PRAISE FOR

Warrior Pose

“Brad Willis’ life is the background for this extraordinary tale that provides compelling and essential lessons for anyone wanting a more fulfilled life. Warrior Pose is more than just one man’s journey of healing and transformation. This book is a bright beacon of practical wisdom and guidance, inspiring us to reach for greatness and reminding us that we each possess an amazing capacity to achieve a more healthy and joyful life as well as our most heartfelt dreams. Read it and you too will be emboldened to soar.”

—Rod Stryker, Para Yoga

“Brad Willis leads us on an amazing life journey of courage, passion, hope, despair, and never-die spirit. His war stories, tender moments with his son, and transformative lifestyle are beacons of light for everyone seeking to find their path of well-being.”

—Dr. Suhas G. Kshirsagar BAMS, MD (Ayurveda, India), Director, Ayurvedic Healing, California Integrative Medicine

“Remarkable recoveries and miraculous healings of incurable cancers and other terminal disease have been the topic of many recent books. Bhava, born Brad Willis, has written the most exciting, original, and vividly relevant book yet on this topic. Its concise, hard-hitting prose makes a page turner about the shockingly grim world behind the nightly news as revealed to a top television reporter. Ram ignores his progressive physical collapse, stuffing his feelings and internal life to focus entirely on his macho career. Using his fierce will to survive and strong intellect to question medical authority, Bhava, draws inspiration from the miracle of his son Morgan, halts his self-sabotaging habits, chooses ‘right living,’ and heals himself via a selfless emotional life dedicated to teaching and healing others.”

—Candace Pert, PhD, Chief Scientific Officer, RAPID Laboratories, Inc.; author, Everything You Need to Know to Feel Go(o)d and Molecules of Emotion: The Scientific Basis Behind Mind-Body Medicine

“This amazing book is a must read for all seekers. Brad Willis has lived the very deepest principles of Yoga and Ayurveda, healed against all odds, and become an inspiration to people worldwide. Warrior Pose not only takes us through an amazing journey through war zones and global crises, it leads us on an inner journey of profound self-healing and personal transformation that reminds us all of our own potential to access our inner power and live our truth.”

—Felicia Tomasko, Editor-in-Chief, LA Yoga Magazine

“Warrior Pose is another important and insightful book by Bhava Ram. He has made many profound and original contributions to the field of Yoga, and we look forward to many more!”

—Dr. David Frawley (Pandit Vamadeva Shastri)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Copyright © 2013 by Bhava Ram

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To my son, Morgan,

who inspired me to find my way from

the darkness back into the light

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

SECTION ONE: DISPATCHES

1   Afghanistan

2   Beginnings

3   Moving Up

4   Tropical Storm

5   Apartheid

6   Drug Wars

7   30 Rock

8   Miami Bureau

9   The Persian Gulf War

10   The Gulf War Aftermath: Kurdistan

11   Asia Stories

12   Fusion

13   Pyongyang

14   Puncture

15   Final Season

SECTION TWO: THE ABYSS

16   First Prayer

17   Shining Light by the Sea

18   Radiation

19   The Journal

20   Get Up, Daddy

21   Intervention

22   Sailboats and Treasure

23   Dark Night of the Soul

24   Lifeline

25   The Pain Center

26   Body, Mind, and Soul

27   The Visits

SECTION THREE: YOGA

28   Stretching the Limits

29   Fanatical

30   Closure

31   Homecoming

32   Himalayan Cave

33   The Story Bench

34   Bayside Healing

35   Going Deeper

36   The Studio

37   Organic Chemotherapy

38   Sacred Science

39   A Demon Departs

40   Warrior Pose

Epilogue

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Lead Me from the Unreal to the Real

From the Darkness into Light

From Death to Eternity

BRHADARANYAKA UPANISHAD: I.III.28

Foreword

As a young man, I was drawn to mathematics, science, and medicine. The exactness of a complex calculation, the explicit conclusion of a well-constructed lab experiment, the predicted impact of a pharmaceutical medication, the precise slice of my surgeon’s scalpel as I moved toward an infected organ—these things resonated with me. A led to B. One plus one equaled two. Facts were facts, outcomes could be predicted, and ultimately, logic prevailed.

As my practice as a physician progressed, however, I witnessed how some patients healed and thrived as a result of specific treatments while others worsened and succumbed even though their conditions and therapies were identical—A did not always lead to B. One plus one did not always add up to two. I came to see that the patient could not be approached as merely a body composed of interchangeable parts, as in the Cartesian model so prevalently taught in our schools of Western medicine. There was a far greater complexity to the human organism, and all its aspects needed to be addressed for true and lasting healing to occur.

A major key to healing, I soon realized, was the mind. Our thoughts not only determine our actions but they also play a major role in the neurochemicals we create in our bodies as well. These chemicals, in turn, impact the integrity of all our systems, from organs, bones, and blood to our immunological, cardiovascular, and even emotional health. Beyond this is also a deeper realm: that of the Soul. The more connected a patient is with his or her inner truth and authentic self, the greater his or her capacity to face the most formidable of life’s challenges.

As a result of these realizations, I put my scalpel down in the early 1970s and was fortunate to become one of the pioneers of the science and art of mind-body medicine. I devoted my professional life to exploring the profound human capacity to heal through mastery of our minds. As I verbally guided patients into deep states of physical and emotional relaxation and then provided them with positive imagery and affirmations, I began to see them effect profound change in their lives. It’s a process I came to call Deep Healing.

As the years passed, I continued to see scores of people achieve remarkable results, even when faced with life-threatening conditions. I have witnessed people overcome emotional and psychological challenges as well, achieving optimal performance in their lives through positive thought. In the early years, mind-body medicine was met with great skepticism by most mainstream scientists and medical practitioners. Today it’s an accepted and proven fact. Once you take charge of your thoughts, your inner chemistry is altered. You are empowered to take positive action, to find the light at the end of the tunnel. Your capacity to heal, and ultimately to thrive, is greatly enhanced.

Those of us in the healing profession don’t always get to see the positive fruits of our work, but when we do, it is very pleasurable and, on rare occasion, truly remarkable. When Bhava Ram, at the time known as Brad Willis, came to my workshop at Esalen Institute in 2004, he told me he had come to pay homage, for it was upon hearing the voice and the words on one of my guided imagery tapes that he found himself awakening mentally and emotionally to a deep truth and inner power. It was at that moment that he began to realize he could take charge of his life, remake his inner landscape, and heal the surgically irreparable broken spine that had led to his total disability, as well as overcome his stage IV throat cancer.

Willis’s journey led him into the greatest depths of the ancient and profound healing sciences of Yoga and Ayurveda, which arose thousands of years ago and comprise the foundations of mind-body medicine along with the essence of self-healing and self-realization. But it was his remarkable life and near demise that set the stage for such an inspiring transformation. Like the Buddha, Willis was a seeker, a man driven by some deeper force to repeatedly put his life on the line to honestly express his inner truth, someone whose heart seemed to know the world had something to teach him, and whose mind was determined to learn. The impulse struck him early in his life. In the midst of the Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam War, the world around him seemed to offer only conflict and hypocrisy, but his heart pushed him to look deeper for meaning, authenticity, and purpose. As a result, he found himself hurtling through some of life’s most challenging experiences.

Most of us know, at least at the intellectual level, that when we run into adversity it compels us to experience ourselves at a deeper level, and that which does not kill us makes us stronger. If only we could recall this when the next tragedy is upon us and have faith in ourselves and in the world we live in! How courageous we would all be, and how honest we would be with ourselves, and with what integrity we would live our lives every day! Each of us comes to the world with our own dharma, the path we are meant to walk in life. But far too few of us ever discover what that path is, how to be faithful to this deeper purpose, or even that such a thing might be. This is always to our tragic detriment. However, each of us also has the capacity to be who we truly are, who we came here to be, just like the hero of the enlightening story that you will soon be enjoying.

As I read Warrior Pose, I discovered myself thrilling to the adventures of a journalistic Indiana Jones, a young man following his heart and living a soldier-of-fortune lifestyle that every kid imagines for himself from time to time. It reminded me of the kind of life I would have wanted, or gone after, had I possessed the courage. By taking himself to some of the most dangerous and hotly contested areas of the world, Brad Willis exposed himself to humanity in a uniquely stark and unflinching way. Again and again he was able to see beyond the curtain, reveal the grisly political machine that has been controlling the destiny of our world, and bring focus to the underlying humanity within us all.

Some might read this account and think they are just reading a fascinating memoir. They will miss an important truth: Warrior Pose is about your life, my life, all our lives, and even the history of our world—a history we often fail to learn from and that therefore seems to repeat itself. You and I may never have been to all his extremes, but the author’s story is our story. The unpredictability of life, the betrayal of our political system, the inhumanity of our social interactions, and the importance of love to our healing and wholeness, these are the same for all of us. Willis’s journey is your journey, and my journey—writ large. It’s the story of someone who was powerfully guided, even driven, one might say, to receive the deepest of teachings. To read this book properly, you must be open to receive this teaching as well. Don’t read with just your head—allow your heart to participate in the journey.

Come to the battlefields with the author; peer into the smoking tanks and see the horrors of war up close. Breathe in the depleted uranium from the U.S. artillery shells that will cause stage IV throat cancer. Helicopter into the jungles of Bolivia as cocaine drug labs are uncovered and set ablaze. And be there as Willis travels undercover with freedom fighters into Soviet-occupied Afghanistan to document the atrocities of war visited upon the most innocent of victims.

Let yourself feel how depressed he became after seemingly losing it all and ending up in a body brace with a prognosis of paralysis and death. Then, as his marriage was crumbling and all seemed lost, listen and hear the fervent words of his young son that echoed continuously in Willis’s head, touched the chords of love in his heart, and awakened his inner power to push on to heal and transform. Allow yourself to be touched. Be fully present as you read, and with a little luck, as you experience his turnaround you will learn something of great importance to your personal journey.

As a scientist and a doctor, I can share with you that this book also lays out beautifully the essential philosophy that leads to the deepest healing. You will learn the power of profound relaxation, how to use guided imagery to impact your body and future, mantra to keep you present, and inspiration to keep you focused on your true goals. You will be inspired to reclaim a power that has been within you all along. A power that not only can transform your life but can help transform the world, because as Mahatma Gandhi said: “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Perhaps Willis’s recount of his dark night of the Soul can help you quiet the distractions in your mind so you can remember this always, so that you can look honestly at your life and your world, and know your own truth. Perhaps, as you accompany him through his harrowing adventures, you will see a light that can bring extraordinary and unexpected richness, and a complete transformation of one’s life. If you can see it, you are most fortunate. You have arrived. Stay focused on it, follow it, and I am certain you will be richly rewarded.

—Dr. Emmett Miller

Self-Help for Mind, Body, Emotions and Spirit

Dr. Emmett Miller is best known for his revolutionary work in creating the holistic approach to healing and the field of mind-body medicine and integrative (holistic) medicine. Dr. Miller has received special acclaim for his development of the field of guided imagery, a revolutionary tool for empowering people to use the power of their minds for self-healing and optimal performance. He is the author of numerous books on holistic and mind-body medicine and co-creator of DrMiller.com.

Introduction

Life’s greatest lessons usually sneak up on us when we least expect them. Some hit like hurricanes, turning our worlds upside down and wreaking havoc. It’s always confusing, chaotic, and challenging to understand why we’ve been chosen for such a fate, and in the midst of the maelstrom, it’s impossible to view our suffering as a blessing. But it almost always is.

This is my personal story. But it’s about you, too. It’s about all of us. I say this because I’ve come to learn that there’s a power deep within every human being that can help us overcome great obstacles, deal with crisis and calamity, and turn our suffering into a catalyst for positive change and personal transformation. I know this is true because I am alive today even though all the experts said I should have passed away long ago.

I was in the prime of my life, traveling the world as a foreign correspondent for NBC News, when my storm hit and everything came crashing down around me. In what seemed like an instant, I was declared permanently disabled with a broken back. Then came a diagnosis of terminal cancer, with only two years to live. I was once capable of covering wars, crossing deserts, climbing mountains, and slipping in and out of battle zones with ease. Now I couldn’t sit up to eat a meal, walk without a cane, or speak without a voice box strapped around my neck. The career that had been my greatest joy and defined my life for more than two decades was gone forever. My identity was shattered. I no longer knew who I was or why I was alive.

I became completely dependent on a medical system that didn’t help me heal. Chronic pain and heavy medications warped my mind and stole my Soul. I was angry, confused, frightened, and deeply depressed. As I approached death’s door, addicted to painkillers and alcohol, I fell into an abyss. Not a person on Earth could have told me that somewhere in this darkness was a glimmer of light.

It was an overwhelming love for my two-year-old son that finally motivated me to transform my life. This realization was triggered one morning when he tearfully implored me to “Get up, Daddy.” Getting up required recreating myself in body, mind, and Soul. I had to move past my rational mind and journalistic cynicism, and find the courage to venture into a realm of self-healing and inner awareness I once dismissed as absurd. There, in the deepest reaches of my being, I discovered my own battlefield, with wounds to treat, conflicts to resolve, and peace to be made.

It was the greatest challenge I have ever faced, but ultimately I overcame cancer and a broken back, forged a new life, and was able to be the father my son deserved. My healing journey taught me that there is an inherent power and natural intelligence within all of us. By tapping into these forces, we can move far beyond our perceived limitations and often achieve miraculous results. We see this in the mother who performs an astonishing feat of strength to protect her child, in the passerby who rushes into a natural disaster to save a life, and in the small children who flee war-torn villages and somehow manage to survive against staggering odds.

These might seem like isolated incidents that have little to do with us, but they illustrate a great truth: The capacity to rise up and overcome great obstacles is our birthright as members of humankind. The more fully we reclaim this right from a system that has all too often disempowered and disenfranchised us, the more we are able to experience profound healing, liberate ourselves, and chart new courses in our lives.

Although years of physical pain and emotional anguish were nothing I ever would have wished for, I now realize that a broken back, failed surgery, cancer, and a lost career were my greatest teachers and biggest blessings. They taught me more about the world than all my previous travels and experiences combined, compelled me to face myself, and made me a better human being.

This book details my personal journey from a career as a war correspondent to life as a permanently disabled person with terminal cancer. It shares my descent into years of darkness; the battle against depression, painkillers, and alcohol; and the story of how I ultimately clawed my way back into the world. My intention is that Warrior Pose will inspire all who face physical and emotional crises to dig down deep, connect with their power, and unfold their fullest potential.

Bhava Ram

(Brad Willis)

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Some names in this book have been changed for reasons of confidentiality. My healing program as outlined in this book is not a formula for anyone other than myself. The practices I undertook should never be done by persons with certain health disorders, and an experienced doctor, teacher, or healing practitioner should always be consulted by those facing serious medical challenges.

CHAPTER 1

Afghanistan

MAHMOUD’S EYES mesmerize me. They are deep ebony. Plump as a newborn fawn’s. He holds my gaze with such blazing clarity that I feel frozen in time. He’s a small, slender boy. Ten, maybe eleven years old. His thick, black hair is beginning to show again on his shaved head. His perfect white teeth glisten as he softly smiles.

His quivering body is bright red, covered with third-degree burns. Large patches of skin have peeled away from his torso, which is now covered with open sores. He is lying on his side in partial fetal position on top of a thin mattress on a rusty metal bed. Bloodstained gauze is wrapped around his ribs, both arms, and his left thigh. It hurts just to look at him, and I can’t begin to imagine his pain.

