Julie Campbell

I recently learned of the death of some I hadn't thought about in a long time. Her name was Julia Campbell, though she went by Julie. By sheer coincidence there was a semi-famous actress by the name of Julia Campbell who happened to attend the same high school I did (Lake Braddock) and appeared in one forgettable sitcom called "Women in Prison." Anyway, I remember her as a sweet girl who prided herself on physical fitness, journalistic integrity and urinary expediency. “I’m the fastest pee-er in the West!” she would brag. Small bladder, evidently. And she didn’t want to waste time. She certainly didn’t waste any time getting fired from the Connection, the weekly newspaper where we worked although it did take her two times to get it right. 


I forget exactly why the editor, Todd Holzman, canned her, but the second time was a foregone conclusion. Todd's successor, a lesbian named Robin, was actually a pleasant enough woman but also the girlfriend of a woman named Kathleen who schemed to get Todd fired and did not like me, meaning I had to watch my back at all times. Julie seemed determined to make Robin's life miserable, specifically by complaining about the work habits of the sports department. I tried reminding Julie that high school games often lasted till 11 p.m., sometimes hours away, meaning the sports guys’ days routinely went on past midnight and nobody got paid overtime at the Connection. Of course, Julie would have none of it. She continued to rant and rave as if she ran the place.
For some reason it was left to Kathleen Rothenberg, the business manager, to deliver the coup de grace. I found Julie in the hallway in a state of furious disbelief. "I can't believe it!" she kept saying, though she was the only soul in the building who could not. I walked Julie to her car and she told me, between sobs, that if she left the office immediately she would receive her full two-weeks severance. I guess they were afraid she’d fire-bomb the place.

So when I learned she’d been murdered almost 8 years ago in the Philippines working for the Peace Corps, I was sad of course. But so help me I wasn’t all that surprised. Not really. Idealists like Julie can inspire, uplift, elevate. But they can also piss off the wrong people, and I’m assumed that’s what happened to Julie. When you’re that committed to a cause, whether it’s journalism or altruism, there are no grey areas. You’re either in the newsroom or you aren’t. You’re either helping people or you’re hurting people. The world needs more committed idealists like Julie precisely because their work, and their very nature, places them in such dangerous situations. And because there are so many more people to piss off.

That was my initial thought. Then I learned that her killer was simply a 25-year-old woodcarver who "killed Campbell in a fit of rage after mistaking the American for his enemy in the village." He hit Julie 15 times in the head and body with a rock. She did nothing to piss him off. He was already pissed off. At a Philippines trial he was sentenced to life in prison.

How does a young, vibrant, idealistic woman who quits her journalism job in the US to help poor people in the Philippines end up in a shallow grave with her head bashed in? I find no moral to this story. 

http://globalnation.inquirer.net/news/news/view/20080630-145573/Life-in-prison-for-killer-of-Peace-Corps-volunteer

http://juliainthephilippines.blogspot.com/

2 years

It's just about two years ago now that I was first hospitalized for renal failure, at which time I also discovered that my alcohol consumption -- which began as a simple attempt to get to sleep -- had become a major problem. After a 10-week stint at outpatient rehab (described in prolix detail at the christening of this blog) I was clean, sober and in major pain. In the intervening months I managed to find a pain doc who, after the standard attempts with Percoset, finally prescribed morphine sulfate, which I had been taking prior to the hospitalization.

I imagine it's typical for alcoholics to revel in anniversaries and cherish their AA chips as badges of honor. In fact I received one such chip some time last year when I stopped by a meeting. But I feel no need to return to get my 2-year chip, any more than I feel the need, urge, compulsion to start drinking again. Probably because I already have a support group to attend (TBI, every Thursday), I don't have any real interest in attending AA or other groups.

As I've probably mentioned once or twice already, there is a liquor store next door to my pharmacy. Several times a week did I emerge with a fifth of bourbon, or a half gallon of vodka. Now I just walk by, knowing I've saved myself 20 bucks and a world of grief. Not once have I been tempted to enter. I can hear the words of my doctor two years ago warning me of the one-way street that leads out of the liquor store.

I don't need sleep that badly.

