Post by Stu-E Price on Jul 23, 2007 15:06:54 GMT -5
I'm so dumb I didn't even know it was abuse. There I was in Florida, surrounded by crackhead wrestlers with my husband, Davey Smith, aka The British Bulldog, doping my juice nightly so he could rape me while I was unconscious.
I never should have married him, but even when he came to me three weeks before our wedding and told me he had just got another girl pregnant, I went ahead with it. If only I hadn't been so stupid and stubborn, I wouldn't have ended up getting suplexed by him, a 280-pound drug addict, in front of our children on the lawn of my parent's home. And I wouldn't have had to endure the pain of watching him run off with my sister-in-law and her five kids. But then I come from a long line of anything but normal. How many kids can count Andre the Giant as one of their babysitters?
I've known wrestlers all my life because I'm Stu Hart's daughter. My dad is a wrestling legend. First, an amateur champion, then a pro, then a promoter of Stampede Wrestling, an operation in western Canada that trained the likes of my brothers, Owen and Bret "The Hitman" Hart, my ex-husband, Davey Boy Smith, my brother-in-law Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart, Tom "Dynamite Kid" Billington as well as Chris Benoit and Chris Jericho, two of the biggest stars in the WWF.
For me things really started to take a downward spiral around the Survivor Series in 1997. That was the pay-per-view where Bret felt that he got the screw from Vince McMahon. Bret defended his World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship title against Shawn Michaels and Shawn won within three seconds of putting Bret in a submission hold – The Sharpshooter. The referee Earl Hebner ruled that Bret had submitted and gave the decision to Shawn, who walked off with the belt.
Two weeks before that, Davey and I were getting ready for a Halloween party. I was dressing up as Davey in his Union Jack tights, spandex shirt, boots and cape. I added a five o'clock shadow on my chin with eyeliner and pinned back my hair. Davey donned a flared spandex skirt and loose top. He couldn't fit into any stockings but he wore some flip-flops on his feet. I was almost falling over laughing at the sight of him with one of my mom's blonde wigs jammed on top of his head. We were both in hysterics and had trouble holding still as I tried to add mascara, rouge and frosted pink gloss.
It was the first time we had had any fun in weeks. He had been acting so strangely lately. As usual he was on the road with the WWF four days of the week, but instead of being his normal, active self at home he was secretive and withdrawn. The party was starting at nine and he had crawled into bed just after dinner. At first I was annoyed, but when I inspected him closer I noticed he was sweating and shivering at the same time.
"What's the matter?" I asked, concerned.
"I'm okay. Get outta the house. Go to the party."
"I'm not going without you!" I protested. "You're sick!"
His teeth were chattering. "I'll be all right. Just leave me alone for a couple of hours."
I absolutely refused to budge. After half an hour of his trying to get rid of me he finally broke down. "This is the longest I've gone without taking anything and I'm Jonesing." He began crying. "I don't think I can quit, Di."
I presumed he was talking about Percocet, a painkiller he'd been taking since 1985 for back pain, or the steroids he used for bodybuilding.
"Well take your back medication, Davey,” I said. “You need that for back pain." Of course, I didn't' realize he was taking 30 Percocet a day, a huge amount. I also didn't know he was addicted to morphine, Xanax (a tranquilizer), Toradol (an anti-inflammatory,) the opiate painkillers Vicodine (the drug of choice for many Hollywood addicts) and Talwin, and pain relievers Soma and Dilaudid. He was a walking pharmacy!
Trying to be Florence Nightingale, I grabbed two Percocets from his bag and handed them to him. He gulped them down gratefully and continued confessing, "I'm really scared about how much stuff I'm taking. I want to quit. I have to quit."
I looked into his bag. It was full of different colored pills, all shapes and sizes. I'd seen them before, but it never dawned on me he was a drug addict. The bottles were always full. I assumed they were steroids and medicines he had just in case he got hurt wrestling.
A light bulb exploded in my brain. I reacted immediately, "Oh my God, Davey. Are you taking all this stuff? How often?"
