The first time I took my adult son to the emergency room drunk was a crash course in addiction care. After a few routine checks, they sent us on our way, ignoring a drinking history that included seizures.
“We don’t do detox,” I was told.
On the drive home, hours since Ben’s last drink, withdrawal tightened its grip. Alcohol poisoning can be fatal, but for heavy drinkers, so can quitting, with its potential to trigger heart attacks, seizures, and stroke. Its lesser symptoms make you wish you’d died, he said.
In a panic, he threw open the door. The highway rushed in. As my husband hit the brakes and swerved to the shoulder, he jumped. Behind us, I watched Ben vanish up an offramp. Then I was running, terrified of the roaring night traffic and that I might not catch up. I found him at a gas station buying beer, which he tipped like a flask of water in the desert, letting it pour down his face.
If the hospital wouldn’t treat his withdrawal, he would.
After years of drinking, any time he stopped, hell broke loose ― a chemical arcade in the brain. Unable to hold a job or housing, he returned to California at 30 to live with us. His friends on the East Coast had shot me screaming messages to come get him ― or he would die!
He’s been talking about suicide all morning and crying, already drunk. I was going to call the police when I left the office but now he’s in his room and won’t answer the door.
This is not the first time ― he’s been to the hospital 4 times in 10 days.
I’m just really scared for him.
Frantic, I connected him with Alcoholics Anonymous, but social support wasn’t enough. He’d been hooked since high school.
Ben clearly thought this confession would change everything. Arms would open (Yep!) and the medical community would rush in to help (Nope).
His surrender failed to magically open doors to treatment, even as our nightmare unfolded amid California’s overhaul of addiction and mental health services for the low-income, who are known “super-users” of costly emergency rooms. The Advancing and Innovating Medi-Cal initiative aims to connect the dots in a fractured system so people won’t have to turn to the ER.
“The goal is to ensure access to the right care, in the right place, at the right time,” the program’s website reads.
Instead, Ben found liquor in every corner: at gas stations, food marts, grocery aisles. When he ran out of money, he’d chug mouthwash or hand sanitiser. Open 24/7. No waitlists, awkward questions or health care gatekeepers.
As he lurched from crisis to crisis, the ER was the default option in our northern California county where one nurse told me there are “too many alcoholics” to treat them all.
Alcohol is a leading cause of preventable death in the U.S. and is responsible for 1 in 4 deaths of people age 20 to 34 ― and for Ben, the odds were worse. Alcohol use disorder is diagnosed as mild, moderate or severe. Ben was a Category 5 with a twister thrown in: major depression and anxiety.
Addiction and mental health issues commonly go together, so treatment needs to cover both aspects and match the severity of each. He needed detox, therapy and addiction counselling in seamless succession. But alas ...
“Ben found liquor in every corner: at gas stations, food marts, grocery aisles. When he ran out of money, he’d chug mouthwash or hand sanitizer.”
First, detox ― the mother of all steps ― wasn’t available. At Ben’s severe stage of drinking, he needed medical detox, with doctors and nurses on hand, which for most low-income patients is found only in the ER.
Our hospitals claimed to have a policy of not doing detox, while a hospital worker in Southern California told me theirs will do it only if a patient is simultaneously experiencing another medical issue: We will treat your heart problem but not the deadly addiction that drove it (unless both are killing you at the same time).
Expensive private rehabs crow about medical detox, but after numerous deaths in facilities that failed to actually provide medical supervision, California tightened the requirements of rehabs that want to offer it. At least nine other large states allow medical care in residential detox or treatment, and several require that doctors oversee detox.
I knew none of this when Ben arrived. I assumed detox in rehabs was overseen by doctors, and that ERs willingly provide it. Early on, one ER did sometimes admit him, which is recommended for those who’ve had a seizure before. It kept him safely sober for a few weeks, but detox is only the start, and he would come home without a plan besides medication, so the next step was always relapse.
The other ER did little more than check his vitals. When I told a nurse he would immediately have to drink, she replied, “that’s why in 2022 we’re calling alcoholism a disease!” A different staff member claimed admission wasn’t needed because addiction “is a social problem.”
Soon both ERs were pushing him away.
“You’re using up resources needed for sick people!” Ben was told.
“This is what we call a boozer,” he overheard.
A doctor told him, “This is the last time I’m going to save your life!”
The stonewalling left us with no other options for medical detox. His insurer told me the key to ER treatment was acute withdrawal. When Ben was anywhere near that worst stage, which brought delusions, hallucinations and terror, just getting him in the car was like pulling someone out of a manhole. It could take hours to convince him to go, hours to get ready, and seconds for him to call it all off.