It has happened again

So I'm sitting at the corner of Westmoreland and Old Chesterbrook roads last November, waiting to make a right turn, and suddently POW I'm rear-ended by a woman driving a domestic SUV (Chevy Tahoe maybe). I'm taken by ambulance to Washington Hospital Center (nee Arlington Hospital) where I'm evidently pronounced healthy enough to be discharged some hours later.

That's all I can say about the episode from personal experience. I don't remember the accident, or the ambulance ride. My wife contacted the police, the woman who hit me and her insurance company. The woman says she was thinking I was about to turn and thus accelerated into the intersection without, it seems, checking to see if I was still there. The negligence and flagrant stupidity of motorists, which I should be resigned if not sanguine about by now, still amazes me. But to her credit, the woman seemed genuinely contrite to my wife, and her insurance carrier was refreshingly above-board, even helpful, about the whole affair.

Three months later, I'm still suffering from back and neck pain, and my headaches are more frequent and severe than ever. Cognitively, I can't tell if the accident caused any further problems, though of course I'd be the last to know if there were any. To be certain, it didn't help.

Not this shit again

Something about me and hospitals. A week ago I'm in one again, for the same reason as last time -- renal failure. Except I'm not drinking, not taking opiates of any kind, not even taking naproxen, which is what landed me in a hospital in Richmond for five days last April. No, this time it was the combination of aspirin (generic from CVS, extra strength) and the lack of central air conditioning, resulting in me becoming severely dehydrated.

What is pain?

Given the title of this here blog, I reckon I've been remiss in failing to explore this topic in much detail. The reason, I suppose, is that by the time I created this blog I had been in more or less constant pain for 13 years. Constant pain, in my experience at least, entails a complete alteration of reality, to the point where pain becomes something like a fifth limb: it's always there, you can't do anything about it, and if it weren't there you don't know exactly what you'd do.

That's right -- I honestly don't know what I'd do with myself if I woke up one day without pain. One possibility is I would assume I was dead and had gone to heaven, or whatever place you go when you die. Or I'd gone to hell, and this was some dirty trick, and the pain would return at any time. But the hope that I will ever be without pain again has long since passed. I've tried every drug there is, several times in fact. My first encounter with serious opiates began about 12 years ago, under what turned out to be the reckless auspices of a Dr. Stein.

He started me out on Oxycontin, a drug I'd never heard of at the time (this was 2001), but which would soon become vilified in the press as "hillbilly heroin" after a number of Appalachian addicts overdosed on the stuff. To that he added Dilaudid, a short-acting form of morphine. This combination proved only moderately effective, and had several decidedly unpleasant side effects. One, which is universal among opiate users, is constipation. This may strike the reader as a minor, even amusing, inconvenience; let me assure you that when you haven't moved your bowels in a week, all humor gives way to discomfort, then concern, and finally outright desperation. The other side effect was far worse, however. I awoke in the middle of the night gasping for air. It's impossible to know for certain, but I believe I had been in respiratory arrest for a significant duration. (This is another classic effect of narcotic use, and in fact respiratory arrest is the definition of overdosing.) It took me a long while to fully catch my breath and walk around rubber-legged. I was afraid to fall back asleep for fear of ever waking up again.

Not long after this episode I resolved to tell Dr. Stein that I wanted off the narcotics altogether. At one point I was taking 240mg of Oxycontin and 48mg Dilaudid per day, and the pain still was winning. Worse, the side effects were not only affecting my life, they were threatening to end it. My wife, curiously, was adamantly opposed. She said that I was a mean bastard before I went on the pain meds. On them, I was at least under control. I could see her point -- my behavior following the accident was nothing to be proud of -- but I couldn't see living the rest of my life under these conditions. So we all (including my wife and two daughters) went in to see Dr. Stein. He informed us that he had become involved in a federal investigation involving Oxycontin and was closing his practice. So my decision was moot, I was off the narcotics whether I liked it or not. Six months later Dr. Stein was on the front page of the Washington Post. Several former clients had died from Oxycontin use, among other lurid charges. He was a nice guy to me, but you never know about people.

Because of my association with Stein, I would be many years before a doctor would prescribe anything stronger than Percoset for me. But that's another story for another day, because I'm getting tired now.