The rest of Mahmoud’s burned body, too tender and wounded to touch, is exposed to the dank air of the refugee hospital. It’s close to 100 degrees outside, as the midday sun bakes the arid ground on the desolate border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The hospital has no ventilation or cooling system, so the heat is stifling, the air almost too thick to breathe, and it smells like a butcher shop filled with spoiling meat.

“How did this happen to you?” I ask Mahmoud through my interpreter. He can barely whisper his response, and his body seems to quiver even more as he recalls what happened.

“I was just playing outdoors, all by myself,” he says as his eyes close tightly, fighting back tears. “Then the jets came and everything exploded, and I was on fire.”

As I stare into Mahmoud’s gentle face, I can hear my deep breath and feel the pounding of my heart. Every cell in my body is trembling with compassion, disbelief, and a sense of outrage that such a thing could happen. What I feel is not a new emotion, but a reignited one. A righteous anger at the injustices in the world has smoldered within me since I was a child, like Mahmoud. It began as I became aware of the violence and discrimination in my own country during the Civil Rights Movement. Then, as I became a teenager, the Vietnam War turned me into an advocate for peace and justice. This indignation continued with me into adulthood, motivating me. This is why I’m a journalist. Making the public aware of suffering and inequity in the world is my passion. It defines what I do, and who I am.

Mahmoud was simply being a little boy, playing in his remote village high in the mountains of Afghanistan, when Soviet MiGs suddenly roared overhead and began dropping bombs. His horrific wounds are from napalm, a jellied gasoline designed to stick to its victims and burn them to death. As he was running down the rocky clay street trying to escape the attack, the gooey fire stuck to his body and consumed him. Dozens of people in his village were killed, including Mahmoud’s parents. Despite his scorched flesh and terrible pain, he managed to walk through the mountain wilderness for three weeks, cross the border into neighboring Pakistan, and find this refugee hospital just in time, before his wounds became so infected that any chance of survival would have been lost.

On a bed next to Mahmoud is a boy of similar age from a different village. His right leg has been blown off by a land mine. In the far corner, behind a cloth curtain for privacy, is a teenage girl from a region farther north. Her swollen, lacerated face is peppered with tiny, razor-sharp pieces of metal from the shrapnel bomb that killed most of her family. She’s been blinded in one eye. She stares at the floor with the good eye, an empty gaze of hopelessness.

This is happening throughout Afghanistan as the Soviets attack villages and drive the people out so that the local freedom fighters have no basis of support. Every bed in the refugee hospital is filled with victims of all ages. Some are infants. Others are more than eighty years old. All have ghastly wounds. Many barely cling to life. The medical staff is in a perpetual state of overwhelm, and more victims are carried in every day.

I know we have done things like this to one another throughout all time. Knowing it is one thing. Witnessing it is something else. It touches you in places you never knew existed. Gazing at Mahmoud, I can’t help but believe that if I devote my life to telling the world about such atrocities we might wake up one day and stop the killing. I realize this is utterly naïve, but Mahmoud’s eyes argue otherwise. “You must tell the world,” he seems to be saying with his gaze. “You must.”

“Yes, I’ll do it,” I say aloud as my cameraman finishes filming. It’s impossible for me to consider otherwise. I feel this at the very core of who I am. And even though Mahmoud speaks no English, his soft smile tells me he understands that I’ve heard his message.

One Month Earlier

WBZ-TV is the NBC affiliate in Boston. I’m the new reporter here, hired just two months ago and bent on making my mark. This morning, as I sit at my desk in the newsroom leafing through The Boston Globe, a photo jumps out at me. It shows a young girl with a white cloth wrapped over her thick black hair. Her dark, haunting eyes are staring straight into my Soul. There is no story, just a caption below the picture saying, “Free Afghanistan Alliance.” That’s it. No details, no phone number, no way to contact the organization.

It’s 1986, and the war in Afghanistan has been major news ever since the Soviets invaded seven years earlier, and I think this might be a “local hook,” a Boston connection to an international event.

Nobody in the newsroom has ever heard of the Free Afghanistan Alliance. The phone company doesn’t have a listing. It makes me all the more determined to contact them. I finally get hold of someone in The Globe advertising department and I beg, cajole, and schmooze them for all I’m worth. It works. They break the rules and give me the name of the person who bought the ad. His name is Charles Brockunier. He owns a Persian rug store just across the Charles River in Cambridge. I ring him immediately, telling him I’m a reporter and that his ad caught my eye. He gives me an overview of his mission to help the Afghan people by smuggling badly needed medical supplies into the country. As we speak, it’s clear that he’s brilliant but also eccentric, totally locked into his mission. I’m completely intrigued now and know I must meet him. I get his address, jump up, and tell the assignment editor I’m off to investigate a lead on a possible story.

Brockunier’s shop is hard to find, tucked away on a side street near Harvard Square. The air inside smells ancient, and with so many dusty, antique carpets piled everywhere there’s barely room to pass through. The place is empty, and I have to call out several times before Brockunier appears from behind a stack of rugs. The founder of the Free Afghanistan Alliance is tall and lanky, clad in worn, wrinkled khaki trousers, a drab, collarless Nehru shirt, and a rugged vest that looks and smells like it was made from the wool of a wild goat. He is sporting a matching brimless, woolen hat like the ones I’ve seen Afghan freedom fighters wearing in network news reports. He has a heavy, poorly trimmed reddish beard, ruddy complexion, and glasses so thick his eyes look like they might jump out of their sockets.

Brockunier insists that we sit down, cross-legged, on a stack of elaborately patterned burgundy, gold, and earthy brown Persian rugs to sip Afghan tea. I’ve always been stiff. Sitting like this is a pain. It makes me impatient. It’s not even that cold outside, so I don’t feel like drinking hot tea. I just want to pepper Brockunier with questions and get a full understanding of what he’s up to. But this is his world and he’s clearly not going to be rushed.

As he settles in with his tea, Brockunier tells me he is a native of Cambridge, went to Harvard but never finished a degree, and has spent years traveling to Afghanistan to buy rugs for his shop. He’s in love with the Afghan people, a self-taught expert on their culture and history, and fluent in their languages of Pashto and Dari, along with being conversant in several other languages of the region. When I ask for an example of a few dialects, he rattles off sentences with ease. I can’t understand a word, but I can tell he isn’t faking it.

“I had to flee Kabul in 1979 when the Soviet tanks rolled in,” he explains in a deep, scratchy voice. “Otherwise, I’m sure they would have arrested me, tortured me, accused me of being a spy, and locked me away in prison.” Back home in Cambridge, Brockunier founded the Free Afghanistan Alliance and dedicated himself to raising money to support the Afghan freedom fighters, called mujahideen. These are the men, and often boys, who are fighting the Soviet occupation of their country. Most are rugged, rural villagers—farmers and tradesmen—who stage daring attacks on Soviet positions, then slip back into hidden camps in the mountains. They are outnumbered and vastly outgunned but are holding their own against all odds.

“I smuggle the medical supplies across the border of Pakistan and into mujahideen camps,” he tells me, his voice monotone. Matter of fact. “I have to go through the tribal territories. It’s lawless. Everyone is armed. You have to be careful.”

I always try to follow my instincts, and they tell me that I can trust this man. He’s experienced, compassionate, and dedicated to his cause. And I really want this story. When he tells me he’s about to leave on another trip to a mujahideen hideaway in the Afghan mountains, I know that somehow, some way, I’m going with him.

“Can you get me and my cameraman in with you?” I ask him point blank. “We can tell your story. More people will know about your work. You’ll probably get more donations.” Brockunier’s bulging eyes get even wider and, for the first time since I arrived, I see the hint of a smile on his face.

“Yes, I can do that,” he answers without hesitation. I get as many details from him as I can persuade him to share without compromising his need for secrecy and protection of his contacts, then head back to the station for online research on the war through our station’s new computer system, one of the first in the country.

I check in with my favorite cameraman, Dennis, to see if he’s willing to risk the trip. He’s beyond willing; he’s ecstatic about the idea. Within a few hours, I’ve drafted a detailed proposal and mounted it in a glossy report folder. Navigating the expansive and ever hectic newsroom, I reach the office of our news director, Stan Hopkins.

“Stan,” I say, as I poke my head inside his door, “can I have a few minutes?”

“Sure, come on in and have a seat.” Stan is one of the best news directors in the country. He hired me to stir things up and I’ve done some of that already with a few investigative reports, including exposing corrupt cops who shook down nightclub owners in downtown Boston for thousands of dollars in bribes. I’m still the new kid, but I’ve earned Stan’s trust and support. Now I’m about to stretch him to the limit.

“Take a look at this,” I say as I hand him the proposal. The station has never sent a reporter to cover a foreign war, so I’ve included story summaries, itineraries, budget breakdowns, and backup plans. Most importantly, I’ve made a detailed argument on the relevance of the story for our audience. The Free Afghanistan Alliance is right next to Harvard and receives donations from throughout New England. The war between Russia and Afghanistan is front page news almost every day. This international coverage will set us apart from the other news stations, with whom, of course, we’re always in competition. Stan takes his time and pores through every detail. I can practically hear his mind spinning, weighing the risk against the payoff. After several minutes, I can see he’s hooked.

“How do you know this guy is for real and can get you inside Afghanistan?” Stan asks, still looking at the proposal.

“He’s been doing it for six years, at least two times a year,” I answer. “But there are no guarantees. We’ll be taking a gamble.”

“Do you realize how dangerous this is?” Stan is looking me straight in the eye this time.

“Yes,” I say, knowing this would come up. “There are no Western journalists inside Afghanistan that we know of, and the Soviets say they’ll execute any they capture.”

“And you and Dennis are willing to take that chance?” Stan knows the answer.

“Yes, we are.”

This is what journalists do. Take chances. Go places only soldiers would go. Even risk their lives to report the news. Especially idealistic journalists with a burning desire to be wherever the action is, to expose injustice and the causes of human suffering.

“Give me a few minutes,” Stan says. As I return to my desk, I see him heading upstairs toward the general manager’s office. He’s going to take a huge chance and pitch the story, I say excitedly to myself. I can’t think of much else the rest of the day and am relieved when the assignment desk doesn’t need me for any breaking news. Just as I’m getting ready to go home for the night, Stan calls me back into his office and stares straight into my eyes for a minute before saying a word.

“It’s a go,” he finally says with a firm smile. “I know you’ll do it right. If you don’t, we’ll both be looking for work somewhere else.”

“I won’t let you down,” I say, amazed at his courage, and touched by his confidence in me.

A few weeks later, Dennis and I land in Peshawar, Pakistan, an ancient city near the Khyber Pass, close to the southern border of Afghanistan. We’d be lost without Brockunier at our side. The narrow, jumbled streets are thronged with mule carts weaving their way through lines of huge trucks covered with colorful paintings, wood carvings, calligraphy, and mirrors. Small, open-sided mini-taxis with high-pitched engines scurry between the trucks and carts belching black smoke into the air. Men with thick, long beards and piercing gazes are gathered at every corner, thronging the walkways, and huddled in dark shops sipping chai tea while gravely discussing the war next door. Most wear loose, pajama-style outfits called shalwar kamiz, with tan vests and cloth turbans or woolen hats called pakols. Large ceremonial knives, curved like crescents, dangle from their waists. The sharp steel blades could slice off the head of a goat with ease. The women of Peshawar are almost invisible in the background, covered from head to toe in heavy cloth gowns called burkas. It’s like wearing a prison cell, with only a small slit at the eye level so they can navigate the outdoor markets.

Tall, conical minarets with onion domes tower over the city; from these, the faithful are called to prayer at the mosques five times a day. Traditionally, a devotee called a muzim climbed the winding staircase to a narrow ledge atop the minaret to call to the village at the top of his lungs. No one would hear him today. So great bullhorns have been attached to the minarets, wired to tape players down in the mosques. It’s a sign of progress, Pakistan style.

Brockunier has somehow managed to get us into Mahabat Khan, Peshawar’s largest mosque, to film the prayers. He blends in easily, wearing his own travel-worn shalwar kamiz and pakol while speaking the local dialect with fluency. Dennis and I stick out like sore thumbs, standing behind our TV camera and tripod in our blue jeans and khaki shirts. We look like aliens, or at least two futuristic men who hijacked a time machine and landed in a past century.

The mosque dates back to the 1600s and is stunning with its high, arched gateways, richly carved parapets, and fluted domes crowning a massive prayer hall. There must be more than a thousand people here. Rows of men with heavy beards sit on their heels chanting prayers in Pashto as they reach their arms to the sky in unison and then bow forward, touching their foreheads to their prayer rugs. More than a few of them gaze up at us as they lift their heads, their thick eyebrows knitted in frowns of disapproval. Even though America is an ally of Pakistan, and the country is happy to take billions of dollars in U.S. foreign aid, nobody said they have to like us. And most don’t. They don’t like our politics, our lifestyles, our culture, or the power we wield in the world. The only thing worse than an American right now is a Russian. It’s an open secret that the CIA is funneling aid to the Afghans to fight the Russians, so we are tolerated. As the old saying here goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Brockunier is good at getting us around the streets of Peshawar, moving by foot from mosques to marketplaces so we can shoot the necessary background color for our reports. But we have to be careful. Everywhere we go someone becomes resentful of our presence, raising his voice at us. A crowd gathers. Tempers start to flare. We quickly commandeer some mini-taxis and get the hell out of there before the crowds become anti-American mobs.

At almost every location we film, Brockunier stops to buy Afghan rugs from street vendors. I can’t understand it. He has thousands of rugs back in his shop that will take him years to sell. He’s even begun pressing me for funds to buy more. Worse, he’s having trouble making contact with the Afghan mujahideen, which is, of course, the reason why we’re here. It’s been five days now and I’m starting to wonder if my judgment was flawed and all I’ve done is sponsor a maniacal rug-buying spree for a complete crackpot. I have a sickening vision of walking back into the WBZ newsroom, tail between my legs, everyone staring at the failure I have proven myself to be as I break the news to Stan, and then start looking for another job.

Every night, Dennis and I sit in one of the two decrepit and mostly empty “foreigners’ hotels” as Brockunier disappears into the dark streets to seek out his Afghan contacts. These are the people he has worked with for years, he tells me, and the only ones who can get us into Afghanistan. They always have to stay in hiding, and the dangers of meeting with us get greater every day. The longer we’re here, the more people are aware of us, the more visible we become.

Peshawar is filled with intrigue. Soviet agents, secret police, spies, and snitches. Everyone on the lookout for an enemy or a chance to sell some information. A Soviet spy would kill an Afghan freedom fighter in a heartbeat, and vice versa. A bomb went off two nights ago at the other foreigners’ hotel, destroying several rooms and injuring some European businessmen. Yesterday, there was an explosion at the Afghan restaurant we’ve eaten at every day.

Tonight, after a sixth day of waiting for contact with the mujahideen, I can’t sleep. I’m furious with myself for trusting Brockunier and am contemplating storming into his room, confronting him, and tossing all his lousy rugs into the street while I’m at it. It’s almost dawn when I doze off. Then I’m startled awake by a soft but firm knock at the door. I crack it open to see Brockunier standing there with two rugged men in Afghan dress. One is brandishing a Soviet AK-47 automatic rifle. The other looks like he could kill someone with his bare hands. It’s the most comforting sight I’ve seen since we landed in this country and I feel embarrassed for losing faith in my friend who buys all those fabulous carpets.

