All That Is Bitter and Sweet_ A Memoir - Ashley Judd [121]
I admit to walking rather slowly to that B&B, breathing in what I misconstrued as my last taste of “freedom” as long as I could. I noticed the painted scenes on the curbside Dumpsters again, the ones that had irritated me earlier in the week. Why they bothered me so much dawned on me: They could be a metaphor for my life. Painted up on the outside, looking good from a distance, and full of heaping piles of rotting stuff on the inside.
Once in the B&B, I wrestled again with the old rotary phone and how to place a long-distance call with a calling card without buttons to push, to share such strange news with my husband. It was both simple and difficult to explain. “I am staying for inpatient treatment.” There was not much else to say, because I didn’t know anything else. His questions were smart and concerned: “What does this look like? For how long? Do I see you? Talk to you?” I had no answers. Wait. I did have an answer.
Trust the process. Don’t quit before your miracle.
I think he was in shock, understandably. Dario being Dario, in spite of how it affected him, was supportive of me. Not only is that his nature, he had a powerful incentive. He would soon become the first and biggest beneficiary of my wonderful new way of life. In the meantime, he was on the first plane home to Scotland, literally that night, where he spent my time in treatment with his family, reading my letters and writing me back. (I did not have visitors on Sundays and Wednesdays like my friends, but I did receive a lot of mail.)
When we hung up, I felt deep fear and a chilling uncertainty. Not seeing my husband for that long suddenly seemed too dramatic, too drastic, and the bargaining bloomed in my head: I can go home, this is all overstated. Ted is one of the greatest clinicians in the country. I can create a plan with him to tackle the things that have been revealed this week. I’ll sustain my good start and take it seriously. This inpatient business is over the top.
I rang Ted, pretty much to tell him this. I did not get past “The treatment team just did, what do you call it? An intervention? On me, for adult child of dysfunctional family issues. They’ve invited me to stay for six weeks. I initially agreed but I have changed my mind and am coming home, and boy, Ted, we have work to do!”
Ted, the great communicator, the gentlest of souls, floored me with his response: “Ashley, I have wanted this for you since the first time I met you.”
I stood stock-still, speechless, and my bargaining, so convincing mere moments ago, vaporized.
He said a few other things, I imagine, but “I have wanted this for you since the first time I met you” reverberated in my ears, drowning out everything else. I must have been moving very slowly. We had said our goodbyes, but I was still standing, holding the receiver, mouth probably hanging open. And I heard Ted, as he was hanging up, crying with great joy in his voice to his wife, “Margie! Margie! You’ll never guess what happened!”
I was stunned once more. Overhearing that remark, not intended for me, but about me, and said with such glee, was like having read, “Pets are very important.” I did not understand why Ted believed this was fortuitous. I sure as heck did not understand why it was such a damn happy occasion. But it was clear others believed that it was, others who expressed nothing but great compassion and concern, who somehow, in spite of my scrambled confusion, were emerging as very safe and trustworthy. Comments like that, so brief and small, assimilated into my insides, and gave me a hook, the beginning of something to hang on to, a way to grasp that they believed, and to begin to suspect that if I did what they had done, I, too, could have what they had.
I zipped my case and wheeled my small bag down the tree-lined street, the center drawing closer, looming larger. I crossed the threshold and sat in Cam’s office, answering questions and doing paperwork. I remember being so grateful I had good insurance and