Well whatddya know?

Two days in a row I'm posting on this here blog. Going back over the earliest entries, I can see why I started this thing: fear, mostly, combined with uncertainty about the rehab stint I was facing. I don't think I was afraid of rehab -- I was looking forward to it as much as dreading it -- but the fear was how I would cope with the pain without morphine and the sleep without alcohol.

A year later I can report that the pain is still bad, as is the sleep. But the morphine wasn't helping that much anyway, and the alcohol was doing such damage to my body that it was no solution at all, as I learned the hard way. I still think about the folks I met at that rehab place from time to time Chris, the lacrosse coach at Lake Braddock who needed a liver transplant, I sure hope he turned out okay. Greg, the oxy addict who was trying a new line of work, seemed well on his way. Eric, the alcoholic back from Iraq who doubled up on rehab both in Fairfax and down in Fredericksburg, I don't know about him: he seemed way too cocky to me, and I can easily see him thinking he has it all under control. But I can say the same about me. I thought I had it under control when I started up with the drinking, rationalizing it as a sleep aid until I was guzzling a fifth a night without realizing it.

Unlike just about everyone else at rehab, I could honestly say my addiction(s) had little or no affect on my personal or professional life. That's partly because I have none of either, but also because I rarely drank during the day, and in any case rarely felt intoxicated no matter how much I drank. As for the morphine, like the other opiates I've taken (and I've taken them all) they never made me "high", just fractionally less miserable. But the side effects of opiates, principally constipation, were such that I never wanted to take them to excess. So when others in rehab told their remorseful tales of career-ending debauches and shameful displays in front of their spouses and/or children, all I could do was shake my head in sympathy and think "you poor bastard." And when, in the case of at least three group members during my tenure, said it was their second go-round of AA after falling off the wagon, all I could think was "you poor stupid bastard."

I know, I know. Not very sympathetic, there but for the grace of God, etc. Still, I can't imagine how someone who has lost all he values in this world -- his family, his career -- can still go back to the same vice that brought him to this pit of despair in the first place. A disease? There is a medication for that now, I believe, called antibuse or something. Makes you physically ill if you drink. If I ever found myself tempted to drink again, I believe I would seek out this medication.

My head started aching this afternoon, and despite a nap it is still killing me. So we shall see what tomorrow brings.

The biennial blog post

Well. It's been six months since I last did anything here. How's it going blog? Slow I see. Don't take it personally -- it's not you, it's me.

I've been a good boy. No booze, no pills (other than what I'm supposed to take), no temptations of any kind. Just the usual pain and sleeplessness, which I'm more or less used to. I've thought about attending another AA session, for the hell of it, but it hasn't been that high on my list of priorities. The other day I took Marielle to Falls Church and showed her the Unity Club, where the meetings are held. It must have been around the top of the hour, because a gaggle of folks were coming out, talking, smoking cigarettes. If I actually thought I'd start drinking again I would definitely go, but the thought hasn't crossed my mind really.

Robin's "anniversary" was a couple days ago, which means my own is right about now. I don't have a lot of feelings about that. I'm not sure I want to. Not an experience I like to reflect on. I guess I'm not a dweller. Learn your lesson and move on, that's my modus operandi. It's served me pretty well so far.

So that's the update. I need to pick up Marielle from the library. Maybe I'll be more conscientious about this blog. No promises.

Six months down

It doesn't seem possible, but half a year has passed since Robin died, and I nearly joined her in the great beyond. The group rehab at Inova is a distant memory, and I suppose that process deserves at least some credit for my continuing sobriety. I can still honestly say (and honesty is not something that comes naturally to a drunk) that I can still walk past a liquor store -- as I must in order to refill my prescriptions at the pharmacy next door -- or the beer aisle at the supermarket without a pang of temptation. But then I remember the alcoholics in rehab who went years, a decade or more, before relapsing. Six months then doesn't seem so long at all.

No, I never did go back to AA, or Smart. As I've probably said already, the former was too much, the latter was not enough. As long as I have a neuropsych, Dr. Lebedun, whom I see at least once a week, I feel my bases are covered, so to speak. Besides, I'm not likely to forget the horror of the emergency room, not in six months, six years, or ever.