Upon arrival, he might pull a bottle of vodka out of a hat, a plan to survive the waiting room that risked leaving him outside the window of acute withdrawal. Once, on the verge of bolting, he was corralled into conversation by kind fellow hospitalgoers, to whom he falsely confessed to being a veteran, eliciting redoubled efforts to calm him. One man tracked me down in the hallway to thank my son for his service. Another said his son died of a heroin overdose.
At home, if I waited for peak pain, a 911 call would bring cops and Tasers to worry about.
Our heads were spinning. We blamed him because the medical system was saying he had a problem only he could fix. But do hospitals refuse to treat diabetes or any debilitating chronic disease because the sufferer chose a poor diet or failed at Weight Watchers?
His AA Big Book was dog-eared. His mentors were even more worn out. “I hate drinking,” he’d say.
It turns out acute withdrawal isn’t the only kind. He also experienced the long version that hangs on indefinitely. The more he lapsed, the more the ER nagged him to “get help.”
“Have you thought about kicking him out?” a social worker asked. I couldn’t imagine how someone with severe addiction and depression would benefit from being forced onto the streets.
Even as they were declining to treat his addiction because “we don’t do detox,” they refused to admit him to their psychiatric ward because “they don’t treat substance use disorders.” But his problems were entwined: a dual diagnosis.
We once tried county mental health services where instead of counseling, he received a list of other places to try. Off we drove, fruitlessly, in all directions. Another time when he needed to talk, I dialed a county mental health hotline. It went like this: A woman asked him if he was suicidal, he said no, and she referred him to rehab.
“At home, if I waited for peak pain, a 911 call would bring cops and tasers to worry about.”
During one ER visit, his agitation landed him in jail, where he was told he was permanently banned from the ER. All he recalled is that he wasn’t given enough medication ― and never wanted to go to the ER again. The visit before, I called to find he’d left hours earlier. No cell phone, no money. Heavily medicated.
I raced down the highway. Halfway there I saw him, blond hair askew, taped-together black glasses. He was shuffling miles along a skinny shoulder in hospital slippers.
Everything felt like a system humming in sync ― to not help us.
What choice did we have, I’d asked a social worker who said Ben’s frequent use of the ER “as a detox center” was “inappropriate”? His response floored me.
“Join an enabler’s group.”
As if we’d ever turned down treatment. When we heard there are two rehabs that take Medi-Cal, we were thrilled. Finally, under one roof: detox, curating of his riot of prescriptions and evidence-based therapy. The state was calling for a 21st century approach!
It wasn’t.
Both rehabs are social model only, lacking medical care or licensed therapists. And you waited for a bed among the many who were court-ordered as a condition of probation, which made timely treatment inaccessible.
It fell to my erratic, forgetful, often morose son to beg for help, to advocate for his “Hello, I’m nobody!” self (as he once imagined introducing himself to the neighbors). He was to prove his seriousness by leaving messages every day, they said. His life hung in the balance over phone tag.
The waitlist proved long enough to sweep us back into the ER like stranded sea life before he could get in.
When he finally landed a bed, it was only for a few days of peer support detox. A required health screening sent us back to the ER, where a doctor denied the withdrawal drug needed because his blood pressure was too high. Yet he also refused to detox Ben in the hospital.
At the other rehab, his counsellor had just gotten his high school GED diploma. Within weeks, Ben had a mental health crisis. He asked for anxiety medication and was told to call an ambulance.
Not wanting to go full circle back to the ER or face our questions, he hit the streets. Withdrawal still jabbed away at him and the only place for a cure was the nearest liquor-selling store. If only there had been an addiction wing in the hospitals as easy to access as alcohol was.
Back home, fighting the next binge, he sketched feverishly, interspersed with pushups, 10-mile walks, more pushups, then winding down with hours of weed whacking. The yard looked great. Ben, however, was a field of hungry weeds. He was lost in manic activity, and during that year he abruptly left seven jobs ― to drink.
With each abandoned job, his mood got darker.
Increasingly, he found himself at camps for unhoused people, where he now felt he belonged. We entered a new phase of not knowing his whereabouts. He was gone by sunrise and as day dragged to dusk, I’d struggle with the idea of reporting him missing. Wait. Call the jail. Fear a knock at the door.
Soon, I was wandering through the camps past an upside down highway sign, its arrow pointed to the ground ordering darkly to “detour here.”
