Dr. Hunter S. Thompson on Alcoholism

3am was F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s darkest hour of the soul, but for Hunter it was usually the time to get some work done, as we were this 3am, tidying up “The Rum Diary” for publication. One of Hunter’s favorite scenes in the book was when his alter ego Kemp is overcome by the DT’s –delirium tremors – in his San Juan apartment. We were working on that scene when Hunter suddenly asked me, “Do you know what makes an alcoholic, Wayne?”

“No,” I replied, taking another hit on my beer. “Tell me. What makes an alcoholic?”

“When you stop eating, “Hunter declared authoritatively. “And you’re a good eater, Wayne.”

“Thanks. That makes me feel better about both of us.” I joked in return. But it was true, we both ate well, Hunter even more than I with the endless delicious food that his secretary Deborah (see my blog “Never Call 911” herein) made or I carried up from Chefy’s, a gourmet restaurant in Basalt.

Hunter did finally get the DTs, but that’s another story for you after Johny Depp reads the DT scene from “The Rum Diary” ( see “The Rum Diary Back Story - Episode 6 herein )

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I witnessed Hunter’s own experience with the DTs in a Glenwood Springs hospital a few years earlier. Hunter asked me to help take care of him while he was in the hospital for a hip replacement. One of his legs was a bit shorter than the other which gave him the trademark lurching gait and ultimately led to needing a new hip.

Deborah and I checked him into Valley View Hospital and he was given a nice room with a view as advertised. After settling in and the Beast giving blood for a few tests, we retired to the loading dock for a smoke. When he offered me a line of coke I said no thanks (with some difficulty) and then mentioned that the other day when I was just getting an in grown toe nail worked on the Doctor had me sign a release attesting to not having indulged in cocaine in the days before. Evidently cocaine and anesthetics of any kind don’t mix well.

Surprisingly, the Beast put the vial away without using it, and we went back upstairs to his room with a view where the nurses were hurriedly moving him to another room with only a view of the nurses station.

“Why are you moving him?” I demanded to know from the Big Nurse.

“He’s going to have the DT’s when he comes out of surgery. We need to have him close to our station. You ever see anyone with the DTs, Sir ?”

“How do you know he’s going to have the DT’s,” I asked.

“We just got his blood test back!"

No arguing with that kind of evidence, I figured. (Although he had blown just under a .005 when tested by the Aspen City Cops in a political bust the night of an election in 1996.)

Sure enough the Beast was just waking up from surgery when he started struggling violently with the nurses and a real Doctor who knocked him out with a needle while the Big Nurse held his arm down. While he slumbered like a tranquilized bear, the Big nurse completely immobilized him by taping two fingers on each hand to the bed railings. I was fascinated by how just a bit of tape placed so perfectly could subdue this wild beast.

After the ruckus, the nurses and real Doctor left and I went about straightening things around the room. At a moment when my back was to the bed, I heard a low growl:

“Wayne, I thought I told you if you ever did this to me I would kill you!”

“That’s true...” I replied softly as I turned to check the surgical tape on his fingers to make sure it was still holding fast as he madly struggled to free himself and kill me.

This feverish craziness went on through the night. When the Doctor came in that morning, the Beast was sweating profusely, swearing loudly, and still straining to be free. The Doctor just seemed to accept that this was how it had to be for my friend because he was an alcoholic. Even though he was in a hospital for just hip surgery he would have to stop drinking and endure the DT’s. (The fatality rate for DT’s can be as high as 35% if untreated)

“He’s not in here for drinking, “ I said to the Doctor. “Why put him through this misery?”

The Doctor was quiet for a few moments. I hoped he was young enough to appreciate the unnecessary irony of the situation.

“I will order him a drink,” said the Doctor.

Thanking him profusely, I finally took a break from the hospital and went to breakfast and took a nap. When I returned to the room at lunch Hunter was sitting up in bed reading the New YorkTimes with a tall iced drink of some kind on the bed table, looking like his old cranky self, but with a smile.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” I observed.

“A bit, but I still have got to get out of this place. At least I need a room with a valley view.”