This is the biggest problem with writing a blog about yourself. Writing about, or talking about, myself has never been my favorite thing to do. Not as a little kid, not as a teenager, not as an adult. Some folks never tire of it, though they're usually the only ones listening after a while. There are exceptions, of course. But unless you've led a very exciting life are your self-involved tales likely to be worth hearing. And even then, the teller of the tale must have a talent for it. I do have a talent for writing, not talking, and not about myself, even though I have had some interesting experiences. Maybe I will share a few of them. But not tonight, as it is late.

It's Official -- I suck at blogging.

I don't know exactly what I set out to do with this blog. Whether it was to be read, or to be a journal purely for my own use, I can't even recall now. But suffice it to say, it didn't work out. The post count alone should attest to my utter failure as a blogger.
I really did set out to keep regular, if not daily, appointments here, with the commencement of my rehab at Inova CATS. And that, I'm happy to report, has been successful, inasmuch as I haven't had a drink, or even been tempted to drink, in over five months now. I have occasionally dipped into my morphine supply, but Peggy tells me that was not the reason I went into renal failure: it was the combination of alcohol and naproxen; my morphine levels were within therapeutic levels upon my admission to the ER, and the fact that I still had an unfilled prescription in my backpack was a sign that I wasn't abusing the drug.
My last day at IOP was the first week of June. Pat, the facilitator handed me my chip -- a tradition borrowed from AA -- and credited me for my "honesty" (I wasn't shy about calling out perceived contradictions in the program, which I have commented on before). Afterwards, she said I wasn't a good candidate for the followup "relapse awareness" program, which I wasn't interested in anyway, since I hadn't fulfilled the requisite AA portion of the IOP program. But because I continue to see a neuropsychologist and attend a TBI support group, we agreed that I have a good plan in place. I do wonder if they'll keep the lights on.
Back to this blogging business. My first few posts were very long, which I suppose reflected my desire to get my thoughts and feelings out of my system. Once I started attending the rehab group, I had another outlet, thus the need to commit my thoughts here was superfluous. I haven't gone back to read those early posts in a long time, and doubt I will again. I know many people keep journals for this reason; I never have, and find it somewhat unnatural to do so now, so late in life. It seems forced. It's not as though I expect, or even want, anyone else to read my ramblings, nor do I expect to in the future. Even now, typing this, seems like an exercise in self-coaching, trying to psych myself up to do something I'd otherwise be disinclined to do, but that I should do, for some reason.
It's not as though I have anything better to do, is it?

Graduation night (not quite mine)

This evening I attended one of CATS' periodic graduation ceremonies, honoring a couple dozen people who've completed the program. Each group coordinator took the podium to proudly call the name of each graduate, with a few (or more than a few) choice words of encouragement; the graduate was given a certificate of some kind, then spoke some words of thanks to the coordinator and the CATS program. There was also a lengthy but spirited speech from a woman who'd been through the program a few years ago and, not surprisingly, attributed her very existence to CATS.

As these affairs are wont to do, the ceremony went on a bit too long, especially since a buffet of lasagna and cake (supplied by CATS alumni) beckoned. And in fact I decided to forego the repast since it promised to be a loud and chaotic affair, with people I mostly didn't know. It did get me to thinking though. This was my penultimate meeting with the intensive outpatient group -- Friday will be my last day -- and I suppose I'll be asked to come back to participate in this ceremony myself soon.

Will I attend? If I do, what will I say? Do I give the entire spiel about the brain injury, the sleeping problems, Robin's funeral? I can just see the people glancing at their watches, waiting for this guy to finish so they can get at their lasagna dinners.

---------------------------------

POSTSCRIPT: 1-15-14
I was never invited. I am not particularly surprised since, as Pat told me upon my departure later that week, I was not exactly the model patient. I didn't attend but one AA meeting my entire time there, and was pretty skeptical of the spiritual approach toward drug and alcohol recovery she took. And, frankly, I doubt I would've attended even if I had been invited. It was a pretty dull affair, I hate speaking in public, and the lasagna didn't look that great anyway.

