During my time in California, my older brother John's drug use had become steadily worse. I would get calls from my parents, both worried sick, and sometimes not knowing where he was or hearing from him for several days. I knew things were bad. I remember him calling me one night and he was obviously messed up, and driving around in his truck. I begged him to pull over, call a friend, call a cab, or just sleep until he was sober enough to drive. I didn't find out until much later the extent or seriousness of the drugs he had been doing, including shooting up heroin and crack cocaine. All in his fourth and final year of medical school, soon to graduate second in his class, and become a doctor. How could someone so smart be so stupid? I was angry. Angry that he was putting my family, and himself, through this. I didn't understand his addiction. I understood that what he was doing was dangerous, and had the serious capability to take him out of my life forever. This terrified me, and I cried often. Jacob understood, and was there with me through it all.
In early January of 2007, John went missing. He wasn't at the hospital he worked at in Shreveport, wasn't with his girlfriend, and we were all sick with worry. Finally on the second night, his girlfriend called. She had found him, in one of the beds in the doctor's sleep rooms at the hospital, attempting to detox himself. He was sick. Shivering, throwing up, cold sweats..all the telltale signs of withdrawal. With his girlfriend's assistance, my mom committed him to a local mental institution. He spent three days among schizophrenic and depressed people, while trying to get his head straight. The Medical Association found out about John's drug use, and told him it was either rehab, or no residency. Get clean, or you'll never be a doctor. So he was released to my parents under the condition that he would be checked into an inpatient rehab in the next few weeks.
As we began our soon-to-be fateful trip home to Baton Rouge, I was filled with mixed emotions. Sad to be leaving behind a dream of moving away from Louisiana and finding a job, but also so happy to be back with the person I loved and who loved me unconditionally.
That Spring, John had several residency interviews, and since we didn't trust him to drive himself from state to state, I offered to take him. We drove to Houston one weekend and stayed with a friend of mine. All night that night as John slept on the couch, his phone rang over and over. It was a drug dealer, incessantly trying to get hold of one of his best customers. I didn't tell him, but I copied down that number and later called it in to crime stoppers. I doubt anything ever became of it, but was glad I did it. How anyone thought he was worthy of residency at their hospital was beyond me. I guess I knew him too well, because all I saw when I looked at him was blood-shot eyes, track marked arms, and a brother who had not been himself in quite some time. But he did get accepted to a residency program in Little Rock, Arkansas. We all hoped this new position would help him get back on track. But it didn't.
Those few weeks between John's brief institution stay and rehab were hell. He seemed not to care at all any more, and was trying to kill himself via overdose rather than attend rehab. There were constant instances of long bathroom trips to shoot up, falling asleep sitting up, and a complete indifference to the well being of those around him. He wrecked his new truck, flipping it across an interstate 10-12 times, and somehow walked away unscathed. We rushed him to the Emergency Room one day when he complained of severe abdominal pain, and there were no usable veins left in his arms or legs, so one was started in his neck. I silently cried and held his hand as the doctor asked him "have you used drugs in the past few days?" and he replied with a defeated "Yes." He was ashamed. My anger over his drug use soon turned to pity, sadness, and fear. I was so afraid to lose him.
His ninety day rehab stint finally began several weeks later at a small but nationally known rehabilitation clinic thirty minutes from our home town. The next three months would force my broken and angry family to be brutally honest with each other, something my estranged parents had not done in years. I dutifully attended each family session, tissues in hand. I heard other addicts tell their stories of sexual abuse and substance abuse. Some had lead very hard lives...but they all seemed to honestly want to get better. John, being a doctor, became a confidante of many of these men, and I was so proud to see how they looked to him for guidance on issues both medical and emotional. This was the brother I knew and had missed for so long.
Our parents were forced to review their past mistakes; to take a good look in the mirror and ask themselves "what did I do wrong?" It was hard. We all ended these sessions in tears. I held my breath as I heard my brother tell stories of walking through the back alleys of New York City buying drugs while he was there for a medical internship...watching friends overdose, and even bringing one back to life several times...shooting up so many times in one arm that it caused a deep abcess that had to be packed with gauze. All of these horror stories that I was so unaware of. How he had survived to this point was so far beyond me. All I could say is that it was God, knowing that we couldn't stand to lose him...that he was such a critical part of our family...and he protected him time and time again. I will always be so grateful for that.
I later found out from my mom that on that fateful night in the emergency room where John was found detoxing himself, he had a gun in the pocket of his lab coat. He was considering suicide, which is why he was committed to the mental institution. He later admitted to my mom that the only reason he didn't kill himself was because he thought of me, and how I would react. The brother I had always looked up to and admired now showed that he was worried about me, that he did care. I was shocked and saddened by this news, but grateful that we had the close relationship we did.
Midway through John's rehab and all of our stressful family sessions, I found out I was pregnant. Jacob and I went to dinner one night and had boiled crawfish, and my stomach started cramping while I was eating them. I'd never had this happen before, and have always loved spicy southern food. So, I decided to take a pregnancy test, never assuming it would actually be positive. But it was! So, we drove to the pharmacy and bought yet another pregnancy test. This time I bought the one that says "pregnant" or "not pregnant," I was in no mood to fool around with all of the pluses and minuses of the cheaper brands. This time a very definitive "pregnant" flashed across the screen. I was terrified, but excited. I came out of the bathroom crying, and startled Jacob while he was playing on his computer. He was so happy, which really calmed my fears and reassured me. At the time, he was preparing for his second deployment with the Marines, and I was saddened by the fact that I would most likely deliver our baby without him by my side. But I knew that everything would work out.
I sat on the bed that night and called my brother in rehab to break the news. He was very calm. "Are you ok?" he asked. "Yes, just scared and nervous" I replied. He assured me that everything would be fine, and I could tell he was happy for us. He said something then that I will never forget...he told me "If I weren't here right now, this baby probably wouldn't have an uncle." It hit me how close we came to losing him. I cried and told him how much I loved him, and he reassured me again that everything would be ok. Next, I called my mom. She too was very calm, but very excited. She'd been jokingly asking for a grandchild for years, so I knew she would be ecstatic. My pregnancy became a bright spot during that very difficult time in our lives, something happy that we could all look forward to.
John was released from rehab for a weekend to attend our beach wedding that we quickly threw together. It was a small gathering of about 30 family members and a few friends, and the best wedding I could have asked for. It was a beautiful day, and I was so happy. I had married the man I loved, was pregnant with our first child, and my brother was on his way to recovery. We spent a beautiful week at the beach in Destin, Florida celebrating. It was over too quickly, we returned home, and John returned to rehab.
Over the next two weeks, Jacob and his unit prepared to leave for Iraq. I was terrified at the idea of losing him, and even more terrified of having our baby alone. I spoke to my doctor, who strongly recommended that Jacob be with me throughout my pregnancy due to my previous issues with ovarian cysts and depression. I agreed that I was very anxious about his leaving, and my doctor wrote a letter to his command, recommending to them that he be allowed to stay home from this deployment in case something were to happen with the baby. The night before he was set to deploy, we received a phone call. He would be allowed to stay home.
I was so excited, but Jacob on the other hand was feeling sad, and guilty. He felt like he had betrayed his squad, and we both knew if something happened to one of them overseas, he would feel responsible. I understood, but reminded him that I too needed him, and this baby took priority over everything. We soon moved into an apartment together, and he went active duty with the Marines as a recruiter. Summer flew by as my stomach continued to swell uncomfortably. The next few months would be the hardest of our lives.
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