He hung his head. "Some of it I take every day. Some I don't take too much."
I flung my arms around him as if to protect him. "Don't worry. We'll do this together. I'll take these pills and dole them out for you, but only when you really need them. We'll get you better. We're a team, Davey."
He got up and we left for the party. Problem solved.
A year later we were separated. We hadn't had sex since June of 1998 when during a trip to England I caught him shooting up Nubain or Nalbuphine, an opiate similar to morphine used for pain in sickle cell Leukemia. I knew what it was because a friend of ours named Rich Minzer, who worked for Gold's Gym in Los Angeles had tried to forewarn me. He took me aside while Davey was working out and locked eyes with me.
"There's a really bad drug called Nubain going around. A lot of the wrestlers are taking it, Diana, and a couple of bodybuilders have died on stage right after shooting up."
At the time, I chalked it up to Rich just being a worrier. Why was he telling me this? Later I realized he was trying to let me know that Davey was a potential candidate.
By 1998, Davey was like a vegetable. He never left the couch. He had stopped working out. He didn't bother talking to me and ignored our kids, 10-year-old Georgia and 13-year-old Harry. His hands shook so badly he couldn't feed himself. He did make it to the bathroom, but that was about the only thing he did on his own, besides shooting up.
He was on sick leave from his job at World Championship Wrestling, which was WWF's biggest competitor, because he claimed he'd injured his back on a hidden steel door two months earlier at the Fall Brawl pay-per-view while tag teaming with my brother-in-law Jim Neidhardt. They were up against Disco Inferno and Alex Wright. Watching the match on TV at home I noticed Davey struggling to powerslam Disco. Powerslamming was Davey's big move. But Davey seemed to have his hands full. It was like watching him try to pick up a wet seal. I was irritated with Disco. What was he doing to Davey? Why was he going up so heavy?
I quizzed Davey about it on the phone after the match. Davey was furious, "They had a fucking trap door under the canvas for Ultimate Warrior to burst through at the end of the match! They didn't tell Jim or me. It was two inches thick and had a solid handle on it. I hurt my damn back!"
He came home two days after the Fall Brawl, fell down on the couch and within two weeks, he never wrestled for WCW again. I dragged him to every known healing practice I'd heard of to help him get better: rolfing, underwater physiotherapy, acupuncture, acupressure, chiropractic clinics and yoga. He'd go for a session or two, then quit. I made a vow to myself to never sleep with Davey ever again unless he cleaned up. Then I tried to kill myself.
It was a Friday night in early December. My daughter Georgia was sleeping at my sister Alison's and my son Harry and I were watching the Tim Burton movie Edward Scissorhands. Davey was passed out on the couch. The movie ended and I watched, despising him as he staggered to his feet and lumbered up the stairs. I knew he was on his way up to our room for another hit of morphine. He hadn't said a coherent word all night. I was so angry. While digging through his pockets looking for money earlier that day, I'd found so many bottles of pills my mind was spinning. Since I'd found out about Davey's drug addiction the previous Halloween, I had been battling severe bouts of depression. I began seeing a psychiatrist who had me on 200 mgs. of Zoloft (an anti-depressant similar to Prozac) per day.
I heard our bedroom door close and I put Harry to bed. I sat at the computer and wrote myself a note.
"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Davey's a junkie. He doesn't even try to hide it any more. My family won't listen when I tell them. They think I'm hysterical." As I wrote I got more and more worked up.
"I mean nothing to him any more. He couldn't make it more obvious." A little while later, I made my way up to our room and stood over Davey watching him snore. He sounded liked a vacuum sucking up water. He was totally unconscious. I felt like attacking him, but I knew I could hit him on the head with a cast-iron frying pan and he wouldn't wake up.
I stormed into our walk-in closet and snatched up a full bottle of Xanax from the hollow of one of his crocodile cowboy boots. I moved back to the bed and started screaming at him.