Papo Rapozo

The other night I had another dream, this time of an opera I was watching. The title, or the main character, or both, seems to have been "Papo Rapozo," as this phrase was sung repeatedly in the dream. To thunderous applause, mine included, although I can't recall a single thing about the dream aside from this.

I checked, and there does not exist any opera, or song title, or anything of significance, named "Papo Rapozo." Nor do I know, or ever known, anybody with either name. Dreams are funny that way, especially for me since I hardly ever have them.

Battery drain

I am typing on a Toshiba laptop, given to me by my father, who didn't like the keyboard. Frankly, I think he just wanted me to email him more often, which I don't do as much as I should.

At first, the lappie kept its charge for a good long while, at least an hour or longer. Now, however, I'm lucky if I get half that before I notice the battery icon reaching the critical level. It's hard not to draw the parallel with my own condition. Before my accident, my battery was one robust bastard. I could work a full day, come home, play with my kids, put them to bed, and still have plenty of energy for the few hours till bedtime.

Now, my battery is on low almost all the time. Due to my disrupted sleep pattern, my brain doesn't get the required time to "recharge", so I move through the day in a sort of daze. At one point, almost a decade ago now, when I was high doses of narcotics, I would fall asleep at socially inappropriate moments, such as holiday gatherings, to the immense embarrassment of myself and others. Although this no longer happens, I am still prone to doze off for short periods; these do not result in any kind of rejuvenation, unfortunately.

I am hoping that my upcoming sleep study (scheduled for July) will result in some sort of solution to this longstanding problem.

Halfway to what

Friday, two days from now, I will reach the halfway point of IOP. Five weeks down, five to go. Part of me can't wait for it to be over -- driving to Merrifield at rush hour is no fun at all, and certain aspects of Pat's method aren't exactly suited to me. Last night, for example, the topic was "Spirituality" (always in caps), how we define it, and Higher Power, and what it means to us and our recovery, etc. I had to be honest and say it meant very little to me, and that I was fine with that. Science, I said, is my Higher Power, and when a doctor tells me that if I go down this road again I won't come back, that means more to me than any sermon. Pat seems to appreciate my honesty on topics like this; still, it's a bit tiresome.

On the other hand, going to these meetings gives me something to do, and I must admit I have come to look forward to seeing people, regardless of the setting. I imagine I will eventually make it to the Monday-night SMART group, and even hit the Unity Club again for AA once IOP ends, just for something to do.

Tonight we were engaged in the de rigeur "awareness exercise" when a lightning storm struck. Whatever beneficial effects I may have gotten from it were instantly obliterated by the headache that lasted the rest of the night. I have mentioned my brain injury only sparingly in the group, since that's incidental to my presence there. Besides, I really don't like discussing it very much.

Rehab group so far

Yesterday marked the end of my 4th week of Intensive Outpatient rehab, meaning I'm a week from the midway point. This consists of attending a group counseling session three times weekly for three hours, during which we may be given Breathalyzer and/or drug screens (urine tests). By the end of Week 2, I was already fourth in seniority; two guys successfully completed the 10-week program while several others, whom I never met, left for reasons which Patricia, the "facilitator," did not specify. Every week a new person, almost always male, joins the group, which now numbers 10 or 11.

When I began only one other guy, Brad, was there for opiates -- the rest were alcoholics. Now the balance is roughly 50-50. I am a "switch hitter" in that I was both drinking and drugging, and a couple others say they probably fall into that category as well. One guy, Brian, is a former heroin user who lately began snorting Ritalin to such a degree that he is now living in a home for recovering addicts. He has a wife and four small children. Another, Greg, became hooked on Oxycontin (also Brad's drug of choice), although unlike Brad he evidently came upon the pills legally. Last week came Tommy, a life-long junkie, and just this week the first girl, whose name escapes me at the moment, joined us. She too is there for opiates.

A few new alcoholics have joined too, both on their second attempt at sobriety. The first, whose name I also forget, had seven years' good behavior, was "working the steps" in AA, and was even sponsoring a few people. But he hurt himself while training for a marathon, and rather than get the injury treated decided to "let nature take its course" by letting the body heal itself. Unfortunately, nature in his case also included drinking. And only yesterday did we meet Doug -- like most first-timers he didn't share much of his story, other than to say this was his second time around.