“They have to blindfold us,” Brockunier says as I rouse Dennis from his bed. “They don’t want us to know where the safe houses are in case we’re captured and interrogated.”

One of the mujahideen pulls strips of dirty cloth from his baggy pajama pants pockets and wraps them around our heads to cover our eyes. Then we’re stuffed into the back of a Jeep and driven to a safe house somewhere in the maze of the oldest sector of the city. When the blindfolds are removed, we’re in a dark cement room, surrounded by a half-dozen or so mujahideen sitting cross-legged on an ornate rug. They look tough as grizzly bears but welcome us with warm smiles as they gesture for us to sit and drink chai with them. As I’ll soon learn, nothing happens in Pakistan without this ritual of sitting on the floor and sipping tea as we are subtly scrutinized and deemed to be trustworthy…or not.

After several meetings, each time at a different safe house, we finally win their trust. One morning before dawn, the mujahideen arrive at our room again without any notice. They give us a few minutes to gather our gear, then load us into the back of their Jeep, this time for the dangerous journey through the wild, tribal territories along the border and into the snow-covered mountains of Afghanistan. There’s no need for blindfolds now, but we need to lay low and do our best to blend in. Along the way, we stop at a tailor’s shop and quickly get outfitted with Afghan clothing. All we need now are beards down to our waists and AK-47s slung over our shoulders.

With Charles Brockunier inside Afghanistan in 1986.

The tribal territories line the amorphous border between Pakistan and Afghanistan. They begin on the sloping plains that skirt the Himalayas and soon rise into jagged mountains. The main crop in this region is poppy flowers, grown to produce opium and heroin. Warlords hold sway here. In the few remote towns we have to sneak through, weapons are openly sold on the streets and frequently fired into the air—sort of a test drive of your AK-47 or Kalashnikov before you take ownership of it. Dennis and I stay curled up in the back of the Jeep on top of our gear. There are informants everywhere, and we would be a prize catch.

“Are you doing okay?” I ask Dennis.

“Fine,” he says with an impish smile. Dennis looks like a shorter, tougher version of Brockunier, with his ruddy Irish face, short-cut reddish beard, and broad shoulders. He’s strong as an ox, funny and charismatic, and utterly fearless. He’s also the best photographer I’ve ever known. He never misses a shot and always manages to step squarely into the action without ever getting in the way.

“I’m just thinking about the gear,” he says. “I hope the solar battery recharging kits work right. I tested them before we left the States, but you never know.”

I don’t have any doubts. Dennis keeps everything meticulously organized and I’ve seen him instantly repair his gear in the midst of a big story. He’s unstoppable.

Brockunier is seated right in front of us, on the backseat of the Jeep with our guide and interpreter, Rasoul. The mujahideen with the AK-47 rides shotgun while his partner speeds across the rocky dirt roads. Every five minutes we hit a huge bump and our heads slam into the roof. We’re choking on dust. It’s hot as hell. And I love every second of it.

It’s pitch black when we finally get through the territories and into the mountains of Afghanistan. We’re driving without headlights, still going so fast that I can’t believe the driver can stay on the winding road guided by starlight alone. But at least with the cover of darkness Dennis and I can finally poke our heads up and breathe more deeply, relieved that we’ve made it without having to get through any checkpoints.

“The border guards come and go,” Rasoul says in perfect English as we head higher into the mountains. “None can be trusted. We must still be very careful.”

Rasoul, which is surely a pseudonym, has thin, fine features, like a nobleman. In talking with him, I can see he is highly educated and cultured. He is fluent in English, French, German, and Russian in addition to all the major Afghan dialects. He loves conversation, but he is cryptic about his past, except for sharing that he is from Kabul, the capital city of Afghanistan. My guess is that he’s a member of the Afghan elite, deeply connected to the government and business community, maybe even a former head of some intelligence operation. I imagine he would have been imprisoned or executed had he not escaped Kabul during the Soviet invasion. Rasoul is vehemently patriotic and devoted to the resistance, moving like a shadow behind the scenes. He has to be the contact Brockunier was waiting for all along. The one person making all of this happen.

It must be close to midnight when I nod off to sleep. Suddenly, our driver slams on the brakes and my forehead smacks into the metal bar framing the backseat. “Get down!” Rasoul hisses with urgency. “Say nothing! No one speak! I’ll do the talking. Do not leave the Jeep!” He speaks like a general and we immediately fall in line. Brockunier freezes like a statue. The mujahideen who is riding shotgun grips his automatic weapon and holds it at his chest. Dennis and I curl up again, trying to disappear.

As Rasoul jumps out of the Jeep and slams the door, Brockunier whispers, “We’re surrounded by armed men in military uniforms. They’re speaking Urdu, so they’re Pakistanis. This isn’t good.”

I can hear Rasoul arguing loudly. I don’t understand a word, but it doesn’t sound like he’s getting anywhere. Suddenly, the Jeep is flooded with flashlights, the doors are thrown open, and we’re ordered out. Brockunier seems to pass for one of the mujahideen despite his reddish beard. But Dennis and I, even in our new pajama-like garb, still look very much like foreigners.

Rasoul is ordered back to the Jeep and whispers, “Don’t say a word. These are tribal people. They don’t speak English, but they know it when they hear it. They hate Americans almost as much as Russians. I’ve told them you are French doctors, volunteering to treat the wounded. Right now, they are threatening to arrest us all. Whatever you do, do not show your passport.”

Three guards walk up and yell at us to get out of the Jeep, then quickly rummage through everything, finding our camera gear beneath the duffel bags filled with Brockunier’s medical supplies. This stops the show. The yelling gets louder. Rasoul is incredibly courageous, alternately confronting the armed men with verbal assaults then switching to gentle persuasion. But he’s getting nowhere. Finally, he somehow manages to get the guards to wait in a group as he comes back to where I’m standing at the rear of the Jeep.

“This is trouble,” he says with a sigh of resignation. “They want to know what doctors are doing with camera equipment. They want documents.”

My mind starts racing for some sort of solution. It’s too dangerous to change our story and tell them we’re journalists. There’s no way we can show them our American passports. Then it hits me in a flash. “Tell them I’m getting documents from my bag,” I whisper to Rasoul.

He looks shocked and is about to protest when I say, “Don’t worry. No passports. Trust me.” Rasoul calls out to the leader of the guards and gets his permission as I slowly reach into the Jeep for my shoulder bag and open the zippered pouch I keep my passport in. Right next to it is the equipment manifest we had to obtain from the Pakistan Embassy granting permission to bring our gear into the country. It’s covered with official government stamps.

“Tell them this is our permission document from Pakistan customs,” I whisper to Rasoul. The first two words beneath the government stamps are Sony Betacam. That’s our digital camera. “I’m Dr. Sony,” I whisper to Rasoul, pointing at the words. “Dennis is Dr. Betacam. We’re treating wounded fighters and filming it to raise more money back in France for more medical supplies. We’re on the side of their Afghan brothers.”

Rasoul’s eyes widen. “This is good,” he says as he takes the paper and walks toward the guards. There are a few tense minutes. The document changes hands several times. Suddenly, everyone is patting Rasoul on the back. Our gear is returned to us and we cram back into the Jeep, start the engine, and roll past the guards, waving and smiling like one big family.

“I have to remember this trick,” Rasoul says as he hands the manifest back to me with a huge sigh of relief.

“I thought we were dead,” Dennis says. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound frightened.

“Or at least going to jail and having everything confiscated,” Brockunier chimes in.

“It’s a good sign,” Rasoul says, calming everyone down. “We still have a long way to go. Let’s get some rest.”

I’m exhausted and try to close my eyes and doze off again, but it’s impossible to sleep as we wind higher into the mountains and the road becomes narrower and more difficult to navigate, especially with our headlights still off. Finally, we stop in the middle of nowhere. No more road. Nothing but mud and snow.

“We must unload everything here,” Rasoul says, still whispering and gesturing for quiet. “No flashlights. No talking.”

Once we have our things, our mujahideen driver and guard hug Rasoul, jump back in the Jeep, start the engine, and somehow find a way to turn around and drive off. The woods around us are pitch black. While it was hot in the valleys below, it’s freezing cold here. Deep banks of springtime snow are illuminated by the brilliant starlight. We just stand still and shiver, our gear held in our arms, as the drone of the Jeep’s engine disappears down the mountainside.

“What the hell is happening?” Dennis whispers to me, risking a rebuke from Rasoul. “We might just freeze to death!”

I look at him and shake my head. Shrug my shoulders. Then I pat the sleeping bag roped onto my backpack and wonder how warm it will keep me in the wet snow. Suddenly I remember we only have one or two days’ worth of food with us. As I start to think it might have been better had the tribal Pakistanis arrested us, we hear a faint, sloshing sound at the tree line. Now we can make out the silhouette of two figures under the starlight. A man with a rifle over his shoulder and a mule. They approach silently. He is mujahideen. His first glance is toward Rasoul, who then gestures for us to pile our gear on the mule.

We walk behind the mujahideen, who leads us into the cover of the woods and up the mountainside. It’s slow going. Grueling, in fact. The snow is up to our knees and the temperature beyond freezing. We touch one another’s backs to keep from getting lost. An hour later, we arrive at a bombed-out farmhouse. More mujahideen appear in the darkness. There are no lights. Not even a candle. Nothing to give the Soviets a chance to discover their position. We stumble into a dark, frigid hallway of the home, finally making it to a room with a wooden floor covered in straw. About to collapse, we unroll our sleeping bags and slip in. Curling up, I roll over and whisper to Dennis, “We made it.”

We’re beyond exhausted, but we get only two, maybe three, hours of sleep before we are told to roll up our bags and quietly depart before sunrise. There are three mules now, the one with our gear, the other two laden with rounds of ammunition, artillery shells, and grenades. It takes a full day of vertical hiking through heavier snow to find the hidden camp of a group of some two hundred mujahideen. The fighters line up in the glistening snow to meet us, surrounded by towering pines. They shoulder their weapons, from old rifles to AK-47s to rocket launchers, as a show of pride and dedication. Most are rustic farmers from small mountain villages. They range in age from fourteen to eighty-four. Several have lost a leg or an arm to land mines. It hasn’t slowed them down a bit. Instead, it has strengthened their resolve. I will soon realize the oldest among them could outhike me on my best day.

Rasoul introduces us as American journalists who have come to document their struggle. Like the Pakistanis, most Afghans dislike America but again, the enemy of their enemy is their friend. At least for now. Brockunier delivers his medical supplies to the chief of the fighters and all the men chant “Allāhu Akbar,” meaning “God is great.” Dennis films them thrusting their weapons into the air, symbolizing that this is a holy war. When our viewers see this back home they’ll be blown away, I think, as Dennis deftly puts his lens a few inches away from a boy’s hand clutching the trigger of his weapon and then pans to his innocent face.

We live with the mujahideen for the next week, sleeping in small huts while burning frozen wood soaked in kerosene to avoid freezing to death. There’s only enough food for one meal a day. It’s always goat fat boiled into a filmy yellowish grease and served in large, communal bowls, with broken goat bones at the bottom. We sit in circles on the ground and scoop up each bite with a traditional flatbread called naan that the mujahideen bake in makeshift clay ovens. The grease is rancid. The gristle on the bones is black with rot. We’re so hungry that it tastes delicious, especially the steaming hot naan.

Dennis and I hold each piece of naan in our fingertips, carefully dipping it into the bowl and slipping it into our mouths. It’s challenging to do so without having grease run down our arms. I have to be especially careful since I’m left-handed. The left hand is the one used throughout the region for self-cleaning after defecation. Reaching my left hand into the food bowl would be the ultimate gaffe. For me it’s almost impossible to remember. I come close to muffing it every day.

The mujahideen have well-camouflaged anti-aircraft guns posted high above the camp. Just before sunset, they fire at any Soviet MiGs seen flying at altitudes well beyond the range of their artillery. After shooting a few rounds, they circle the guns and chant “Allāhu Akbar,” then almost sing, repeatedly, in Pashto, “We vow to purge the satanic invaders from our homeland!”

The real fighting starts long before dawn. The mujahideen slip down dark trails into the valley below to launch guerrilla attacks against Soviet outposts on major roads that connect the few major cities of Afghanistan, all of which are under Soviet control. When helicopter gunships counterattack, they scurry back into the mountains, hiding under huge boulders along the way, carefully moving toward the cover of the thick forest. Back in camp, the fighters treat the wounded with Brockunier’s medical supplies. They bury their dead before sundown. We film everything we can. Their war against the mighty Soviet Army is like a small shepherd boy against a towering, battle-trained giant. But these are the toughest people I have ever met and they fight boldly, like David going after Goliath with just a stone and a slingshot.

With mujahideen inside Afghanistan in 1986.

After leaving the mujahideen and saying good-bye to Rasoul and Brockunier, Dennis and I make our way into the sprawling camps along the Pakistani border. There are 5 million refugees—one-third of the Afghan population—living in horrid conditions, many without so much as a ragged tent over their heads. This is the unseen horror of the Cold War as it’s played out around the world. The Soviets invade Afghanistan as a pushback to American influence in Pakistan. The Americans then push back against communist expansionism. Innocent people get hurt. Lots of them. I am thirty-seven years old and have been in some rough places, but this is human suffering beyond anything I have ever witnessed or even imagined. It sickens me. Angers me. Makes me want to cry. And it strengthens my resolve to tell this story.

We film improvised burial grounds, where bodies are stacked atop one another and covered with dirt and large stones. They surround the edges of the camps like anthills. Those who survive cling to life with incredible determination, refusing to succumb to the diseases that spread like fire. More victims pour into the overwhelmed treatment centers every day. This is where we find Mahmoud and the other wounded Afghan children. We are here for three days, rushing to complete our filming in the camps and main refugee hospital before we fly home. In all, we have been gone less than a month, but it feels like a lifetime.

Mahmoud in Refugee Hospital, Pakistan, 1986.

Back in Boston, we air a series of reports entitled “Afghanistan, the Untold Story.” I knew this was powerful stuff, but I never dreamed the response would be so overwhelming. Viewers throughout New England rally to the cause. Schoolchildren launch class projects, draw pictures for the children in the camps, and mail them with bags of coins from their piggy banks. Viewers form groups to collect donations of food, clothing, and medical supplies, which Brockunier ships directly to the refugee hospital where we found Mahmoud. New England hospitals offer their facilities, time, and services. Airlines agree to fly in dozens of war-wounded children for world-class medical treatment. Our viewers open their homes to family members accompanying the Afghan children as they arrive in Boston for eye surgery, prosthetic devices, and burn treatments. Mahmoud is on the very first flight and will soon be cared for at the Shriner’s Burn Institute. I cover it all, with a new story almost every night. More than ever before, it makes me feel like what I do for a living is making a difference in the world.

Over the next few months, I’m periodically sent on the road to other major stations of Group W, which owns WBZ, and I broadcast the reports from Philadelphia to San Francisco, appearing on talk shows and giving public speeches. One morning, shortly after I return to Boston, Stan calls me into his office to tell me our work has been given a Columbia-DuPont Award. I don’t even know what the award is until he explains it’s the broadcast equivalent of the Pulitzer Prize.

