So Jennifer and I head to a small office more or less behind the receptionist area, where a copy machine is making an eerie wheezing sound each time it is used. I take one seat, Jennifer takes the other and proceeds to explain the purpose of the program and, wait for it, asks me another hundred questions I've already answered in part or in full somewhere else. She is pleasant about it, and even offers to turn out the brutal overhead lights in favor of a table lamp. But the questions are so tedious -- and frankly pointless -- that I feel myself on the verge of either bolting out the door or putting a nearby pencil through my eyeball. Do I own a gun? What if I did? Is there any family history of substance abuse? My mother had six brothers and two sisters; I have a dozen or more first cousins, many of whom I've never met, hardly any of whom I know well enough to answer such a question. Finally I tell her I've had it with the Q and A.
"Let's take a break," she says, sensing my discomfiture. I gratefully accept the invitation. Five minutes and a couple cups of water from the front cooler later we resume. I confront Jennifer about the state prescription database document that the receptionist told me I just had to sign in order to participate in the program. "Well," she says, haltingly, "it means that if you're seen by our doctor and he needs to see your records, he has permission to do so." The tone of Jennifer's voice tells me even she isn't sold herself. "I don't think that will apply in your case." I tell her that the thing is so badly written that there's no way a poor schlub like me would interpret the verbiage in that manner. Jennifer nods her head. "You're right. It's very poorly worded. If you're really uncomfortable with it, would you like me to shred it?" The thought had never occurred to me; but now I'm really curious. Why would she just fold like that? "How can I know if I want to shred it if I don't know, and you don't even know, what it is I'm signing?" I get up and walk over to her as she holds the now-discredited document and even try to suggest alternate language. In the end, we agree to leave the thing in. I've made my point.
Jennifer is finally done querying me at about 10:45. She hands me a packet of stuff about the program and her card, which has several hand-printed corrections. The phone system is being serviced somehow, she tells me, which is why she doesn't care how long this interview lasts, because as soon as I leave she will have to attend to her own voicemail or something. This is fine with me -- I have nowhere to be for several hours, and I have questions for her too.
First, I ask what the recidivism rate, or dropout rate, or failure rate, whatever they call it, is of the CATS program. Jennifer doesn't pussyfoot around: about 50 percent don't complete the 10-week program for one reason or another (relapse, successful legal appeal, insurance trouble, etc.) Do those who relapse get kicked out? Not necessarily, she says. The program has a more intensive one-month inpatient option, one I was presented with and rejected, and those who fall off the wagon may end up there. I ask about the groups, which last for 10 weeks and are held 3 times per week. They last 3 hours (!), but Jennifer quickly adds that there's always a half-hour break in the middle. Still, compared to the weekly brain-injury group I've attended for the last dozen years, which lasts just an hour, this seems like boot camp. On the other hand, I once had to ride a small bus with no suspension an hour each way to an outpatient brain-injury rehab program, and that was all day, 4 days a week. So everything is relative, I suppose.
Jennifer and I have talked ourselves out. It is 11:45. Nearly 3 hours I've spent, about as long as the group sessions. I'm hungry, tired and my head hurts, more than usual but less that I was expecting. I leave Jennifer to her voice-mail duties and agree to appear for the first group session tomorrow evening at 5:45.
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