Comfort Zone

JK, early fall

I wanted to tell her the truth. Bastard almost kills her, and all I could send was an inane postcard, vintage JK. Didn't have the guts to come clean to her, risk showing her the real me. To think she used to call me a superhero.

I was certainly no hero the night I left.

I'm a thousand miles away on a beach. There's sand and sky and nude sunbathers as far as the eye can see. The water is so clear I can see myself, and it wrenches me back to that night in the office, when I looked at my reflection and thought how good I looked.

Who are you? Do I even know you?

I waved at some shadows in the lit window across the courtyard, and suddenly it was reality time. Curtains for you know who. Quest and Grant were standing there all buddy buddy in the CEO's office, my nightmare come true.

I'm done, I thought. I'm toast.

You don't stay bright and happy and lively and make rounds at three AM without a little help. Help from the oxies, or sniffing the white stuff. One line and pow bam! I was Superdoc, just like Miriam called me.

Thanks to an attempt to quit with a twelve step program, Quest knew my problem and I knew his: gambling away his wife's money, maybe the hospital's too for all I knew.

He covered for me once when anesthesia was short some fentanyl, but swore if I did anything again that would jeopardize his hospital, he'd have my head on a platter. At the very least, I'd be washed up at Miami Health.

"I'll be checking up on you," he used to say, with that politician's smile of his.

Despite the threat, I couldn't stay clean. I'd been at Miami Health long enough to have access to the forbidden zones, mostly with the help of my buddy in security. It was easy enough to siphon off some Dilaudid and other goodies, not too much, not too often, only when absolutely necessary, when my regular sources didn't come through. I never heard any complaints when I was there.

As for Louis Grant, my main source, I could only guess why he was there with Quest. Rumor was he was transitioning into legal pharmaceuticals, currently more lucrative than the pill mills and other sleazy stuff that was his norm. He'd always been Teflon man after all, reinventing himself at the change of a Florida statute. He knew all about me like he knew all his best customers.

So there I was, waving to the man who was keeping a close eye on me, who knew my weakness, and the one who knew I'd fallen and never got up. I swung around fast but the damage was done. Grant and Quest, a dynamic duo if there ever was one. Cahones of steel. And I knew it was just a matter of time before the CEO knew I was still using, plus dipping into the hospital supply.

I could imagine their conversation. Quest says something like, there's JK Barlow working late as usual. Lot of energy that guy.

But of course, Grant says, with that pseudo-laugh he sometimes had, smile as small and tight as a South Beach mini-skirt. He has the right medicinal help.

You know him? Shocked CEO.

Do I ever.

Look I know he used to use, but we had it out. Gave him an ultimatum. He doesn't use now. We drug test him.

You're such an innocent, Richie. Never heard of the urine in a test tube taped to the thigh trick?

He promised he was clean.

Well he's not, Louis would say flatly.

And if they weren't having the conversation now, it was only a matter of time.

And then--tha-a-at's all, folks.

I couldn't bear to wait for Quest's call. He'd be incensed, hated to be fooled. He'd demand the kind of drug test you can't fake. And he wouldn't just boot me into the physicians' recovery program. He'd threatened to take care of it personally if it happened again. He'd do some checking, track my access card, figure it all out and have enough ammo to boot me for good.

I'd lose my license. My whole life would come tumbling down, and all the king's horses and all the king's men wouldn't ever be able to put it together again.

I couldn't resist walking back to the window. The light was out, and I looked at my reflection again. Not so handsome after all.

I started thinking clearly, maybe for the first time in years.

Let's be honest.

The boogeymen out the window are never a match for the ones inside. I wasn't Superman, not even an invincible Joker. My drug use was spiraling up as fast as my spirits were spiraling down; how long could I hide the secretly addicted skeleton in my closet? Burnout, and the stress of trying to be Superdoc, was clearly winning.

I remember looking down at the plants lining the window. I'd forgotten to water them for too long, and noticed they were all dead.

I sat down and forced myself to finish my work. It was Friday, I was off for the weekend; my partners were capable men and women who could cover for me on Monday.

I'm going, I stated out loud when I finished the last task.

And I did.

I stumbled to my car. Except for work, I had no ties, no home life. Another divorce finalized, my stuff was in storage and I was camping out on a friend's couch. I grabbed my things and scuttled to the airport, bought a pricey one way ticket out of dodge. A day later, I had second thoughts and even bought a return ticket, but went into rehab instead, and this time I really worked the program. Still do.

Time went on, and it was too late to show up at the office fresh-faced and ready to work. What would I say? Now I can go back if I want to. They think I left because I got wind of the scheme; I won't look like a hero, more like a worm for not warning anyone, but I can say I panicked, had a breakdown, felt my life was in danger. No lie!

But doctors die young; I'll probably live longer if I stay here in paradise. Less stress, less to threaten my sobriety. I get by with odd jobs, grow tomatoes, write in a journal and swim in the ocean almost every day. Selfish and self-involved? Absolutely. I even learned to meditate. If I stay, I'd have time to work on the book I always threatened to write.

I'd have to be crazy to go back. Just look at this view...

On the other hand, who will save medicine if doctors don't? I could return to the frontlines or get the MBA I used to laugh about, get into administration and make a difference through changing policy. Administration is where the real power for change is, after all.

Plus of course the real money.

Either way, I'd use what recovery is teaching me, that sometimes you're powerless and need to accept it. But we can't be too quick to assume that the things weakening us--our kryptonite!--can't be changed. Doctors have to band together, use our collective brains, energy and strength to rescue the most satisfying parts of medicine for patient and doctor. Is it possible? Not a chance.

But there's always hope.

And I do hope.

Because when I think about the good that's always lurking in the heart of medicine—a chance to help, heal and comfort--I can only think--

Maybe I'll go back after all.