This is big news for my career. That’s not lost on me. But as I say when I accept the award at a ceremony in New York, it’s hard to accept such a prestigious honor for documenting such tremendous suffering. As I sit in a suit and tie with Stan and Dennis for a sumptuous awards dinner complete with champagne, I feel humbled as well as a little embarrassed and out of place. I’d rather be back in the field, unwashed, hungry, and exhausted, pushing forward to bring another story of human suffering and injustice into the light of day.

In fact, all I can think about is where to go next.

CHAPTER 2

Beginnings

I WAS BORN IN LOS ANGELES IN 1949. The city was already well on its way to becoming a madhouse. When I turned five, we moved to the nearby countryside. A bucolic place called West Covina. It was paradise: rolling hills, creeks, pastures, farms, orchards, and walnut groves perfect for all-day hide-and-seek and the building of secret forts. But soon the developers arrived, and the landscape was leveled, scraped, and sterilized for suburban housing tracts and strip malls. As I watched all my favorite haunts being destroyed, it felt like they were bulldozing my childhood into oblivion.

Like so many other Americans of their era, my parents and their friends were prejudiced. From my earliest years I heard countless pejorative terms for people who weren’t white and conservative. Even as a little boy, something deep inside me recoiled every time they spoke like this. It was incredibly painful and made me feel like I had been born into a family to which I didn’t belong. Then came the sixties. The Civil Rights Movement. Vietnam War. The assassinations of John Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr. It felt like someone had hijacked my country. Like so many others of my generation, I was consumed with youthful outrage. I marched in protests. I got roughed up by the cops at peace rallies. I became completely disillusioned with the idea of ever joining a society that behaved that way.

I can’t remember finishing high school in 1967. All I wanted was out. At the first chance, with the ink barely dry on my diploma, I fled to the woods of Humboldt County in Northern California. It was a place where I could sink my fingers into the fertile soil, plant seeds, tend the earth, and grow my own food. I could spend days on remote, rocky beaches and never see another soul. I could canoe down wild rivers or hike into forests of virgin redwoods and just sit, listening as the quiet whispers of nature enveloped me. Being in this isolated area with nature’s beauty was like finding my true home. I was away from the racist remarks, the anger, the frustration of marching and protesting, and a world that seemed upside down and inside out.

I loved the outdoors, working with my hands, and being self-sufficient. I bought an old truck and chainsaw, scavenged dead oak and pine trees from the forest, cut and chopped like a madman, and sold firewood. The smell of the wood splitting open mesmerized me. Oak had a light fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon. The pine resin had a minty aroma that flooded my senses. I also built a business restoring some of the region’s cherished Victorian homes, figuring out how to do the needed carpentry and painting as I went. This nourished and sustained me, but when I turned nineteen it felt like it was time to get serious about an education and I enrolled at a small college in the redwoods named Humboldt State University.

I became fixated as I threw myself at my studies even harder than I had chopped firewood. I loved language and literature—from the classics of Shakespeare, Whitman, and Thoreau to the radical poets of the beat generation. I ate it all up like I was starving, finishing a degree in English Literature and earning a high school teaching credential in less than four years. It wasn’t from any inherent brilliance, and I had no career ambitions. I don’t even know why I got a credential. I never wanted to be a teacher. I just needed to prove something to myself and to the mainstream world I had left behind even though I still wanted nothing to do with society, the system, or the rules. I’d checked out of that scene long ago and, with my degree finished and the small savings left over from my firewood and restoration business, I was ready to head off for the unknown.

I decided to leave my remote cabin on the edge of a village called Freshwater for a few months and see more of the world. I thought about South America, New Zealand, or Africa. Or maybe I’d travel around Europe again on a shoestring budget like my trip there the previous summer. The destination wasn’t of utmost importance. Expanding my boundaries was. I longed to feel part of something bigger, explore what was unknown to me, and be a global citizen.

In the end, I chose Canada. I could drive my old van there, explore Vancouver, then head farther north into the Yukon Territory and camp out in the wilderness, avoiding the costs of air travel and lodging. In preparation for my trip, I drove into the nearby town of Eureka to buy some supplies. As I was heading home to pack for my trip, the local television station caught my eye. The large cinderblock building had a neon sign facing the main road that flashed the time and current temperature right beside the station’s call letters: KVIQ-TV, Channel 6.

I don’t know why I pulled into the parking lot and walked inside. I didn’t own a TV and didn’t care a thing about local news. I was hooked on The New York Times and enthralled by the major events shaking the world, always fantasizing I was the one on the scene of a great war or revolution. I never saw myself as a reporter. I just wanted to be a witness to that which was momentous and meaningful. Yet suddenly, there I was, strolling through the lobby of a small-town TV station, when a portly, gregarious man wearing strong cologne and a loud tie walked up and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Alan Jones, the general manager. You must be the one looking for a job.” Jones reached out with his meaty fingers and shook my hand with surprising strength.

“Yes, sir,” I answered impulsively, trying to match his grip while wondering what I was getting myself into. I’d never taken a course in journalism and had no idea what duties people performed at TV stations.

“Where are you from?” Jones asked with a gentle grin.

“Right here, Freshwater,” I answered. “I just graduated from Humboldt State.”

“Oh, I thought you were from out of town!” he said with a laugh.

Jones must have been confusing me with someone who really did have a job interview and was somehow blind to my outfit of work boots, blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. I glanced at the station entrance expecting to see a well-scrubbed journalism grad in a dark suit and button-down collar come running in for his interview and angrily declare me an impostor.

“Come with me,” Jones said. “As I’m sure you know, we just fired a reporter and plenty of people want this job. I’ll introduce you to our news director. We’ll see how you do.”

“Yes, sir!” I said again with a smile, thinking I might as well have a good time while it lasted and I’d still be able to leave for Canada in the morning.

News Director Don Michaels fit the role of a seasoned journalist to a T. He was sitting behind a desk piled with papers in what could only be called organized chaos. He wore thick glasses framing a face pockmarked from childhood acne. His thinning reddish hair was in a comb-over to hide a balding pate. He was coatless, in a wrinkled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, thick suspenders, and a narrow black tie tossed over one shoulder. Michaels was so absorbed in his work he didn’t bother looking up when Jones said, “Here’s a local guy who wants a job,” and sat me down in a creaky wooden chair facing his desk. “I’m a local guy, too,” Jones said as he turned and headed out. “I like local guys.”

Two metal boxes, each about four feet high, stood beside Michaels’ desk loudly clacking away, spewing rolls of tan, pulpy paper all over the floor. Suddenly, a sharp bell sounded. Michaels leaned over and ripped the paper off one machine. “Another so-called urgent,” he said disdainfully, giving it a quick glance then crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash. “Worthless, old news; nothing urgent at all.”

“What are those?” I asked, risking sounding like a fool.

“News wires. Associated Press and United Press International. Didn’t you learn about these in your journalism classes?”

“No,” I said as straightforward as possible. “My degree is in English Lit. I’ve never taken a class in journalism.”

“Humph,” Michaels grunted. “Go take a look.” Michaels used words sparingly, getting right to the point. His brusque expression never changed.

I walked over and watched the automatic printers firing off one story after the next. World news, national news, statewide news, local news: reports literally pouring in from around the globe before anyone ever saw them in a newspaper. As they cascaded onto the floor like a waterfall, it seemed like the whole world was unfolding right there at my feet. It sent chills down my spine.

Michaels ripped three stories off the wire, handed them to me and said in a curt tone, “Write these up. Make them concise and conversational. One page only. Here’s some script paper. You can use that empty desk and typewriter over there. You have ten minutes.” He looked me in the eye with a fatherly but piercing gaze as I realized he hadn’t bothered to even ask me my name.

I had never typed a word in my life. I hand-wrote most of my college papers and had to pay someone to type them when a professor required it. I sat down at the news desk and flashed through the wire reports, then picked up a sheet of the thick script paper with shaky hands. It was really three sheets; white on the top, pink in the middle, and yellow on the bottom, with sheets of carbon paper in between. It was so thick I could barely get it into the typewriter without destroying it, already losing too much of my precious ten minutes. Once I finally got the sheet threaded, I began to hunt and peck with my index fingers, furtively glancing at Michaels in hopes he wasn’t watching and relieved to see he was crumpling up more wire copy and tossing it on the floor. Despite my slow fingers, my studies in English Literature paid off. I knew how to write. I finished just in time, making my first deadline.

I handed the stories to Michaels. He gave them a rapid glance, tossed them onto one of the growing piles on his desk, and said in a challenging tone, “Can you shoot and edit film?” I was in luck again. Art was part of my minor studies, and as an elective I had taken a film class working with 16 millimeter film cameras, cutting the film strips and splicing them together with special glue. Michaels took me into the film room and I gave a quiet sigh of relief. It was the same editing equipment I knew so well. I cut and spliced some leftover film strips for him then noticed the cameras on a wall rack. “Those are Bolex and Auricon cameras,” I said. “I know how to use them. The Bolex is for silent footage and the Auricon records sound on the film strip. You always need to white balance and set the f-stop before you shoot. By the way, I also know how to process the film.”

“Okay, I’m a homicide detective,” Michaels said, seeming unimpressed as he strode back into the newsroom. “You’ve rushed to the scene of the crime after hearing on the police scanners that a body has been found in the woods.” He pointed to a shelf with a few black boxes that had dials and flashing red lights. I could hear the squawking of a police dispatcher and the responses from units in the field. Scanners. This must be how it really happened.

“I’m busy on this case. I only have three minutes to speak with you. Here’s a notepad. Go.” Michaels was pushing me. Seeing what I was like under pressure.

I decided to be terse, just like him, stick to the basics and ask the obvious.

“Male or female? Age? Name? Cause of death? Where did the victim live? Any suspects?” I took furious notes as he fired off his answers.

“OK, follow me,” Michaels said. “Grab the wire stories you wrote from my desk. You’re on the air in two minutes.”

We walked briskly into the large news studio. There were racks of lights on the ceiling; massive floor cameras on thick, black wheels; and a colorful news set in the middle, painted in hues of blue with KVIQ Eyewitness News prominently displayed in the background. There was an adjoining room behind the cameras with a plate-glass window labeled “Control Room,” filled with projectors and other large machines that mystified me. Michaels opened the door and found the engineer. “Fire up the cameras and turn on the lights for a screen test.”

As the hot lights flooded the studio, he sat me down in the news chair, wrapped a lavalier microphone around my neck, walked over to a floor camera, and pointed at me, then barked, “You’re on the air in thirty seconds. Just back from the murder scene. Forget your notes. Ad-lib what you know. Then read the stories you wrote… right into the camera. Make eye contact. Here we go, 3, 2, 1… You’re on.”

I took a deep breath and, doing my best to remember how network news reporters sounded, began my story. “I’m Brad Willis. Here’s the breaking news. I’m just back from a crime scene in the woods north of town. Homicide Detective Don Michaels tells me the body of a young woman, stabbed to death, has been discovered in a shallow grave. College coed Jane Doe, missing for several days, has been identified as the victim. The police say they have no suspects at this time. We’ll stay on the story and keep you informed as more information becomes available.”

Then I read the stories I had typed up. Be sure to pause, I told myself, relax into it, be confident. I glanced up at the camera as often as I could, keeping my right index finger on the script line so I could find my place when I glanced back down. The whole thing was still a lark, but I was already on fire. This was a way to make a difference. To be somebody. All my life I thought I never wanted a career. But now this was all I wanted. Every cell of my body was screaming that I had to have this job.

Back in the newsroom, Michaels asked a final question. “I’ve interviewed ten people for this job. They are all journalism graduates. Some of them even have reporting experience. You don’t. Why should I hire you?”

I stared straight into his eyes, hoping to make my gaze as piercing as his. “Because I’m relentless. I’ll work harder and longer than anyone you’ve ever met. I’ll make you proud and I’ll never let you down.” I meant every word of it. I belonged there. I just knew it.

“Thank you very much, young man.” Michaels suddenly turned formal and even more distant. “Give me your phone number. I’ll be in touch.”

And that was it. I drove home to my cabin, wondering if he and the general manager were chuckling at the rube in work boots who typed with two fingers and had no idea what newswires or police scanners were. I doubted I would ever hear from Michaels. I stuffed my travel gear into a backpack and went to bed, prepared to head for Canada first thing in the morning.

I was tired and groggy when the phone rang before sunrise. “Get in here now and grab a camera! There’s a guest at a hunting lodge ninety miles north of here who’s gone berserk. He’s holed up in a room with his rifle and has already shot someone in the parking lot. I’m sending you to the scene.” Michaels threw all this at me so fast I barely understood a word. He hung up before I could ask a question.

I pulled on my blue jeans and the only dress shirt I owned, laced up my boots, jumped into my van, and drove faster than lightning into town. Michaels was at the back door of the studio waiting for me with a handful of wire reports, a Bolex camera, extra film, and a notepad with directions scribbled on the first page.

“Thanks for the job,” I said as I grabbed all the stuff and threw it on the seat next to me.

“My number is on the pad,” he barked, all business. “Find a phone and call me once you’re on the scene. And make me proud.”

I sped north on Highway 101 as fast as my old van could go, furiously glancing in every mirror for any sign of the highway patrol. When I arrived at the scene, the lodge was surrounded by more than a dozen law enforcement vehicles. There were police officers, sheriff deputies, and highway patrolmen swarming everywhere with walkie-talkies, guns, and rifles. Cops manning a blockade at the lodge entrance ordered me to keep going. It immediately brought up all my memories of being manhandled at protest rallies. But this was different. I was here this time to report the news, not make it. I needed to be bold, show them I had the authority of the news station behind me. I sucked in a deep breath and slammed on my brakes right in front of them, rolled the window down, stuck the camera out, and shouted, “I’m a reporter from KVIQ-TV!”

It was unbelievable. In an instant, I was an accepted part of the scene. I was allowed to park right there and move as close to the lodge as possible, ducking behind police cars and periodically poking my head up to film the action. The County Sheriff agreed to an interview, giving me about the same three minutes Don Michaels allowed me when I played reporter with him. Within a few hours, the sniper surrendered. I was the only TV journalist there, filming as he walked from the hotel into the parking lot, hands held high, and followed orders to lie facedown on the asphalt as officers swarmed in to make the arrest.

I jumped into my van and blasted back down the highway. I rolled into the parking lot with my gas tank on empty, ran into the station, loaded the film in the processor, and grabbed some script paper. I furiously pecked away at my story and then, with Michaels’ help, recorded my report on a bulky eight-track cartridge, editing the film to go with my words. I finished less than two minutes before we went on the air and ran everything into the Control Room just in time. It was an initiation by fire, but I made my first real deadline. I was transfixed, and in that moment the news business became my whole life.

I soon turned myself into an investigative reporter, using pictures and words to peel back the veneer of society and expose corrupt business and political practices. I caught drug detectives falsifying evidence, local council members taking bribes, timber companies illegally cutting down virgin timber in Redwood National Park. Covering the news was what I was born to do. I lived it, breathed it, ate it, and made it my way of crusading against the society from which I had felt so alienated in my earlier years. I was relentless, just as I’d promised Don Michaels I would be.