"Look what you've done, you bastard. Look at me, you son-of-a-bitch! I'm going to take your goddamn pills so you'll know what I put up with night and day. I want you to know what it's like to live with a vegetable. You make out like I'm crazy! I'm going to take them. I'm not kidding Davey. Wake up!"
Davey slowly turned his head in my direction. "No," he mumbled." Don't. Please don't."
"Call 911, if I mean anything to you, Davey." I dumped the entire bottle into my palm and stuffed then into my mouth, holding my hand against my lips to keep them from falling out. Chewing and swallowing I ran to the bathroom and downed a glass of water. I ran back into our room and watched as Davey struggled to sit up. He was like a turtle on its back.
The impact of what I had just done hit me. I wasn't sure about whether what I had taken was lethal or not, but I suddenly felt very frightened.
"Oh shit," I thought. "I don't want to die." I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.
I gave my address and said, "Send an ambulance immediately. I just took 100 Xanax. I had a fight with my husband. I don't want to die."
There was urgency in the operator's voice. "Get dressed. Unlock your door and turn your lights on. We'll get an ambulance to you right away."
"I don't want to die. I don't want to die." I hung up.
I scanned the floor for a pair of socks. I made do with two unmatched ones. pulled on sweatpants and a loose t-shirt thinking that it would be easier for the emergency room if I was wearing easy-to-remove clothing. I slid my feet into a pair of clogs, unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. I sat in the front room in a little antique rocking chair next to our bulldog Merrilegs and my cat Dempsey. Then I passed out.
Later I learned my heart stopped four times in the ambulance on the way to the Foothills Hospital, but each time they managed to shock me back to life with heart paddles.
I opened my eyes for a couple of moments the next day and my little brother Owen swam into my vision. I reached to give him a hug and that's all I remember until I woke up two days later.
My mother was frantic because she had planned a big jazzercise Christmas Party in 10 days and as a devoted jazzerciser, I was scheduled to be there.
"Dahling, you think you will be able to make the party? Will they let you out in time?" I assured her I would try to be there, which gave her another thing to worry about. "I don't think we should mention to anyone where you have been."
The day I got home from the hospital I got fixed up for the party. Most of my family was gathered at my parents. Davey disappeared for a couple of hours. There was a lot of private speculation as to where he had gone. My brother Keith drew me aside.
"He's as bad as Elvis, Di. You and your kids have to get away from him."
My oldest brother Smith kept bringing me heaping plates of finger foods and patting me on the head. My sister Alison was as protective as a tigress and my sister Georgia squeezed my hand every time she walked past. My brothers Owen and Bret were absent as usual. My sister Ellie was avoiding me perhaps because her husband Jim Neidhart was in the car with Davey on their way to the home of Alison's ex-husband, Ben Bassarab, to get Davey a morphine fix.
Owen and his wife, Martha, invited me to their home that Christmas Day. Owen sat down with me and lectured me sternly.
"Don't ever do that again, Bearcat. If you had died you would have left Harry and Georgia with a drug addict. I've known about Davey's problem for a long time. I'm not saying he's a bad guy, but he has a real problem. I've carried him through numerous airports so he wouldn't miss his flights.
"When Davey told you about slipping in Brian Pilman's bathroom and hitting his head, that was a lie. I watched him crack that big porcelain sink in half with his head just before he passed out. You can do a lot better than him, Diana. You deserve better than this. Lots of guys would love to take care of you. Steve Austin is a big fan of yours. When a person gets to the point where they want to kill themselves because they are married to a drug addict, they have to leave. You have your kids to think about."
I filed for divorce just before New Year's Eve. Bret and his wife Julie came over to our home that night. Julie talked to me in the kitchen while Bret cornered Davey in the living room. By the end of the night it was decided Davey would check into rehab. He flew to the Alberta Alcohol & Drug Abuse Commission facility at Grand Prairie in northern Alberta the next day.
