my breathing calmed, and my back raw—happily covered with blood-red trails from the tines of an unwashed dining hall fork. The scratchin’ fork was safe for now, but in four weeks, it would return to circulation, leaving a piece of me behind—the first of my efforts in giving back.