Within two years, Michaels retired and soon I was named news director, running the small news department, filming and reporting stories throughout the day, anchoring the six and eleven o’clock nightly newscasts, and even cleaning up and taking out the trash before the long drive home to my cabin. It was around-the-clock, usually seven days a week. I made a whopping $600 per month. Far less than I took home from a weekend job painting a house, but I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

CHAPTER 3

Moving up

AT THE END of my third year at KVIQ, I was beginning to understand something about the business of being a broadcast journalist. The market size of a television station was based on its audience size. I was working in one of the smallest markets in the country, something like number 198 out of 206. If I wanted broader horizons, bigger stories, and more opportunities, I’d need to land a job in a bigger city. But I had no idea how to go about it. Then one morning I received a call from a man introducing himself as Pete Langlois, the news director of KCRA-TV in Sacramento, the twentyfirst market, and the state capital to boot.

“We want you to fly down and discuss taking a job with us,” Langlois said in soft monotone of a voice.

“Sure, yes,” I said with surprise. “But how did you hear about me?” I couldn’t imagine anyone outside of Humboldt County even knowing about our little news operation.

“Your competitors,” Langlois droned. “They want you out.”

There was only one other station in town and they had always been number one in the news. My commitment to investigative reporting had helped turn that around, and after I became news director and anchor, we captured the number-one spot in the ratings and kept it. As Langlois would later explain, the general manager of our competitor station knew the owner of KCRA and had asked him for a favor—to get me out of town.

The job that KCRA offered me wasn’t what I expected. I’d be in management as the executive producer of the station’s prime-time magazine show, Weeknight. It was a light, fluffy show that mixed feature stories from the news department with entertainment and show business reports. They wanted me, they said, because the show needed someone who had been a news director to provide more organization, focus, and leadership than the previous producer. But it meant, they added, that I would no longer be a reporter. I told myself I didn’t care. It was a huge jump up in market size, incredible pay, and the only offer on the table. What a mistake it turned out to be.

I gave the show everything I had, always trying to minimize the fluff and inject the investigative journalism I loved. But I was trying to turn a lamb into a lion. The longtime cohosts wanted to keep it soft and light. The reporters only wanted to make the hosts happy. For me, it was like overdosing on candy and I could barely bring myself to even watch Weeknight. I argued, sweet-talked, and bullied the staff, trying to make the tone more substantial and journalistic. It was all to no avail. After less than a year it was clear to me, and everyone else, that this job was not for me. When Pete Langlois called me into his office one afternoon, I figured I was about to be fired.

“I don’t think you belong with Weeknight,” he said when I’d barely sat down.

“I know I don’t,” I answered with a huge sigh, feeling equal jolts of abject fear and complete relief. “I’m not happy. The staff isn’t happy. This isn’t what I was meant to do.”

I confessed to Langlois that it was painfully obvious to me that I was wired to do hard-hitting, investigative news reporting. That’s what had come so naturally to me in my first TV job. My passion for the news is what had made me so successful in Eureka.

“I agree with you,” Langlois said, sounding as detached as ever. Here it comes, I thought, the end of my career. Instead, he said, “I want you take over our Call Three. Bring your intense focus and energy to that and there will be no stopping you.”

I was stunned, elated, and profoundly relieved. Call Three was an institution at KCRA’s Eyewitness News, dedicated to seeking justice for consumers who’d been wronged. Staffed by a group of highly skilled community volunteers, it handled thousands of consumer complaints every month that poured in by phone and mail. Call Three would document their cases, determine the validity of their complaints, and then become their advocate with the merchants or businesses in question. KCRA’s designated Call Three reporter would then comb through the resolved cases and pick the best success stories to report on twice a week. The reporter who had handled Call Three for several years had just been hired as a news anchor in another city, and now the segment would be mine.

“I’ll take it, Pete,” I said so loudly I thought the whole newsroom might hear me. The producer under me at Weeknight took over my duties as executive producer, and soon I was off and running with my new gig.

Once I became familiar with the Call Three staff and procedures, I immediately conspired to make it something unique and more substantive. Call Three helped consumers with things like getting shoddy repairs fixed or a refund for a faulty product. The reports would focus on how happy the consumers were that Call Three helped them resolve their complaints. I chose to focus instead on exposing the consumer fraud and went after the perpetrators with my cameras. Once I began peeling back the veils, what seemed like small cases at first often became big stories.

One viewer contacted Call Three to complain that he had been denied medical coverage for his one-year-old daughter who was dying of cancer. Digging into it, we uncovered a billion-dollar construction firm falsifying its payroll records on government-funded housing projects across the country, paying the workers less than half of what it billed the Department of Housing and Urban Development for their labor. This way, the corporation, whose president had close ties with the Republican Party, could skim millions of tax dollars.

The worker highlighted in our story was told that his government-backed health insurance was invalid because he failed to report his full income, which, of course, he never received. I discovered hundreds of other workers in the same boat and, as a result of our reports, the government ultimately forced the corporation to fully compensate them. The health coverage for the little girl whose father first contacted Call Three was validated and she received her cancer treatments.

Viewers soon began calling us with tips. Whistle-blowers came forward. We exposed the local Air Force base polluting the groundwater of its surrounding communities with highly toxic solvents, heroin rings with ties to law enforcement, and even the highest ranking Nazi War criminal ever located in the United States—Otto Von Bolschwing. We found him living in a rest home not ten miles from KCRA.

Although I loved my work and went at it with everything I had, every night I was watching Tom Brokaw on the NBC Nightly News, dreaming of being one of his reporters in the field. Not a correspondent at the White House or on Capitol Hill, not based at the New York or Los Angeles bureaus, but a foreign correspondent reporting from the front lines anywhere in the world where there was conflict and turmoil. I didn’t know how to make it happen, but I thought continually about getting to network news. It was an obsession.

One day, as if on cue, a stranger named Ken Lindner walked into the newsroom. Tall and lean, with an expensive Italian suit, flashy tie, and a paisley silk muffler scarf tossed casually over his shoulders, Lindner caught the attention of everyone in the newsroom as he shook hands with Langlois and ducked into his office for a meeting. When Lindner emerged a half-hour later he headed straight for my desk and, with a million-dollar smile, said, “Hi, I’m with the William Morris Agency and we want to represent you. Can I take you to lunch?” I glanced toward Langlois’s office to see him leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, quietly nodding his approval.

“Sure, let’s go,” I said, having never heard of William Morris Agency and not having a clue what representing me meant.

Lindner took me to the most expensive restaurant in Sacramento, where all the lobbyists at the state capital dined, and soon explained how it worked. Top market and network reporters had well-connected agents who negotiated their contracts and supported them throughout their careers—for a percentage of their salaries, of course. Lindner said he had been watching me for more than a year and met with Langlois to seek permission to represent me. “I think I can get you into a top ten market right away,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

It felt suspicious to me. He seemed a little too slick, and being an investigative reporter, I was cynical about anyone and everyone’s motives, never taking anything at face value. “Give me one day, okay?” I responded.

“Sure,” Lindner answered as he handed me his business card with his private number handwritten on the back. “Take all the time you need.”

Back in the newsroom I rushed into Langlois’s office. He immediately read my mind. “It’s the real deal,” he said. “William Morris is a major agency and Lindner is a pro. You’re in good hands. We’d like to keep you here, but it’s easy to see your ambition and I’m not going to hold you down.”

“Thanks, Pete,” I said, shaking his hand hard then heading back to my desk to call Lindner immediately and say, “When do I sign?”

A few months later, as promised, Lindner negotiated a new job for me in a top ten market, at WFAA-TV in Dallas, an ABC affiliate and one of the most respected news organizations in the country. It had a consumer unit similar to Call Three, but it was flagging. I was the perfect person, Lindner convinced them, to re-energize it. Before I knew it, I was off to Texas.

I quickly turned the consumer unit into an investigative one. We exposed racial discrimination at several of Dallas’s posh nightclubs, where the city’s rich and famous gathered. The clubs had secret policies of requiring a second photo identification from African Americans, then denying them entrance even if they managed to comply. We used hidden cameras and microphones to expose them turning away a black woman who happened to be a lawyer in the attorney general’s office. Subsequent lawsuits shut down several clubs.

Just as it had been in Eureka and Sacramento, corruption and white-collar crime were plentiful, and I was more aggressive than ever. Only in Texas, the conservative establishment pushed back hard. Business and political leaders began complaining to WFAA management, and the station started trying to tone down my work. I pushed back even harder, refusing to dilute a story and standing my ground. Marty Haig, the news director, was a legend and a man of incredible integrity. But he was on the spot and did his best to walk a fine line between management and news.

When I began working on the plight of a Dallas oilman locked away in a Caracas prison after being framed for a major oil scandal involving the Venezuelan government, the station declined my proposal to cover it. Bullheaded as ever, I took two weeks’ vacation, hired a freelance cameraman, flew to Caracas, and shot the story anyway. I even managed to smuggle a camera into the prison on visitors’ day and recorded a secret interview with the Texas oilman.

Returning to Dallas, I pitched the story to ABC’s primetime network news magazine show 20/20; the show agreed to buy it. When I shared this with Marty Haig, he was upset and quickly decided WFAA wanted the story. He grudgingly agreed to pay me for all my expenses plus a hefty freelance bonus. The reports, which I titled Petrospies, created a sensation in Texas, got the attention of diplomats in Washington, D.C., and ultimately the oilman was freed. But my relationship with Marty Haig and WFAA would never be the same. I distrusted and resented them, and vice versa. My next story proved to be my last.

It was 1984 and the Republican National Convention was about to be held in Dallas, where the delegates would nominate President Ronald Reagan to run for a second term. As it turned out, the construction company I had exposed in Sacramento was based in Dallas and played a major role in Republican politics. The federal government was still investigating them, so I updated the story and produced a five-part series. The night before it was scheduled to run, Haig called me into his office to say the station’s legal department was killing my stories. “They say the reports don’t pass legal review,” he said matter of factly. “They’re libelous and will get us sued.”

Furious, I demanded to meet with the legal department and challenge its position. To his credit, Haig supported me on this. That afternoon, as I rifled through all my files to defend my work, I discovered something I had never noticed: WFAA’s law firm also represented the construction company my reports had exposed! The next morning, I tore into the legal team, defended my work, pointed out its obvious conflict of interest, and promised that if the reports were killed I’d take it to the Dallas newspapers and expose the whole thing. When it was over, Haig said, “We’ll air one report tonight, and one only. You’ll have to cut the series down to something less than three minutes. That’s it.”

Haig didn’t have to say anything more. I knew this would be my last report for WFAA. I went back to the station and worked right up to the five o’clock evening news deadline, then walked onto the set to give the lead-in live and answer a few softball questions from the anchors when it was over. The next morning when I arrived at the station, Haig called me straight into his office.

“It’s time to cut the sheets,” he said, looking down at some papers in his hands.

“You mean not working here any longer?” I said, as if clarification was necessary.

“Yes,” Haig said, finally glancing up. “We’re letting you go.”

“No need,” I shot back, “I quit.”

I stood up and shook his hand, and thanked him for everything. He was a good man in a tough spot. “See you around,” I said and walked back to my desk.

In less than a minute, a security guard tapped me on the shoulder and stated with authority, “Please give me your station identity card. WFAA has the legal rights to all of your files. I’m here to escort you to your car. A settlement on your contract will be negotiated with your agent.”

I opened my wallet, handed over my identity card, and walked away, saying politely but firmly, “I can show myself out.”

It was the first time I’d ever been fired from anything. I had occasionally wondered if something like this might happen one day, and the thought had always made me shudder with fear. Now, I was surprised at how great it felt.

“Don’t worry,” Lindner comforted me when I called him from my high-rise apartment overlooking the Dallas skyline. “We’ll find a better spot for you. Just give me some time.”

“Okay,” I answered. “I’m going back to California as soon as I can book a flight. I’ll be in touch from there.”

It took a few days to arrange for the packing and shipping of my things, then I was off to a small island in San Diego Bay called Coronado, where I had relatives. I rented a condo overlooking the bay and began catching up with family and friends. The settlement on my contract paid my salary for another year. Surely, I thought, Lindner would come through in a flash. I could just relax, sun myself at the beach, and have a good time. But before two weeks was up, I was going stir-crazy. I had no idea what to do with myself without reporting. It was like having no identity. No reason for being. I was completely lost.

The weeks turned into one month, then two, then three. After half a year, I thought I might explode. That’s when Lindner finally called. WBZ-TV in Boston, an NBC affiliate in an even bigger news market, liked the reel of my reports that William Morris sent them. I soon had a new contract and an even higher salary. I could breathe again; I was back in the game.

I leased a grand old apartment in the historic Back Bay overlooking the Charles River and the verdigris dome of MIT. It was thrilling to be in this sophisticated city with its rich history, but I knew, even at this prestigious station, local news would never be enough. Going to Afghanistan was just a start. I had to pitch more global stories, stretch the limits, make a mark. I was thirty-six years old. By the end of my three-year contract at WBZ, I’d be close to forty. After that, I told myself, I had to be at the network or I’d be past my prime. Ambition was consuming me again.

CHAPTER 4

Tropical Storm

THE OCTOBER SUN BREAKS the morning horizon and bathes us in golden light. It’s already freezing in Boston, but it’s sublime here in the Bahamas. Warm breezes carry the rich aroma of the salt air across the tiny island. Gentle ocean waves roll in a soft song, lapping onto the white sand. Pelicans, gulls, and kingfishers soar above us, then splash into the ocean for a meal.

It’s the end of 1986, and it’s my first vacation in years. I’ve always been so obsessed with my career that I haven’t wanted to take a real holiday since the day I began. There was only the break between the Dallas and Boston jobs, and that was all stress. Now, after being on the road airing my reports from Afghanistan at our other stations, followed by weeks of investigative work at WBZ, I need the downtime. And I’m actually interested in really getting to know someone: Mary Beth, the graphic artist at WBZ who I’ve always found to be a little mysterious and intriguing in her graceful silence. We’ve dated for a month, and now we’re on this adventure together.

Mary Beth and I have been here five days—five restful days on a remote little island in the Bahamas called Elbow Cay, sunning ourselves on isolated beaches ringed by palms, papaya trees, and tropical pines. In the morning, we snorkel with giant manta rays and tropical fish. As evening nears, I drift our tiny motorboat over crystal-blue waters, dive over the side, and swim down to coral reefs in order to grab spiny lobsters for dinner. At the end of the day, we watch the sunset color the horizon through our wine glasses, then gaze into the skies until the first stars appear.

It’s amazingly beautiful, and getting to know Mary Beth better is a joy, but I just can’t relax. I’m dying to get back in the groove, break another story, or pitch another international trip. When I’m in the field confronting the target of an investigative report, or even on turbulent foreign soil, like I was with the mujahideen in the Afghan war, I feel perfectly calm and stress-free. Here in paradise, I’m stressed out and distracted, consumed with thoughts of getting to network news. It’s an obsession that even a romantic vacation can’t drive away. I’m Type A, healthy as a horse, and I feel invincible. I’m also dying to know what’s going on in the world as we wake on our last full day of vacation. Little do I know that the worst accident of my life is screaming across the ocean and heading straight for me.

Mary Beth and I plan to spend this final day soaking up the sun, eating cold lobster salad, and snorkeling in the shallow inlet of our favorite little beach, where we’ve never seen another soul. The beach is just a short walk from our vacation rental home, and today’s another perfect morning, with calm breezes and tranquil waters. When we arrive, the beach is all ours again, and we spread out our towels on the fine sand, dab on some sunscreen, and agree to take a swim after a little sunbathing. I doze off but soon awaken with a start. A thick black mass of clouds has appeared on the horizon, and the ocean is starting to roil and froth. The wind is kicking up hard, wailing through the island pines, and bending the palm trees sideways.