One of the conditions Davey stipulated before going into rehab was that I drop divorce proceedings. So we reconciled, sort of. Davey left rehab after seven weeks, one week before completing the program. He claimed his kidneys were failing. The doctors in Grand Prairie disagreed. But Davey flew home for a second opinion. We spent the next day in emergency where Davey underwent everything from a CAT Scan to a spinal tap. No one found anything wrong with him. He was scheduled to return in six weeks for a white blood cell count.
The wait was a nightmare. He tried every trick in the book to be checked into the hospital because hospitals administer drugs. He even passed out in a coffee shop in front of my sister Georgia and my mother and had to be transported to the hospital by ambulance. I met up with him there. The doctor recognized him and abruptly threw him out.
"You're a drug addict looking for a fix. Come back when you have a real emergency." I was incensed, why would he be looking for a fix when he had just come out of rehab?
Dr. Donna Dupuis, the psychologist I had begun seeing after my suicide attempt shook her head. "Diana, would you say your husband is one of the best wrestlers in the world?"
"Yes,' I nodded.
"Well Diana, your husband is a professional actor. He's capable of convincing 50,000 people in an audience that he is genuinely hurt, when he is not. How tough would it be for him to persuade a small gathering, say your mother, your sister and you?"
From that moment on, her words started to ring true. He would look so pitiful, lying on the bed and moaning.
"My pain is so bad, Becky, make it go away. I feel like jumping through that balcony window so I can feel something other than all this pain." He called me Becky sometimes for Becky Bear Cat, a derivative of the nickname my brother Owen gave me. Bearcat Wright was a black wrestler, who looked like an otter. His neck was the same width as his head and it was fleshy so it looked as if he was wearing rings around his neck. Owen used to tease me when I was little and it stuck.
I didn't know whether Davey was faking it or not, but six weeks later when he got the results of his white blood cell count, it turned out he had a staph infection in his back. Less than an hour later he was lying in his own hospital bed. At first the nurses could not find a vein in which to start an IV to administer ultra-strong antibiotics to prevent the infection from spreading to his spine.
Of course, he was given liberal doses of morphine to ease the pain. At that time I had no idea how much worse things would get.
I never should have married him, but even when he came to me three weeks before our wedding and told me he had just got another girl pregnant, I went ahead with it. If only I hadn't been so stupid and stubborn, I wouldn't have ended up getting suplexed by him, a 280-pound drug addict, in front of our children on the lawn of my parent's home. And I wouldn't have had to endure the pain of watching him run off with my sister-in-law and her five kids. But then I come from a long line of anything but normal. How many kids can count Andre the Giant as one of their babysitters?
I've known wrestlers all my life because I'm Stu Hart's daughter. My dad is a wrestling legend. First, an amateur champion, then a pro, then a promoter of Stampede Wrestling, an operation in western Canada that trained the likes of my brothers, Owen and Bret "The Hitman" Hart, my ex-husband, Davey Boy Smith, my brother-in-law Jim "The Anvil" Neidhart, Tom "Dynamite Kid" Billington as well as Chris Benoit and Chris Jericho, two of the biggest stars in the WWF.
For me things really started to take a downward spiral around the Survivor Series in 1997. That was the pay-per-view where Bret felt that he got the screw from Vince McMahon. Bret defended his World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship title against Shawn Michaels and Shawn won within three seconds of putting Bret in a submission hold – The Sharpshooter. The referee Earl Hebner ruled that Bret had submitted and gave the decision to Shawn, who walked off with the belt.
Two weeks before that, Davey and I were getting ready for a Halloween party. I was dressing up as Davey in his Union Jack tights, spandex shirt, boots and cape. I added a five o'clock shadow on my chin with eyeliner and pinned back my hair. Davey donned a flared spandex skirt and loose top. He couldn't fit into any stockings but he wore some flip-flops on his feet. I was almost falling over laughing at the sight of him with one of my mom's blonde wigs jammed on top of his head. We were both in hysterics and had trouble holding still as I tried to add mascara, rouge and frosted pink gloss.