Relapse is never far from the surface at these meetings. Toward the end of one session, during which the AA guy told about his fall from grace, Brian was noticeably agitated. "I really didn't like today," he said, "hearing stories about people relapsing scares me." It didn't exactly help that he had downed about four caffiene-laden energy drinks that afternoon. Still, he wasn't the only one in the room wondering if the same fate awaited us: confident former hopheads heading blithely into a minefield of our own making, doomed to reconvene in a room like this, a few years from now.

The Addict Mind

Been awhile since I wrote anything here. I have not attended another AA meeting, not that I was particularly turned off by the one I attended, I just don't have much time and between brain injury group and rehab group I am kinda grouped out. I do want to attend a SMART meeting (a sort of secular form of AA), but the only meet on Monday night, and the past two Mondays I've been too tired to go. It will happen, maybe next week.

Some good news and some bad news on the whole rehab thing. The good news: While cleaning out my endtable this weekend I happened upon an old bottle of morphine. I was really hurting, as I have been ever since leaving the hospital, so a brief bit of pain relief would have been welcome. But the consequences would have been substantial: not only the guilt associated with failure, but the prospect of being kicked out of the rehab program at Fairfax Hospital. I shared the incident with the IOP group tonight; the substitute facilitator (Patricia was out sick) said a failed urine test would probably have resulted in me being sent to the 4-day program, meaning inpatient care, screwing up my schedule with Marielle, not to mention higher cost, etc. All for a pill that probably wouldn't have done much for my pain anyway.

The bad news: I yielded to temptation and bought a pack of cigarettes yesterday, rationalizing that smoking helps with my headaches. They do to some extent, but the real reason, I suspect, is that smoking is substituting for more immediately harmful addictive behaviors. I really don't know. I didn't really have the kind of craving for opiates that the addicts in my rehab group describe. Nor for that matter did it even occur to me to stop by the liquor store, which is right next to the pharmacy where I picked up a prescription (and the pack of smokes).

I have smoked on and off for about 30 years, mostly off. The first time I was 20, and it was almost divine intervention. I was working construction one summer in Richmond, Va., an environment where the "smoke break" is practically mandated. Plus, my roommate at the time, and Indian named Pradeep, had a friend working at Phillip Morris, then as now one of the largest tobacco companies in the world. As a weekly perq, PM gave every employee a carton of cigarettes whether they smoked or not. Pradeep's friend did not, so he gave the carton to us. Soon we were drowning in Merit 100s! Whether by force of will, or by lack of free cigs, I gradually quit the habit after leaving Richmond, although looking back I don't think I quit altogether for several years. In any case, I was not a pack-a-day type.

 Most recently, around 2006, I found a pack of Marlboro Lights in my daughter Krista's room. For some stupid reason, I thought it would be interesting to see what it felt like to have a cigarette again, even though by that time I hadn't smoked a cigarette for at least a decade. Stupid decision. Still, it did seem to make my headaches more bearable. I began to smoke maybe 8 to 10 cigarettes a day within a few months, and continued until about 6 months ago. That's when I began to notice a burning sensation in my throat, which I feared was cancer ... or something. I quit cold turkey and went to my doctor who told me it was probably acid reflux (I didn't tell him I had smoked, like the genius I am), and he told me to take Previcid. The problem went gradually went away. As I had done a number of times by that point, I stopped smoking, on the assumption that this would be it.

For now I will focus on the positive. I haven't had any interest in drinking since crashing and burning last month, and I'm pretty sure I never was truly addicted to pain killers in the first place. But hearing the alcoholics in my rehab group talk about relapsing after many years of sobriety, I know better than to get cocky about this kind of thing. One month is nothing. I went five years without drinking after my accident, and look what happened.

So many groups ...

In addition to the TBI group I've attended for the past dozen years or so, I am now obliged to attend Intensive Outpatient (IOP) group therapy meetings, which are held 3 times a week, 3 hours per meeting, over 10 weeks. As if that weren't enough, in response to some not-so-subtle prompting from the IOP group "facilitator," Pat, I sucked it up a few days ago and went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.