Not wanting to get soaked, Mary Beth and I jump up from the beach and run back through a small forest to our vacation rental home. It sits alone in a pine forest at the ocean’s edge, facing the approaching storm. As we arrive, the entire sky turns black. A torrential rain slams into the house. Its large, plate-glass windows vibrate and hum as the tempest descends on us. The force of the wind is so powerful we wonder if it’s a hurricane.

I have just a few minutes to batten down more than a dozen storm shutters before the brunt of the storm hits. I run to each window, yanking hard at the heavy wooden shutters as their rusty hinges resist. I finally close them all, except one. It’s stuck. As I struggle with the rusty latch, it punches a hole in my thumb before I finally secure it.

Completely soaked and with blood trickling down my arm, I dash inside and slam the door. The whole house shakes as the storm lashes against it with amazing force. We hear a loud-pitched scream and look up to see a small, open window at the top of the vaulted ceiling in the bedroom where we’ve taken refuge. It’s shaking so hard I think it might burst.

“I’ve got to close that,” I say to Mary Beth.

“Why?” she asks softly.

“I’m not sure,” I answer, laughing a little at myself. “It just seems like the right thing to do. Maybe the glass will break and the room will be damaged by the rain. Besides, I can’t stand the noise.”

I’m six feet tall, but the window is far above my head, so I have to climb onto a dresser and then pull myself up and balance on a narrow ledge as the storm continues to scream like a banshee.

Barely steadying myself, I reach up and grab the window handles as the salty spray of the storm whips at my face. They’re badly corroded and I have to force them. As I twist harder, it happens in an instant. Both handles snap off in my hands. I fly off the ledge, falling twelve feet to the hardwood floor and slamming onto my back.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer. My ears are screaming. Mary Beth kneels by my side and holds me, pleading with me to take a breath. I gasp and convulse for what seems an eternity. Please, body, breathe. Just breathe. I begin fearing I might die from suffocation. Then, it’s like a dam bursting open as the first inhale floods in. A wave of relief rolls over me as I drink in the oxygen. Now I try to get up from the floor. I’m stuck. I can’t seem to send the right signal to my legs. They won’t move at all.

I’ve been lying here on the floor for ten minutes. I still can’t move my legs. I can feel them, but I can’t make them do my bidding. No matter how hard I try to will them to, they won’t move.

“Just stay down. Give it time. You’ll be fine.” Mary Beth is comforting me, saying just the right things, but I can hear the fear in her voice.

“I’m okay,” I tell her with a grunt, but I have to use my arms to drag myself across the floor, grab the bedpost, and pull myself onto the mattress. I’m exhausted, yet I feel very little pain. I must still be in shock from the fall. You’ll be fine in the morning, I tell myself with my usual hubris, then collapse into a deep sleep as the storm continues to rage.

At dawn, the sun is pouring through the tiny window with the broken handles as if nothing ever happened. The skies are calm and the tropical storm, having never become a hurricane, has passed. It’s time for the long trip back to the States, but as I stand up from the bed my legs are like noodles and I fall down to my knees. My lower back is on fire. It feels like there’s an ice pick in my tailbone and someone is twisting it just to torment me. Despite the agony, I have to laugh as I consider the irony: I just tromped through the freezing mountains of Afghanistan during a terrible war without suffering a scratch, but now I’m on a warm beach in paradise so wounded I can barely walk.

I grit my teeth and force myself to stand. The pain deepens. Don’t worry. This will soon be over. Tough it out. I repeat this silently as Mary Beth and I head for the ferry boat. There are no cars on the island. We have to take our little boat and motor to the main harbor, then walk to the ferry landing. I limp the entire way, holding the left side of my lower back with one hand while dragging my suitcase with the other hand. When we board the ferry, I grip a rail and steady myself during the long ride to a larger island, where we finally catch a commuter flight to Florida.

By the time we land in Miami, my whole body is on fire. As I limp toward baggage claim gritting my teeth, a TV at the airport bar catches my eye. It’s breaking news. A covert CIA operative, Eugene Hassenfus, has been shot down and captured in Nicaragua. He was airlifting military supplies to right-wing Contras fighting to overthrow the socialist government of President Daniel Ortega. It’s long been suspected that the American government was behind the war, and here’s the first tangible evidence. Adrenalin rushes through my veins and I prepare to jump on the story in any way possible, pain be damned.

I’m at WBZ the next morning, covering local angles on the story, including street protests, predictable sound bites of outrage from our Massachusetts senators, and obfuscations from White House Press Secretary Larry Speakes. Being fully absorbed in the news is powerful medicine for me, and it takes my mind off the pain. Anyway, I’ll be better in no time. It was only a little fall from a ledge. Nothing to worry about.

The back pain subsides after a few nights of rest, allowing me to function closer to my normal level. But at least one morning each week I wake up with a tender back and shaky legs. It inevitably gets worse throughout the day. When this happens, sitting to write a news script or edit videotape agitates the problem and sets my back on fire. An airplane or helicopter flight to cover a story is scorching. On top of it all, every few weeks the invisible tormenter with the ice pick sneaks up behind me and stabs me in the tailbone again.

Some days it hurts so badly I want to scream out loud, but I stuff it. I’m convinced that I’ll be better soon. Meanwhile, I feel like I can’t let anyone know I’m injured. I have to push forward. In this business, the weak fall behind and most of them never catch up again. I’ll never let that happen to me. Never.

Three months have gone by since I crashed onto my back during the storm in the Bahamas. I’m still running at full speed, artfully hiding the problem from my colleagues, each day faking that I’m fine. But the pain is deep. Gnawing. The invisible ice pick torturing me more often. I try everything to make it better: different postures in my chair. A seat cushion. Cold packs. Hot packs. Salt baths at home. Nothing does the trick. Physical therapy and massage at my gym provide temporary relief, but I’m merely treating the symptoms. My back is not healing. I don’t like doctor offices and am only comfortable in hospitals if I’m there as a reporter with a camera crew and an interesting story to cover. But this looks like the only option left. Reluctantly, I finally decide to see an orthopedic specialist.

“You have a hairline fracture in L5, the lowest lumbar vertebra in your spinal column,” the doctor says as he holds the X-ray film up to the light.

“You see the pedicles, the two flanges that protrude from the sides of each vertebra?” I have to look closely to see them. They seem like stubby wings sticking out from the sides of each disc.

He points his pen to a thin, blurry line running across a portion of the left pedicle. “This is a hairline fracture. Technically, you have a mildly broken back. I can’t believe you are still functioning at the level you are.”

“No, it’s not a broken back, just a little crack,” I snap at him with unintended anger. This has been happening more often with me as a result of the nagging pain. I hear myself getting short with people, sounding aggravated when I don’t intend to. “So what can we do?” All I want is a quick solution.

“We might be able to control the pain with medications and a brace,” he continues, “but you need to have surgery if you want to fix this. I’d like you to see a colleague of mine, a surgeon who specializes in these procedures.”

This is out of the question. Surgery would take way too much time. Get in the way of my career. I obstinately refuse to even consider it. I rationalize it in an instant, recalling having a broken arm and leg as a child and how each injury healed in due time without surgery. My back tightens as my resolve intensifies. I can still meet deadlines, I think to myself. Travel anywhere. Rough it whenever necessary. I am not spineless. I am not crippled. I am not stopping now.

I grit my teeth and say to the doctor, “I’ll take the brace and the pain medications.”

The doctor’s reaction makes it clear he doesn’t agree with my choice, but he complies and fits me with an elastic back brace that straps around my waist. It has two thin metal bands that curve into the arch of my lower back to support the main muscles flanking my lumbar vertebrae. He also prescribes medication: a high-strength dosage of the anti-inflammatory drug Motrin, along with Valium to relax the muscles that often flare up from my buttocks to my shoulder blades.

“You shouldn’t drink alcohol with the medications,” the doctor warns, “and let me know if the Motrin bothers your stomach.”

I’m barely listening, still numb from the thought of having a broken back. I can hardly bring myself to say thank you. I fill the prescriptions at the pharmacy below his office and stop at a water fountain to swallow a dose of each, having no idea that I’m taking my first step into what will become a pharmaceutical-induced nightmare.

Mary Beth and I are still seeing one another, but I’m not a very good partner. Back pain makes me irritable and impatient, and I’m only interested in pushing my career forward. Everything else is on hold. I can’t work out at the gym any longer, I’ve stopped going out on the town, and I’m no longer taking long walks along the Charles River after work. At the TV station I’ve found a vacant room upstairs and sneak into it whenever possible to lie down on the floor and rest. Three times a day I gobble Motrin and each night down a Valium with a glass of wine, ignoring my doctor’s warning about mixing alcohol with drugs.

I’m able to cover the local news in Boston, pursuing the investigative reporting I love, but I have to back off the computer several times a day, stand up, and press my palms into my tender lower back while pushing my hips forward. It’s become a newsroom joke as my fellow reporters jump up from their chairs now and then, playfully mocking my stance. They still have no idea how bad it is. My back brace is invisible beneath my trousers and sport coat, and I tell no one about it for fear the station will stop sending me on more rigorous assignments.

My career is all that matters. I have to move forward. Afghanistan was just a few months ago, but it seems like years. I have to find the next opportunity to pitch an international story. I feel like I’ve almost made it to the top of the mountain and my body is trying to drag me back down. No way. I’m not giving in. I’ll never stop.

CHAPTER 5

Apartheid

IT’S 1987 AND THE STRUGGLE AGAINST APARTHEID, South Africa’s white supremacy system, is boiling over. There are riots and violent clashes throughout the country. Nelson Mandela, the charismatic founder of the African National Congress (ANC), has been imprisoned by the South African government for years and is now a living martyr. Massachusetts Senator Ted Kennedy is pushing for strict economic sanctions against South Africa in hopes of freeing Mandela and forcing an end to government-sanctioned racism. The Reagan Administration calls Mandela’s ANC a terrorist organization and is adamantly opposed to sanctions. Instead, Reagan promotes “Constructive Engagement,” a euphemism for preserving the status quo. It’s a classic struggle between liberals and conservatives.

With antiapartheid protests in New England, there’s great local interest in the international story. The networks have bureaus in South Africa with correspondents filing reports almost nightly, so if I want to cover it myself, I have to come up with a unique angle. I decide to focus on Zambia, where the ANC is now headquartered and run by Nelson Mandela’s law partner, Oliver Tambo.

Tambo is in exile and a prime target for the South African government. It takes weeks for me to make contact, even with the help of Senator Kennedy’s staff. When I finally do get his top aide on the phone, he confirms that Tambo has agreed to an on-camera interview with us. This positions me to tell the story from the perspective of what are called the Frontline Nations of Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, and Mozambique, where black Africans have their independence and are putting up a united front against apartheid. When WBZ approves the proposal, it’s like a miraculous medicine for my back. I can barely feel the pain as Dennis and I board a flight to Africa. Even so, I take an extra dose of Valium and Motrin as we land in Zambia more than fifteen hours later, just to be sure.

Zambia is landlocked, sitting atop the lower third of the continent like a gateway to its southern regions. The capital city of Lusaka, built on a plateau, is subtropical and steamy. Humidity hangs heavy in the air as we bounce into the city in a taxi that feels like it lost its shock absorbers years ago. A million poverty-stricken people live here, virtually on top of one another. The streets are organized chaos. Makeshift markets selling paltry goods. Children play on street corners as raw sewage flows by. Starving dogs fight over bits of food hidden in the piles of trash. The stench is overwhelming, but the thrill of being on a major story makes it almost smell sweet.

Surprisingly, there is little sense of desperation amid all this filth and chaos. The Zambian people hold themselves with dignity. It’s been two decades since they ended a century of white domination and exploitation, mostly at the hands of the British. Every time we jump out of our taxi to film, young people immediately surround us to express the pride they feel as members of an independent nation.

In South Africa, it was the white Afrikaners who fought with the British for primacy and ultimately took power. The Afrikaners are a deeply conservative German, Dutch, and French ethnic group called Boers who migrated to South Africa in the 1600s. They formed a political minority National Party that managed to take power in 1948 and quickly enacted harsh segregationist laws that became known as apartheid, which means “apartness.” The policy created a system of complete social and economic discrimination against black South Africans, who were forced into ghettos called townships and denied all rights.

To fight back against the ANC and Frontline Nations, Special Forces of the South African government regularly launch military strikes into Zambia. They have secret police throughout Lusaka. Assassinations of ANC leaders are all too common. Oliver Tambo has various safe houses hidden within the heart of the city. It takes a day to arrange a secret meeting with Isaac, the ANC operative who will guide us to the right location. We meet at a side street several blocks from our hotel.

“Welcome,” Isaac says with polite formality and a firm handshake. “We must move quickly. I will speak to your driver. Please get back in your car.” Isaac whispers something to our driver, Jonas, and walks off in his well-tailored suit like a businessman headed for an urgent meeting. His commitment to the struggle is palpable. It’s clear he’s prepared to die for his beliefs, and equally clear he intends not to.

Jonas starts the car quickly and turns into the first alley, entering a maze: Narrow lanes. No street signs. Thicker crowds. Within five minutes I’m completely lost and know I would never find my way out of here without a guide. We begin doubling back, circling, losing anyone who might be following. A sudden stop. We’re in front of a fifteen-foot, rusted steel wall with a small doorway cut into its center. Suddenly, Isaac appears from nowhere, now clad in a faded T-shirt and jeans, blending perfectly into the neighborhood.

“Grab your gear and follow me,” Isaac says with firm calmness. “In here. Quickly.” He knocks a code on the steel wall with his knuckles as we get out of the car. Thick steel bolts are unlocked from the interior and the door swings open with a screech. We slip inside the compound with Isaac, and behind us the door is immediately slammed shut and bolted by a tall, muscular young man with a pistol tucked into his waistband. We are standing in a dirt courtyard ten yards from a single-story structure that looks like a cross between a workshop and a residence.

Two more men, also with firearms, approach us with the same formal politeness of Isaac and softly say, “We must check you for weapons.” One man frisks Dennis and me with seasoned proficiency. The other deftly goes through all of our bags. “Thank you,” they both say after concluding we’re unarmed.

“Through here.” Isaac takes charge again and leads us into the main door. We go down a corridor with aging hardwood floors and yellowish stucco walls, past a small room filled with filing cabinets, and then a larger room with desks and a few men studiously doing their work. No one glances up, but everyone is aware of our presence.

Now we’re turning left down another corridor. Isaac unlocks a door and we enter a comfortable living room with couches and chairs. There’s a wide bay window looking out onto a small courtyard with deep green shrubbery and a few trees soaking in glancing rays of warm sunlight. “Please set up your camera,” Isaac instructs. “Mr. Tambo will be with you shortly.”

After fifteen minutes, Oliver Tambo steps softly through a side door wearing a traditional wax-dyed shirt, called a batik, of bright yellow, red, and green patterns. He is almost seventy years old. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a light beard, and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He welcomes us with a soft smile as Dennis clips a microphone on his shirt.

Before I ask a question, he says, “We have struggled against oppression for generations. It is now time for our liberation.”