It was the first time we had had any fun in weeks. He had been acting so strangely lately. As usual he was on the road with the WWF four days of the week, but instead of being his normal, active self at home he was secretive and withdrawn. The party was starting at nine and he had crawled into bed just after dinner. At first I was annoyed, but when I inspected him closer I noticed he was sweating and shivering at the same time.
"What's the matter?" I asked, concerned.
"I'm okay. Get outta the house. Go to the party."
"I'm not going without you!" I protested. "You're sick!"
His teeth were chattering. "I'll be all right. Just leave me alone for a couple of hours."
I absolutely refused to budge. After half an hour of his trying to get rid of me he finally broke down. "This is the longest I've gone without taking anything and I'm Jonesing." He began crying. "I don't think I can quit, Di."
I presumed he was talking about Percocet, a painkiller he'd been taking since 1985 for back pain, or the steroids he used for bodybuilding.
"Well take your back medication, Davey,” I said. “You need that for back pain." Of course, I didn't' realize he was taking 30 Percocet a day, a huge amount. I also didn't know he was addicted to morphine, Xanax (a tranquilizer), Toradol (an anti-inflammatory,) the opiate painkillers Vicodine (the drug of choice for many Hollywood addicts) and Talwin, and pain relievers Soma and Dilaudid. He was a walking pharmacy!
Trying to be Florence Nightingale, I grabbed two Percocets from his bag and handed them to him. He gulped them down gratefully and continued confessing, "I'm really scared about how much stuff I'm taking. I want to quit. I have to quit."
I looked into his bag. It was full of different colored pills, all shapes and sizes. I'd seen them before, but it never dawned on me he was a drug addict. The bottles were always full. I assumed they were steroids and medicines he had just in case he got hurt wrestling.
A light bulb exploded in my brain. I reacted immediately, "Oh my God, Davey. Are you taking all this stuff? How often?"
He hung his head. "Some of it I take every day. Some I don't take too much."
I flung my arms around him as if to protect him. "Don't worry. We'll do this together. I'll take these pills and dole them out for you, but only when you really need them. We'll get you better. We're a team, Davey."
He got up and we left for the party. Problem solved.
A year later we were separated. We hadn't had sex since June of 1998 when during a trip to England I caught him shooting up Nubain or Nalbuphine, an opiate similar to morphine used for pain in sickle cell Leukemia. I knew what it was because a friend of ours named Rich Minzer, who worked for Gold's Gym in Los Angeles had tried to forewarn me. He took me aside while Davey was working out and locked eyes with me.
"There's a really bad drug called Nubain going around. A lot of the wrestlers are taking it, Diana, and a couple of bodybuilders have died on stage right after shooting up."
At the time, I chalked it up to Rich just being a worrier. Why was he telling me this? Later I realized he was trying to let me know that Davey was a potential candidate.
By 1998, Davey was like a vegetable. He never left the couch. He had stopped working out. He didn't bother talking to me and ignored our kids, 10-year-old Georgia and 13-year-old Harry. His hands shook so badly he couldn't feed himself. He did make it to the bathroom, but that was about the only thing he did on his own, besides shooting up.
He was on sick leave from his job at World Championship Wrestling, which was WWF's biggest competitor, because he claimed he'd injured his back on a hidden steel door two months earlier at the Fall Brawl pay-per-view while tag teaming with my brother-in-law Jim Neidhardt. They were up against Disco Inferno and Alex Wright. Watching the match on TV at home I noticed Davey struggling to powerslam Disco. Powerslamming was Davey's big move. But Davey seemed to have his hands full. It was like watching him try to pick up a wet seal. I was irritated with Disco. What was he doing to Davey? Why was he going up so heavy?
I quizzed Davey about it on the phone after the match. Davey was furious, "They had a fucking trap door under the canvas for Ultimate Warrior to burst through at the end of the match! They didn't tell Jim or me. It was two inches thick and had a solid handle on it. I hurt my damn back!"