There he is! Sitting in front of a liquor store with an unhoused guy. Ben was shirtless, stalking off down the street while I followed, begging him to come home as he turned to yell at me, until the gulf between us widened and he was gone again.
“We entered a new phase of not knowing his whereabouts. He was gone by sunrise and as day dragged to dusk, I’d struggle with the idea of reporting him missing. Wait. Call the jail. Fear a knock at the door.”
I could hear the tough-love crowd chiding me. Let him go! I’d walk faster, as Ben stepped into traffic. And I’d hear the social worker ― had I thought about kicking him out? ― and then get a vision of my son lying face-down in a ditch in the night, no way to be found, a blood alcohol level tipping past the ones that already stunned doctors and police.
There were also the mornings I found myself standing frozen by his bed, holding my breath while I waited for his. Recalling gut-wrenching posts about his friends who died from overdose or suicide. Noises in the night, flashing lights. Once, finding him cheerfully prepping a salad, blood spurting wildly from his foot. Oblivious.
Then the inevitable: he was hit by a car. His ribs were broken but he was too drunk to know it. He stumbled in that night, clutching his chest and claiming he’d been shot.
Several times he was arrested for public intoxication after turning himself in because he was afraid (a withdrawal symptom). His first distress call was the night he left rehab. He asked to be taken to the hospital. “Uh-uh! Not gonna happen!” the officer later told me he responded, as if jail, not treatment, was called for.
On the street, people were pitching him fentanyl and other drugs as a way to quit alcohol. So dire was his “homeless” phase that I let him try tapering at home ― from vodka to beer to sobriety. Instead of rushing to the hospital, we rushed to stores to buy beer. One 18-pack was never enough; he’d insist on stopping somewhere else for a case of insurance.
The first attempt took two weeks, but he was sober for an amazing three months. Then he wasn’t. Tapering became a gruelling contest, no simple stepdown. Near-broke, he reverted to vodka because it was more bang for the buck ― but the bang made everything worse.
Until there was no point calling it tapering.
A bigger, badder version of withdrawal emerged, bombarding me with weighty questions. Was he shaking, hallucinating and talking to himself all night because he drank too much (or not enough?) or because he hadn’t slept or eaten in days? Was withdrawal from his medications piling on? Could he be, right then, undergoing brain damage from something so absurdly simple ― reversible if caught in time ― as the depletion of a vitamin?
I called a hospital in a different county and asked a nurse if he should be drinking to manage withdrawal. She stammered, finally said no ― I should take him to the ER.
Trapped in a losing battle, it felt like the luckiest day of our lives when Ben got an acceptance call from the first and only rehab in the region (and one of few in the state) that takes Medi-Cal and is certified to provide medical detox, with all the other mental health and support services he needed. Many of their clients are unhoused, yet they receive the kind of attention and holistic care you’d expect of the most expensive private rehabs.
Why did it take over 25 trips to the ER and countless near-death experiences to find this help? The obvious answer is a lack of resources: no medical detox centers, quality rehabs, or mental health and addiction specialists. But it’s also choices made by counties and the healthcare system that deny care.
ERs can perform medical detox, just as they can then transition people to mental health treatment. Hospital and social workers repeatedly chose to release Ben in a condition so unstable, disaster always followed. A rehab watched him walk off into the night in mental distress. Even though he’d signed a privacy release, no one let us know he was in a crisis or had left. When asked about the success rate of local rehabs, his insurer had no statistics.
Over a year, Ben’s file grew thick yet failed to prompt any coordinated effort to improve his outcome ― even though a bridge navigator, whose job is to connect addicts with treatment, worked at the hospitals. The rehab that finally saved him was known to social workers all along while we were left in the dark, told to “Google it” to find a center. Routinely, we were pointed to AA, whose own members said Ben needed in-patient treatment.
Addiction and mental health, it seems, don’t deserve equal treatment. That leaves punishment ― incarceration ― the default landing. Substance use surrounds us. Why haven’t we normalised its treatment?
Although we didn’t find it in the right place or time, we did luck into the right care. Ben stuck out the full 90 days, was transitioned to a sober living house, and he’s doing better now than he has been in years. Somehow, we all survived this long emergency. But recovery is a long road ― and it’s still a road with hardly any rest stops.
Sara Baeur is the pseudonym of a freelance writer who lives in Northern California.
Help and support:
- If you need help with a drinking problem, call the Alcoholics Anonymous national helpline for free on 0800 9177 650 or email help@aamail.org.
- For advice on how to reduce drinking, visit Drinkaware’s website or Alcohol Change UK.
- Find alcohol addiction services near you using this NHS tool.