Magnificent Desolation_ The Long Journey Home From the Moon - Buzz Aldrin [76]
Finally, in early August, she threatened to break off our relationship, confiding to me that she felt defeated. I persuaded her to give me one more chance. Beverly brought me to her apartment so she could look after me, and that night I killed off one last bottle of Scotch. The next morning, August 7, 1975, I checked in—ironically—to Beverly Manor, a civilian hospital in Orange County where Dr. Flinn had made arrangements. The hospital had formerly been a nursing home, but was now well known as a premier alcoholism rehabilitation center. I stayed there for twenty-eight days under the care of the hospital’s medical director, Dr. Max Schneider.
As Cindy Simpson, the admissions receptionist, sought to fill out the paperwork, it was obvious that she didn’t recognize me. When she asked for my mother’s maiden name, I couldn’t resist. “Take a guess,” I said.
“I have no idea,” the woman replied.
“I’ll give you a hint,” I toyed with her. “Her maiden name begins with an m and ends with n.”
“I’m really sorry, sir; I honestly don’t know.”
“It’s Moon!” I said. “I’ve been there, you know.” The receptionist dutifully wrote the name into the space, no doubt wanting to complete the forms as hurriedly as possible. She probably never fully realized that my mother’s maiden name was Marion Moon.
I was assigned to a room with a roommate. We used only first names; the hospital attempted to maintain some level of anonymity among its clients. In the early 1970s, it was not as socially acceptable for celebrities to seek treatment for alcoholism, so the hospital tried to handle matters as discreetly as possible. In some ways I appreciated that, but there was something else in me that wanted people to know me, to recognize me as one of the first men to walk on the moon. Few did, or if they did, they didn’t let on, and it bugged me.
I had been treated for depression in several hospitals, but going to Beverly Manor was my first token admission that my problems stemmed from alcoholism as well. In truth, had it not been for Dr. Flinn and my girlfriend Beverly, I might not have acquiesced. I wasn’t convinced I needed to be there, but the doctors, nurses, and staff at the treatment center recognized immediately that my pride and strong ego worked against me as far as getting well was concerned.
I was especially miserable during the first few days—the detoxification period. Dr. Schneider informed us that to ease the discomfort of coming off alcohol, most of the new patients at Beverly Manor started out on some sort of drug—benzodiazodine, lithium, phenobarbitol, or something similar—taken in decreasing amounts over three to seven days. I sat with my arms folded across my chest, moody and sullen and a reluctant participant in the multitudinous meetings, group sessions, lectures about addiction, one-on-one counseling, and other cognitive therapy, designed to help a person recognize his or her feelings, and learn how to deal with them without alcohol and drugs. These sessions were not always comfortable; many of the patients—like me—had great difficulty admitting the damage that alcohol had done to their families, careers, or cognitive abilities. I was a resistant patient, avoiding any real confrontation with myself, for as long as I could. I especially disliked the chores that the hospital expected me to do, as they did of all of the patients. My peers chided me, and eventually I did a better job of keeping my room neat and taking my turn in community tasks. But it was the loving, compassionate concern of the hospital’s staff that ultimately wore me down. They created an atmosphere in which I could safely admit my innermost vulnerabilities.
Finally, I was able to say the words and mean them: “Hi, I’m Buzz, and I’m an alcoholic.” At Beverly Manor I learned more about the