He came home two days after the Fall Brawl, fell down on the couch and within two weeks, he never wrestled for WCW again. I dragged him to every known healing practice I'd heard of to help him get better: rolfing, underwater physiotherapy, acupuncture, acupressure, chiropractic clinics and yoga. He'd go for a session or two, then quit. I made a vow to myself to never sleep with Davey ever again unless he cleaned up. Then I tried to kill myself.
It was a Friday night in early December. My daughter Georgia was sleeping at my sister Alison's and my son Harry and I were watching the Tim Burton movie Edward Scissorhands. Davey was passed out on the couch. The movie ended and I watched, despising him as he staggered to his feet and lumbered up the stairs. I knew he was on his way up to our room for another hit of morphine. He hadn't said a coherent word all night. I was so angry. While digging through his pockets looking for money earlier that day, I'd found so many bottles of pills my mind was spinning. Since I'd found out about Davey's drug addiction the previous Halloween, I had been battling severe bouts of depression. I began seeing a psychiatrist who had me on 200 mgs. of Zoloft (an anti-depressant similar to Prozac) per day.
I heard our bedroom door close and I put Harry to bed. I sat at the computer and wrote myself a note.
"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Davey's a junkie. He doesn't even try to hide it any more. My family won't listen when I tell them. They think I'm hysterical." As I wrote I got more and more worked up.
"I mean nothing to him any more. He couldn't make it more obvious." A little while later, I made my way up to our room and stood over Davey watching him snore. He sounded liked a vacuum sucking up water. He was totally unconscious. I felt like attacking him, but I knew I could hit him on the head with a cast-iron frying pan and he wouldn't wake up.
I stormed into our walk-in closet and snatched up a full bottle of Xanax from the hollow of one of his crocodile cowboy boots. I moved back to the bed and started screaming at him.
"Look what you've done, you bastard. Look at me, you son-of-a-bitch! I'm going to take your goddamn pills so you'll know what I put up with night and day. I want you to know what it's like to live with a vegetable. You make out like I'm crazy! I'm going to take them. I'm not kidding Davey. Wake up!"
Davey slowly turned his head in my direction. "No," he mumbled." Don't. Please don't."
"Call 911, if I mean anything to you, Davey." I dumped the entire bottle into my palm and stuffed then into my mouth, holding my hand against my lips to keep them from falling out. Chewing and swallowing I ran to the bathroom and downed a glass of water. I ran back into our room and watched as Davey struggled to sit up. He was like a turtle on its back.
The impact of what I had just done hit me. I wasn't sure about whether what I had taken was lethal or not, but I suddenly felt very frightened.
"Oh shit," I thought. "I don't want to die." I grabbed the phone and dialed 911.
I gave my address and said, "Send an ambulance immediately. I just took 100 Xanax. I had a fight with my husband. I don't want to die."
There was urgency in the operator's voice. "Get dressed. Unlock your door and turn your lights on. We'll get an ambulance to you right away."
"I don't want to die. I don't want to die." I hung up.
I scanned the floor for a pair of socks. I made do with two unmatched ones. pulled on sweatpants and a loose t-shirt thinking that it would be easier for the emergency room if I was wearing easy-to-remove clothing. I slid my feet into a pair of clogs, unlocked the front door and turned on the lights. I sat in the front room in a little antique rocking chair next to our bulldog Merrilegs and my cat Dempsey. Then I passed out.
Later I learned my heart stopped four times in the ambulance on the way to the Foothills Hospital, but each time they managed to shock me back to life with heart paddles.
I opened my eyes for a couple of moments the next day and my little brother Owen swam into my vision. I reached to give him a hug and that's all I remember until I woke up two days later.
My mother was frantic because she had planned a big jazzercise Christmas Party in 10 days and as a devoted jazzerciser, I was scheduled to be there.
"Dahling, you think you will be able to make the party? Will they let you out in time?" I assured her I would try to be there, which gave her another thing to worry about. "I don't think we should mention to anyone where you have been."
