On the 2 March, 11 days after he was admitted, I received the phone call. Given the reports of how he was doing in Rehab it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did literally take my breath away. Mort called, drunk, and simply
said slurred, “I’ve been kicked out”. I remember I just started screaming at the phone “what did you do”? Simple scenario, he went to the bottleshop, bought vodka, got drunk and tried to smuggle it back into the Rehab unnoticed. Sure, like no one had tried that before and the zero tolerance policy was deployed.
Somewhere in there my screeches of “what did you do” became “what have you done” and I hung up. This is where I lost my shit. I went into deep uncontrollable hyperventilation. Not crying, just not breathing. Or way too much breathing. The next immediate call was to my dad…he said “I’ll be right there” before I could even speak properly.
As I lay prone (so I didn’t pass out) on the sofa waiting for my dad to don his superhero cape and fly over I realised that my query about “what have you done” was the crystal realisation that he was no longer going to be a dad to two amazing girls. Rehab was his chance to come out with some sort of an opportunity to be some sort of a dad (not one living in the same house of course). And he had blown that. He couldn’t get his crap together to be a part of the girls lives. Here I was in this state, and I had my dad’s words floating in my head, “I’ll be right there”. I knew that my girls would never hear that from their dad. He would only ever have those words for the next Happy Hour. That was the part that made me volcanic with anger.