I've been resisting this, not because I don't think it helps alcoholics (it certainly does), or that I'm not an alcoholic (I probably am), but because of the evangelical nature of the literature I've seen. I spent most of my childhood getting God shoved down my throat; I no desire for any further administrations of a deity I don't believe in. Nevertheless, I can't really knock something I haven't actually tried, so it's off to the Unity Club, a sort of multipurpose rehab facility in Falls Church, for the AA Beginners' Group.

I get there a few minutes before 7 pm. The small booklet Pat gave me doesn't say which room the Beginners' Group is to be held, so I consult a bulletin board at the top of the stairs. The group is in R1 ... wherever that is. So I walk into a large banquet hall and ask a lady if this is R1, and she nods her head. I take a seat near the back and wait for the meeting to begin, whatever that entails. At a large square table in the middle of the room a 60-ish man clears his throat. "Hi, I'm Mike and I'm an alcoholic." "Hi Mike," reply the 20 or so people seated in metal chairs on either side of the table, with one row against the back wall. Mike speaks in an Irish brogue that is instantly compelling and disarming -- he grew up in County Claire and took to drink there before coming to the United States as a young man -- but his story is pretty horrifying. Lost his job, lost his friends, lost his family, all to booze. Finally, after many years of trying to straighten out his act, Mike came across a former lush who recommended AA. That was over 20 years ago, he says, and he still can't say he won't go back to drinking, which is why he keeps coming to these meetings.

After Mike is finished, everyone in the room says something, but I don't catch what it is. Then it's time for Jim, a smaller man about the same age, begins to speak. His tale is, if anything, even more lurid than Mike's. Practically any mind-altering chemical known to mankind Jim has ingested, injected, snorted, inhaled or swallowed since he was a teenager. Numerous relapses, incarcerations and marriages later, Jim is another AA success story. Clean and sober for a decade, he, like Mike, keeps coming back to remind himself that no alcoholic or junkie is ever truly cured.

"Thank you for sharing." That's what the people are saying after Jim's tale of woe, just as they said after Mike's. One mystery solved. Now here's another: right after one alcoholic finishes his/her spiel, the next pipes up, as if the whole thing were choreographed. Did they decide on the speakers ahead of time? Do AA members share a Hive Mind? In any case, the stories are growing familiar (job, friends, family), with variations in drink of choice and number of relapses. I can see how these stories provide what psychologist term "validation" for the other members, but they don't really apply to me. I didn't lose my job over alcohol (I was already on disability). I was never drunk in front of my family; my wife didn't even know I drank. As for friends, they gradually fell away in the years following my auto accident, so I can't blame that on drugs or alcohol either.

Chips are a big deal with AA it seems. A 30-something woman whose name I failed to note rises from her seat at the center table with Mike and Jim and asks who in the room has completed a month of sobriety. A guy in the front row in front of me raises his hand, and the woman produces a chip from a large Tupperware container and presents it to him, with a hug thrown in. Applause. On to the two-month achievers, and so on. After this portion of the program, a basket is passed around, and I'm kicking myself because Pat (who leads my intensive outpatient group) told me that AA asks for a $1 donation. I, naturally, have left my wallet in the car.

Finally the Hive arises as one and joins hands (I was apprised of this too), and I manage to skirt the folding chair in front of me while taking the hand of a woman to my left and a man to my right. Mike says some words I can't remember, then leads the circle in the Lord's Prayer. It's been years since I've said it, and even longer since I've meant it; I just stand there, mute and awkward, holding hands with two perfect strangers, dying for it to be over. The prayer ends, then both my hands are jerked up and down while the Hive declares "Keep coming back! It works if you work it!"

It is 8 pm. I head for my car and fish out a buck for the till, but when I return for the room the woman keeping the money is gone. Jim tells me I just saved a buck. "Make it two next time," he says. We talk a little about the Fairfax Hospital rehab program, where I am at present. He has good things to say, even though it didn't quite work for him. Pretty much what I'd say about AA, although you can't really tell based on one meeting. 

Another day, another group

There are few things I like less than talking about myself. I don't know why. That's just the way I've always been. I suppose it's very selfish of me, because I generally enjoy asking people about their own lives; there just doesn't seem to be much about me that I find interesting enough to share I guess.