The day I got home from the hospital I got fixed up for the party. Most of my family was gathered at my parents. Davey disappeared for a couple of hours. There was a lot of private speculation as to where he had gone. My brother Keith drew me aside.
"He's as bad as Elvis, Di. You and your kids have to get away from him."
My oldest brother Smith kept bringing me heaping plates of finger foods and patting me on the head. My sister Alison was as protective as a tigress and my sister Georgia squeezed my hand every time she walked past. My brothers Owen and Bret were absent as usual. My sister Ellie was avoiding me perhaps because her husband Jim Neidhart was in the car with Davey on their way to the home of Alison's ex-husband, Ben Bassarab, to get Davey a morphine fix.
Owen and his wife, Martha, invited me to their home that Christmas Day. Owen sat down with me and lectured me sternly.
"Don't ever do that again, Bearcat. If you had died you would have left Harry and Georgia with a drug addict. I've known about Davey's problem for a long time. I'm not saying he's a bad guy, but he has a real problem. I've carried him through numerous airports so he wouldn't miss his flights.
"When Davey told you about slipping in Brian Pilman's bathroom and hitting his head, that was a lie. I watched him crack that big porcelain sink in half with his head just before he passed out. You can do a lot better than him, Diana. You deserve better than this. Lots of guys would love to take care of you. Steve Austin is a big fan of yours. When a person gets to the point where they want to kill themselves because they are married to a drug addict, they have to leave. You have your kids to think about."
I filed for divorce just before New Year's Eve. Bret and his wife Julie came over to our home that night. Julie talked to me in the kitchen while Bret cornered Davey in the living room. By the end of the night it was decided Davey would check into rehab. He flew to the Alberta Alcohol & Drug Abuse Commission facility at Grand Prairie in northern Alberta the next day.
One of the conditions Davey stipulated before going into rehab was that I drop divorce proceedings. So we reconciled, sort of. Davey left rehab after seven weeks, one week before completing the program. He claimed his kidneys were failing. The doctors in Grand Prairie disagreed. But Davey flew home for a second opinion. We spent the next day in emergency where Davey underwent everything from a CAT Scan to a spinal tap. No one found anything wrong with him. He was scheduled to return in six weeks for a white blood cell count.
The wait was a nightmare. He tried every trick in the book to be checked into the hospital because hospitals administer drugs. He even passed out in a coffee shop in front of my sister Georgia and my mother and had to be transported to the hospital by ambulance. I met up with him there. The doctor recognized him and abruptly threw him out.
"You're a drug addict looking for a fix. Come back when you have a real emergency." I was incensed, why would he be looking for a fix when he had just come out of rehab?
Dr. Donna Dupuis, the psychologist I had begun seeing after my suicide attempt shook her head. "Diana, would you say your husband is one of the best wrestlers in the world?"
"Yes,' I nodded.
"Well Diana, your husband is a professional actor. He's capable of convincing 50,000 people in an audience that he is genuinely hurt, when he is not. How tough would it be for him to persuade a small gathering, say your mother, your sister and you?"
From that moment on, her words started to ring true. He would look so pitiful, lying on the bed and moaning.
"My pain is so bad, Becky, make it go away. I feel like jumping through that balcony window so I can feel something other than all this pain." He called me Becky sometimes for Becky Bear Cat, a derivative of the nickname my brother Owen gave me. Bearcat Wright was a black wrestler, who looked like an otter. His neck was the same width as his head and it was fleshy so it looked as if he was wearing rings around his neck. Owen used to tease me when I was little and it stuck.
I didn't know whether Davey was faking it or not, but six weeks later when he got the results of his white blood cell count, it turned out he had a staph infection in his back. Less than an hour later he was lying in his own hospital bed. At first the nurses could not find a vein in which to start an IV to administer ultra-strong antibiotics to prevent the infection from spreading to his spine.
Of course, he was given liberal doses of morphine to ease the pain. At that time I had no idea how much worse things would get.