“Critics say your movement embraces terrorism and has many communist members,” I reply in a respectful tone. “What is your answer to this?”

“We are puppets to no one,” Tambo says with authority and conviction. “We want a democratic, nonracial South Africa where all political parties can participate. We have taken aid from socialist countries because no Western democracies will help us, despite their public statements about seeking equality and justice throughout the world. We have also received support from Scandinavia, which is hardly a radical nation. And no one who assists us tells us what to do.”

It’s the Cold War again, a story that’s played out too many times in too many places around the world. America and the Soviet Union fight each other this way, using smaller, less developed countries as proxies. Its victims always seem to be those facing poverty and struggling for freedom. Mr. Tambo is eloquent in articulating his case, and the interview ends far too quickly for me. After ten minutes of conversation, his aide says he must go. We have all the material we need, but I could talk to this wise and elegant man into the middle of the night.

Isaac guides us back to the compound entryway. Incredible luck. Chris Hani has just arrived under heavy guard for a meeting with Tambo. Hani is one of the most controversial, elusive, and wanted figures in the movement. I remember seeing his photo during my research and I was struck by the power he exuded. Hani leads the armed wing of the ANC. It’s called Umkhonto we Sizwe, which means Spear of the Nation. Unlike the Gandhi-inspired nonviolence embraced by Mandela and Tambo, members of Umkhonto we Sizwe are convinced that the brutality and injustice of apartheid can only be overcome through armed struggle. South Africa’s Secret Police hunt these guerilla fighters relentlessly and kill them when they can. This is probably why we went through so much secrecy and backtracking to get here this morning.

“Mr. Hani.” I stop him as he is about to enter the residence. “We’ve just completed interviewing Mr. Tambo. May we have a word with you?” His guards stiffen and are about to brush us aside when Hani stops them and answers, “Of course. I can give you a minute.”

Dennis swings his camera onto his shoulder and slips a microphone into my hand with amazing speed. “Why violence?” I ask. “Why not follow Mandela and Tambo? Peaceful resistance. Civil disobedience?”

“I am a communist and a patriot,” Hani says gently. His boyish face and wide smile make it hard to believe he embraces armed struggle until he says, “I make no apologies. The South African government has brutalized, tortured, and killed too many of our people. They make false promises, break agreements, treat us like children. The only thing they will ever understand is violence. We must let them taste the suffering they have given us, make them insecure in their homes and on the streets.” Hani is charismatic and articulate. He is the second most popular figure in the resistance movement after Nelson Mandela. Six years after we air our interview with him he will be assassinated.

Departing Lusaka, we move deep into the countryside, passing through small villages and remote areas where armed gangs with murky allegiances often ambush travelers. Zambia had previously been the British Colony of North Rhodesia until it declared independence in 1964. Billy Nkunika, a cross between an intellectual and a street-savvy survivor, was a leader of the resistance against the British and is now an advisor to the ANC. We’re lucky to have him with us as both guide and protector.

It’s our second day of moving south from Lusaka toward the borders of Zimbabwe and Botswana. Just before nightfall, we round a sweeping corner through the jungle and find the road blocked by two battered pickup trucks. As Jonas slams on the brakes, we’re quickly surrounded by a dozen armed men. Two of them have rifles pointed directly at us. The rest brandish large machetes as they order us to get out of our car. It’s little matter that Dennis and I are not South African; the fact that we’re white and carrying expensive camera gear is enough to place us in grave danger.

Nkunika orders Jonas to leave the engine running as he jumps out fearlessly, barking at the men with great authority. A few of the younger members of the gang, who look to be in their early teens, start tapping their machetes on the hood of our car while pressing their faces against the window, staring hard at us. I think about the five thousand dollars I have in my satchel for travel needs and emergencies. Our camera gear is worth a small fortune.

Dennis whispers, “This is trouble.” I’m about to agree when Nkunika bursts back into the car, shoving the young men aside, slams the door and rolls down his window still yelling that he fought against racism before they were born. One of the battered trucks is pushed back and we roar through the roadblock. Dennis and I look at one another and sigh in unison. Without Nkunika, who knows what would have happened.

“These young men are crazy,” Nkunika says at a jungle hut where we are spending the night. “They don’t know anything about this struggle. They are filled with rage. All they want to do is rob people.”

We are having a simple dinner of nshima, a bland, pasty dish made from maize. It’s also called mealie-meal. It’s almost impossible to swallow. Then it sticks to your ribs.

“It’s hard to blame them,” I say. “They’ve been terribly oppressed. There are no jobs, no future. I understand why they would want to rob us. What did you say that saved us?”

Nkunika smiles. “I lied to them,” he answers. “I told them we had three more trucks behind us in an armed convoy and they would all be killed on the spot if they didn’t let us go and scram before our soldiers arrive.”

The following morning, deep in the arid bush, we film lines of women standing for hours in the brutal sun with their children to get a few cups of grain from humanitarian organizations. Relief workers weigh their infants and provide powders for malnutrition, diarrhea, and dehydration. Despite the obvious poverty, many of the children seem happy and are glad to see us there. Others stand with blank gazes, flies covering their faces, lips bleeding from the scorching heat, bellies swollen like ripe watermelons from the ravages of dysentery.

Zambian countryside, 1986.

In preparing for this trip, I came across facts that floored me: Half the people in the world live on less than two dollars a day. More than thirty thousand die daily from starvation; of these, fifteen thousand are children. We came to do a story on apartheid in South Africa and Nelson’s movement, but we’ve also captured scene after scene of the poverty that rules these African nations, and I will weave it into the narratives at every opportunity.

Thinking about this on the flight back to Boston, I realize I take so many simple luxuries for granted: A beautiful home. A refrigerator filled with so much food there’s always some that’s going bad. A bathroom with running water. More widgets and gadgets than anyone needs. It’s embarrassing. What are any of my problems compared to those who are forced to struggle every day just to survive? Who am I to ever complain about a sore back, even if it’s on fire right now as I sit in first class having a filet mignon and my second glass of cabernet?

CHAPTER 6

Drug Wars

THE YEAR 1989 is coming to a close, and crack cocaine is exploding on the scene. Crack is a highly addictive form of the drug that is smoked for an instant high. Its name comes from the crackling sound it makes when it’s lit. It’s cheap and readily available on street corners, and many inner-city Boston neighborhoods are ruled by gangs, guns, and drugs. It’s a powerful story, and it’s complicated. Gangbangers are building empires, and there are shootouts in the darkest hours of night. Innocent victims get wounded and sometimes killed. Courageous cops risk their lives. Corrupt cops are on the take. Weapons flood the streets. This is much more than a local story. It’s a national epidemic. An estimated 2 million Americans use cocaine. More than a quarter of a million are already hooked on crack.

Hoping to turn off the tap at the source, President George H. Bush is holding a drug summit in Cartagena, Colombia, with the leaders of Colombia, Bolivia, and Peru, where most of the world’s cocaine is produced. Cartagena is a magnificent, centuries-old city sitting on the confluence of the Magdalena River and Caribbean Sea. I took working vacations there a few times before moving to Boston, helping produce an International Music Festival for Colombian TV with Camillo Pombo, the nephew of Colombian president Cesar Gaviria. It’s a natural. I’ve got a strong local angle on a national and international story, and I have good connections and know my way around where the summit is being held.

When I pitch the story, news director Stan Hopkins supports me again, and I’m soon in Cartagena with Dennis, broadcasting live reports from a temporary headquarters set up by NBC’s Miami Bureau. The summit is big news around the globe and all the networks are here, along with Latin, European, and Asian correspondents. But it’s more political theater than substance. The United States blames the source countries and wants the coca crops destroyed. Colombia, Bolivia, and Peru resent being blamed. Still, they need trade and assistance from America and are always happy to take the millions of dollars America offers for eradication programs. Some of it might even go toward eradicating coca crops. Most of it will wind up in the pockets of the politicians and business elite.

As far as the people here are concerned, the cocaine epidemic is America’s problem. Our national addiction has created the industry and funded brutal drug cartels that often have more power than the governments down here. In Colombia, for example, politicians and judges who don’t acquiesce to the drug lords are periodically kidnapped or assassinated. As Camillo likes to say to me, “Why don’t you tell the Americans to wipe their noses and stop sniffing cocaine? Then we will have nothing to sell to you. End of problem. Don’t come running down here blaming us and telling us what to do.”

Each day of the summit I go live from the NBC headquarters, reporting for our evening news on WBZ. I feel closer to the possibility of a network job when I meet the networks’ Miami bureau chief, Don Browne, here to run NBC’s coverage. He’s dynamic, in charge, constantly projecting a sense of contained authority. As we talk, it’s like the job is sitting there in front of me on his desk and I can almost reach out and grab hold of it.

At night, I head into the elegant old city to eat at Paco’s, owned by Camillo’s close friend Paco De Onis. His world-class restaurant is a two-story villa of white plaster, stone floors, and broad wood-beam ceilings. Camillo, here from Bogota to report for his national radio show, always joins me for dinner.

Tonight the restaurant is cordoned off by heavily armed Colombian military police. Immediately curious, Dennis and I push up to the cordons. A guard with an automatic rifle gestures for us to leave. I flash the badge I have for the summit. It’s meaningless, but it looks official. Before he can even look at it, Dennis and I slip past him, ignoring his shouts for us to stop. It’s a simple ploy. Stop and he might arrest us, or keep going and he’ll think we must be authorized to be there. It usually works like a charm, and this time is no exception.

At first, we can’t figure out what’s happening. Finally, we get to Paco’s and see it’s surrounded by more guards. Because we made it through the outer cordon, they readily grant us access. Once inside, Camillo is shocked to see us. “How did you get in?” he asks with wide eyes. “The presidents and their men are here. I had trouble getting in myself.” He means the presidents of Bolivia and Peru here for the summit, not George Bush. This is a Latin meeting. Off the record. Behind the scenes.

“We bluffed our way in,” I laugh as we greet one another with our usual hug. “Where are they?”

“They are upstairs,” Camillo says, referring to the presidents. He glances at Dennis’s shoulder bag. “If you have a camera, do not take it out. Whatever you do, do not go upstairs.” I’ve never seen Camillo so intense.

I’m dying to shoot footage of this, but taking the camera out would be crazy. It would quickly be confiscated and we might be taken somewhere for a good beating. But I can’t resist going upstairs. Shortly after our dinner arrives, I excuse myself to the bathroom. Then I slip up the curved stone stairwell. It’s a lavish party. The room upstairs is filled with men I take for presidential aides and security agents. There are also several incredibly beautiful women, surely hired for the occasion. I glance around quickly, getting the best look I can before I’m noticed. I can’t see any of the presidents. There’s no way to ensure they’re here except for the overwhelming anecdotal evidence. Why else would armed guards cordon off the street? And then there are Camillo’s warnings. He always knows what’s going on and who the players are. Still, I can’t confirm anything and I’ve already pushed it too far.

On a coffee table I see a large, oval tray made of crystal. There’s a huge mound of sparkling white powder in the middle, like a pyramid. Cocaine. Pure cocaine. I see a razor blade and a few thin lines, three or four inches long, waiting to be snorted. Now I realize how dangerous it was to come up here. What a summit. Promises of cooperation during the day. Something else at night. If only I could turn on a camera. Film anyone involved with the drug summit. Get video of the coke. The world-class escorts. It would be a monster story. Everything would stop in its tracks. The summit would crash. An international incident. Oh God, would I love to bag this one.

A muscular looking man in an expensive black suit steps over to the tray, leans over, and snorts up a line of cocaine. He straightens back up and glances at me as he sniffs his nose. Then he does a double take. He’s alarmed. I act casual but get downstairs as fast as I can, blending in with the crowd.

Sitting for dinner with Camillo and Paco, I don’t speak a word about what’s upstairs, but I can’t stop thinking about the camera on the floor by Dennis’s feet. I’ll risk almost anything for a big story. But this wouldn’t be a risk. It would be insanity. I can hardly imagine our fate if we tried to pull this off and got caught.

Refining cocaine is a hideous process. It begins in rustic laboratories called pozos, typically hidden in the tropical mountain forests. Pozos look like anything but labs. They’re created by digging large pits in the earth under the cover of the jungle canopy. Tons of coca leaves from farms blanketing the hillsides below are transported in on the backs of mules. Hundreds of gallons of kerosene are poured into the pits, and local children are recruited, often by force, to stand in the sludge for up to twelve hours a day, stomping it with their bare feet. This leeches the cocaine alkaloid from the coca leaves. The soupy mixture is shoveled into large sieves strung between tree branches. The kerosene trickles out through the sieve, leaving behind a thick yellowish paste called basuco, which is then loaded into burlap sacks for transport to much more sophisticated city labs.

After the summit, Dennis and I set out to produce a series of in-depth reports on the origins of cocaine. We fly to Bolivia and then helicopter into the mountains above the city of Cochabamba with a heavily armed Bolivian military strike force, funded by the United States as a result of the drug summit, seeking to destroy as many pozos as it can discover. Smoke plumes from fires built to keep the workers dry and to cook their food are always the tip-off. As soon as he spots one, our pilot manages to land in impossible places. As he’s touching down, we jump out with the troops as they invade the lab. The noise of the chopper tips off the refiners and they flee before we arrive. It doesn’t matter. The labs are the real target. The strike force burns down every one it finds simply by sloshing the pozo kerosene over everything and tossing in a match. This hardly puts a dent in the trade, but it shows that Bolivia is doing something with the millions of dollars of American aid it’s receiving.

Coca Drug Lab, Bolivia, 1989.

The paste from the jungle labs is smuggled down the mountain into cities such as Cochabamba. Here, it’s refined into pure cocaine and eventually smuggled worldwide. Like most drug-refining cities, Cochabamba is host to powerful cartels who bribe and intimidate local officials. Finding a lab here would be next to impossible, even for the strike force. We part company with the soldiers and decide to illustrate what basuco is doing to the local culture in Cochabamba, which is also a haven for low-level drug dealers. They hook young street orphans on smoking basuco, use them to deliver drugs, and force them into prostitution. Some of the children are barely five years old.

We find these children early one morning in a dry riverbed that threads through the city. They’re living in holes they’ve dug in the clay with their hands. They work in the city from shortly after sunrise to sunset for the dealers, then crawl into their holes at night to smoke basuco, the only pay they receive. Within a few years, the toxic paste destroys their nervous systems. Most of them never make it to their teens.

We film an interview with a boy named Alejandro, clearly the dean of the riverbed. He is twelve years old, but he’s so small and thin that he barely looks eight. The dark circles around his eyes are haunting. And the basuco has given him a form of palsy. It’s painful to watch him struggle to coordinate his spasmodic arms and head as he fills his pipe, fights to get the stem between his lips, lights it, and sucks in a long hit.

“My parents threw me on the streets when I was five. I was the youngest of many brothers and sisters. They could not afford to feed me,” says Alejandro as he exhales a plume of deadly smoke that eerily wisps around his face.

His words are garbled and hard for our interpreter to understand, but a deep intelligence still manages to come through. “This is my home. I have lived here seven years. Longer than anyone else. I know I’m dying now. I don’t care. All I want is my basuco. They can push the clay over me when I’m dead.” With his head shaking, hands quivering, and eyes spasming, Alejandro takes another hit and drifts off into a world of his own. As we say good-bye, I wish I could lift this boy out of his hole in the riverbed, carry him in my arms to an airplane, whisk him home, help him recover, and give him a new life.