Imagine then, if you can, a person such as myself spending 10 hours a week in one group therapy session or another. This is what I face for the next 9 weeks, not counting tomorrow. In addition to the brain-injury group I've been in for over a dozen years (1 hour a week), I am now committed to three more substance/alcohol rehab groups, at 3 hours a pop.

I have already been to two sessions of the new group. The people seem very nice, welcoming, supportive. The woman running the group, a matronly woman named Patricia, is likewise quite nice, but her method (and I was told of this ahead of time) is quite a change from what I'm used to. The brain-injury group is a pretty informal deal. Group members assemble in a neuropsychiatrist's office, which has a large sofa, a couple of soft leather chairs, and a few other fairly large chairs. One person strikes up a conversation -- it could be about brain injury or baseball or cars -- and after a while the neuropsych, Alec, picks up on a relevant point raised in the conversation.

In this new group, Patricia decides on the topic. For the two sessions I've attended, the topic has been "boundaries." Whenever the discussion has taken a detour (i.e. something we actually want to talk about) Patricia eventually brings it back to the main topic. I find it all a bit stilted. Maybe it's the fairly vague nature of this particular topic. Hopefully next week's topic will be more interesting.

Strange dream song

I rarely sleep, therefore rarely dream, but maybe this new drug (Seroquel) is helping because I had a weird dream in which a fellow played this song. Except he played it much better. I don't think I've touched a guitar in a year for reasons I can't explain, but the result is the terrible technique displayed here. I used to be a lot better, like in my teens and 20s when I played almost fanatically.
In the dream, this mysterious fellow also sang along with this tune, an Indian raga or maybe Hebrew deal. I don't remember. I'm lucky to have remembered this much.

Rehab Day 1: The Interview (cont.)

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.

Rehab Day 1: The Interview

It's cold and raining and Monday, and I have to get up early for my admittance interview at a local hospital "intensive outpatient program" for people with drug and/or alcohol issues. The hospital is only a few miles away, but it's rush hour and traffic on and around the DC Beltway is never pleasant. I have a 9 a.m. appointment, but have been told to arrive 20 minutes in advance to do the inevitable paperwork.

As usual, I can't sleep, so I wind up leaving home around 7:45, figuring I can stop at a McDonald's on the way  for coffee and a biscuit, and read the paper for a while, because I know this upcoming appointment is going to be a bitch. "Paperwork" always means filling out forms that ask questions you've already answered and given to somebody else, but their own system is too inefficient or their own personnel are too lazy or stupid to find the data, so it's just easier to make me provide it all over again. My labor is free after all.

So I get my coffee and biscuit and dawdle over the paper as long as I can stand the light and noise (I am sensitive to both due to my brain injury -- long story, another time) and head back to the car. Jesus, for late April it is downright chilly: my car dash reads 39 degrees. Traffic, however, is more forgiving, and I am nearing the hospital with time to burn. Which is good, because it just then hits me that the appointment is not at the hospital, but at an adjacent building. (Another common trait among TBI's.) Anticipating this brain fart, I entered the address in my phone, along with the time, so at the nearest opportunity I pull into an office building parking lot. I check the address, then the street sign, then the address again, because this never happens to me ...  I have quite by chance found my destination!

The euphoria was not to last. CATS, a cute euphemism for something rehab related, turns out to be located in a generic office suite, such as any dentist, lawyer or architect might lease, complete with oppressively bright fluorescent lights and six-month-old copies of People in the waiting area. I complete the paperwork with what I consider admirable dispatch, considering the conditions and circumstances. There is one piece of paper concerning a state database of drug prescriptions that requires my signature for some reason, but the verbiage is so inscrutable that I'm compelled to query the receptionist. Her only suggestion is to take it up with the social worker I'm about to see.

I finish the paperwork and wait. 9 am comes and goes. Meantime a stream of people enter, chatting amongst themselves. This would be one of the groups run by CATS, which I'll be added to once this obligatory process finally ends. About 9:40 a 30-ish brunette woman named Jennifer opens the door and calls my name.


to be continued...