With Alejandro in Cochabamba, Bolivia, 1990.

My final day in South America, still in Cochabamba, Bolivia, I feel my back catching on fire again. I still have some Motrin, but I’m out of Valium. I’m on a major story far from home, and so the prospect of a serious flare-up scares me to death. I find a drugstore that looks more like a corner newsstand, with a half-dozen sheets of Valium pills sitting on an outdoor table by the entryway, each encapsulated in a little plastic bubble. The sheets hold two dozen pills apiece and cost next to nothing, and I don’t need a prescription here. I buy them all and quickly punch three or four from one sheet and dissolve them under my tongue, anxious to get the muscle-relaxing drug into my bloodstream as quickly as possible.

Within fifteen minutes, my body begins to feel like jelly. I’m a little woozy as Dennis and I sit down to dinner. After a few glasses of wine, the pain is only a memory. This is such a logical and necessary course of action that if you told me it looked like Alejandro and I had something in common, I’d think you were out of your mind.

CHAPTER 7

30 Rock

SPRING OF 1990 BRINGS another bitter Boston winter to an end. Thousands of cherry trees blossom throughout the city in brilliant hues of pink. I’m at my desk, leaning as far back as possible in my chair without falling over. This takes the pressure off my back as I gaze out the window at my favorite cherry tree glistening in the midday sunlight. A hummingbird hovers at one blossom, drinks nectar, then zips away in a flash.

“Willis, come to my office!” Stan Hopkins firmly calls out from across the newsroom, breaking my reverie. It’s a tone I’ve never heard from him.

“Sure, I’ll be right there,” I respond, getting up from my desk and taking my usual pause: pressing my palms into my lower back, rolling my shoulders a few times, checking in on the pain, and reassuring myself I’m ready for any new assignment Stan might want to discuss. But his tone was strange, and I wonder if something is wrong.

Stan pauses deliberately as we sit down in his office. My mind races through the possibilities. The news budget is being slashed. He’s been fired. Or…they’ve found out about my back problem and I’m being benched. I can’t take it anymore and ask, “Is everything all right?”

He regards me with a sober face. “I’ve got a problem with you,” he says. This puts me over the edge. It’s my back. Somehow the news got out. I stare at my feet, about to admit the whole thing before he says another word. Then Stan smiles. He says, “Don Browne just called. He’s now the executive news director of NBC News. He wants my permission to offer you a job.”

NBC News. A rush of joy explodes throughout my entire body. This is it. I’ve finally made it.

Then I remember the network always seeks to cultivate good relations with its local affiliates, especially a powerhouse like WBZ-TV. If Stan tells Don Browne he’d rather keep me in Boston, there won’t be any job offer.

“You’re a top reporter,” Stan says. “You have a great career here. I’d like you to stay around.”

My heart starts to sink, but then he smiles again.

“But I’m not going to hold you back. Do you need time to think about this?”

About as long as it takes to exhale. “Stan, you’re the best news director I’ve ever worked for, and a great friend. You’ve supported me in every way, even put your career on the line for me. I’ll never forget it, but this is the only thing I’ve wanted since I first set foot in a newsroom.”

“I thought so,” he replies. “I already told Don it’s okay to move forward. Here’s his number. Go give him a call.” I wisely repress the urge to jump up screaming with delight and run back to my desk, bad back and all.

It takes a month before Don Browne can see me at NBC headquarters at 30 Rockefeller Center in Manhattan. It’s the longest month of my life and I get antsier by the minute until the day finally comes. The shuttle flight from Boston to New York is always a quick trip, but I want to ask the pilot to step on it. As the New York skyline comes into view from my window, it feels like the plane will never land. I anxiously deplane at La Guardia airport, rush down the endless corridors, and see a chauffeur holding a little white sign with my name neatly printed on it as if I’m someone important. It’s almost impossible for me to believe what’s happening.

The driver is clad in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. He takes my luggage and politely guides me to his sleek, black limo sedan, opens the back door for me so I can slide onto the plush seat as he places my bag in the trunk. We listen to classical music as he cruises toward Manhattan. As we cross the Triborough Bridge, I feel a rush. I’m so close to fulfilling my dream I can taste it. As we pull up to the Omni Berkshire Palace Hotel on West 52nd in Midtown, just a few blocks from NBC, I almost float out of the limo.

The Omni is a hotel of understated elegance, dignity, and decor. The impeccable concierge lets me know that the room, meals, and incidentals are covered by NBC and to call him if I need anything. He tells me to enjoy the stay, and I almost blurt out “No problem,” then remember how dignified this place is and politely thank him. A bell captain promptly guides me to a luxurious suite. I’d love to go out on the town, but I order room service instead to save my back for the big meeting in the morning. Then I click on the TV just as NBC Nightly News begins.

“Good evening. I’m Tom Brokaw. Topping the news tonight…”

I can hardly believe this is really happening. I’m a kid from a middle-class family who fled the suburbs, tried to drop out of the whole world, went to an obscure state college, and one day drove into the parking lot of a small-market TV station on a whim. I’m now in a swanky hotel in the Big Apple, awaiting filet mignon with gorgonzola sauce, julienned carrots with green beans, and a pricey bottle of vintage cabernet, on the cusp of a dream-come-true.

It’s a beautiful, crisp East Coast morning as I walk the few blocks from the Omni to NBC News. Down West 52nd Street. Right on Avenue of the Americas. The city is bustling. Traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Endless honking. Crosswalks are thronged. Magnificent skyscrapers tower over it all like massive redwood trees of stone and steel. I can feel the energy of the city in every cell of my body as my heart pulses to its staccato rhythm. Left now on 49th. There it is—30 Rock. A seventy-story Art Deco masterpiece. It’s the centerpiece of Rockefeller Plaza, and one of the tallest buildings in Manhattan.

I see the renowned outdoor Rockefeller Center Ice Skating Rink. Lording over it is a gilded statue of Prometheus, the Titan in Greek mythology who defied the will of Zeus and brought fire to Earth, becoming the champion of humankind. He holds the fire in his right hand as he soars across the sky. A golden circle around him contains the signs of the zodiac and symbolizes the heavens. The golden mountain beneath him represents the Earth.

To me, Prometheus is holding the light of wisdom, bringing the power of knowledge to our world. He is the archetype of a network news foreign correspondent, the ambassador of NBC News beckoning me to enter. Me, the overly ambitious kid, now almost forty years old, who still types with two fingers. As I stare at the statue, I feel dumbstruck, then remember not to be late and hurry to the entrance.

The 30 Rock security center looks like a bigger version of the reception desk at my hotel. A tall gentleman in black coat and tie with perfect posture gives me a formal glance. “How may I help you this morning?”

“Brad Willis. I’m here for a meeting with Don Browne of NBC News.”

“One moment, please.” He scans his computer, hits a keystroke, walks over to a nearby printer, folds something together in a small plastic case, and brings it back to me.

“This is your identity badge. Please wear it at all times. The elevators are around that corner to your right. You’ll find Mr. Browne on the third floor.”

When I realize I’m fifteen minutes early, I start to wander through this extraordinary building. There’s a breathtaking mural wrapping around the west wall of the Grand Lobby. It’s entitled American Progress, by Spanish artist Josep Maria Sert. It depicts an elaborate scene of workers constructing modern America and contains the figures of Mahatma Gandhi, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Abraham Lincoln, all childhood heroes of mine. I almost feel like they know I’m here as I glance at them and whisper, “I made it!”

The elevator banks are works of art, with shiny bronze frames and panels of polished mahogany. Hundreds of people line up here every afternoon, hoping to get a seat at the taping of Saturday Night Live. The red-velvet theater ropes hanging from stanchions are already being set up to contain the crowds. Another security guard checks my badge and I’m allowed to step toward an elevator just as it opens. I slip in and punch the button for the third floor. I decide to hold my breath the whole way just for fun. When the elevator stops on the second floor and someone else gets in, I almost turn blue, but keep holding my breath anyway.

The NBC newsroom is expansive, with long rows of desks forming open corridors that serve as pathways for producers and editors rushing back and forth. There are windowed offices on either side of the room for the executives of the various news shows. The set for Nightly News, which Tom Brokaw has anchored for eight years, is in the middle, surrounded by floor cameras. I see Brokaw’s chair sitting there like a throne. The seat of a living legend. Chills run up my spine.

A woman in a perfect business suit walks up. “You are here for the appointment with Mr. Browne?” The security desk must have called ahead.

“Yes, thank you.” I’m still gazing around in awe and I wonder if my jaw is dropping toward my chin. I straighten into my very best posture. At least I’m wearing a conservative suit and tie instead of boots and jeans like my first TV job interview.

“This way, please.”

As we walk down a long hall to another wing of the building, I fumble with my back brace to ensure nothing is showing. We pass Don Browne’s office, then Brokaw’s, then a large suite for the president of network news, Michael Gartner. This must be the power corridor. I smile, wondering if I should pause and genuflect at each door. We stop at a reception desk, where I check in with a secretary and have a seat. Less than a minute later, the secretary stands up and says abruptly, “Come with me. The morning editorial meeting is underway and Mr. Browne wants you to sit in. Please be quiet when we go inside.”

As I enter the conference room, there’s a group of men and women gathered around a large oval table. Coffee cups are clinking, some are having doughnuts, others are sharing pithy jokes and loud guffaws. It’s anything but quiet, but I do my best to be a wallflower and observe the ritual. Don Browne stands up at one end of the table to welcome me and makes brief introductions: the heads of the foreign and domestic desks, the Nightly News producer, the New York Bureau Chief, show producers, script editors, and assistants. I walk around the table slowly and firmly shake hands, my heart pounding so loudly I think everyone might be able to hear it.

As I take a seat in a lone chair against one wall, large black conference boxes on the table start barking. “Hong Kong Bureau here with you. London here, too. Miami is on. Atlanta. Los Angeles…”

“Okay,” Browne takes charge. “What have you got?”

Each bureau pitches its stories, everyone jockeying for a slot on Nightly News.

“Hold that one for the weekend,” a producer says, rejecting the first pitch.

“Not enough for Nightly, pitch that to the Today Show,” another producer redirects the second offering.

“Yes, we want that spot tonight. Make it a minute-fifteen.” Someone else likes what London has.

“We need some more on that one before we consider it.” This story is completely shot down, and I can almost feel the pain of the person pitching it from halfway around the world.

The entire meeting is an elaborate dance. They are all brilliant. Confident. To the point. The foreign desk spars with the national desk for primacy. National spars back. They know the drill by heart. Everyone making their case. Promoting, analyzing, probing, playing devil’s advocate.

Suddenly, toward the end, Tom Brokaw walks into the room and sits down. Everyone becomes silent.

“Here’s what we have, Tom.” Don Browne gives him the rundown.

Brokaw ponders, then softly adds or subtracts this or that in his deep, melodious voice. It’s over. The story lineup is settled. Prometheus has spoken.

“Do you prefer covering domestic or foreign news?” Browne asks as we settle into his office after the editorial meeting.

“Foreign news.”

“You know, even though we’re a global news organization, domestic news usually takes priority. Foreign correspondents have a harder time getting on the air unless they have a major story.”

This fact was clear in the morning round table. The foreign offerings lacking an urgent punch were pushed to other shows or shelved. The domestic news prevailed, even stories with no urgency at all. Getting on the air is the name of the game. The more name recognition a correspondent has, the more airtime he or she gets. More airtime translates into job security and a better salary down the road.

“Either one is great for me,” I respond. “But if you offered me the choice, I’d go overseas.”

“I thought so,” Browne replies with a wry smile. “I’ve been watching your work for a while, especially from the drug summit. You hustle. Work hard. I like that.”

He explains how different the network is from local news, reminding me I won’t get the three to four minutes for my reports that I’ve become accustomed to. A minute-fifteen is tops. “And you’re talking to several million people, a national audience. You need to synthesize, focus, write so someone living anywhere in the country understands and relates to what you’re saying.”

After an hour, Browne tells me he has other meetings. “We’ll have lunch at noon. Go wander around and get familiar with the place. Introduce yourself to people. Ask questions.”

It’s my nature to be gregarious, but I’m in awe being here, so I choose to sit in the newsroom and observe. A few famous faces wander in. Science Correspondent Robert Bazell. Andrea Mitchell, one of the greatest political reporters alive. Garrick Utley, anchor of the Sunday Nightly News. Maria Shriver from Dateline. They are sophisticated, graduates of top universities, global citizens, reminders that I come from a little college in the Redwoods and will need to work harder than ever to keep pace with this crowd.

At noon, Browne takes me to lunch at the famous Rainbow Room restaurant on the 65th floor of 30 Rock. The Art Deco dining room is ornate, formal, and dazzling with its panoramic views of Manhattan. I feel like I’m on top of the world as we’re joined by the senior producers for domestic and foreign news I met at the morning meeting. As we dine on a sumptuous lunch, it’s all light talk. I’m being looked over. Felt out. I have no doubt that the powerful majesty of this news organization is silently posing the question, “Do you belong here?” I’m surprised at how relaxed and at home I feel, but I’m still careful not to spill soup on my gold-and-black striped tie.

After lunch, I meet with selected producers and editors in the newsroom. Each explains how the NBC system works, what they need in a story and want in a correspondent. They’re insightful and supportive, but I realize I’m still being measured. In the late afternoon, I have a final moment with Don Browne before heading to the airport for the shuttle back to Boston.

“What do you think about Miami?” That’s the bureau Browne used to run and where he made his name. It’s a hybrid: a foreign bureau headquartered in the States but covering all of Latin and South America.

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“Only well enough to order a meal, be polite at a hotel, tell the taxi to step on it…Maneje más rápido.”

“I appreciate your honesty. It’s no worry. We have plenty of interpreters. But I’d bone up if I were you.”

Browne stands up and shakes my hand, gives me his famous electrifying stare and says, “Have your agent call me tomorrow.”

It’s unspoken, but I know it’s a done deal. My agent helped me get to Dallas and Boston. Now he’ll be negotiating the job of my life. It’s a good thing, because I’d work for free if they asked me to.

CHAPTER 8

Miami Bureau

BREAKING UP WITH SOMEONE has always been painful for me, but it seems to be a pattern in my life. Mary Beth and I have been living together for more than a year. She has generations of family in Boston and wants to stay. There’s no doubt that I’m leaving. We’ve been growing apart anyway, especially with my career always coming first, not to mention that I’m testier these days as a result of the nagging ache in my back. In no time at all we are saying our final good-byes and I’m gone.

After a few weeks at NBC headquarters at 30 Rock learning the ropes, I’m off to Florida. It’s early 1990, and Miami is a cultural confluence, in rapid transition from a languid resort town for snowbirds to a bustling city of international trade and intrigue. There are neighborhoods of conservative Cubans who escaped the Castro regime. Impoverished Haitians who fled the tortures of Papa and Baby Doc Duvalier. Business moguls from Rio, Bogota, Santiago, and Buenos Aires. Hip entrepreneurs opening dazzling clubs in trendy South Beach. Drug lords from Colombia living incognito in lavish mansions on inland waterways.

With my housing allowance, I can afford to lease a condo on the top floor of a high-rise with sweeping views of the Miami skyline, the bridge to Key Biscayne, and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. Brilliant sunrises dance across the marble floors and tinge the walls with golden hues. Sunsets reflect off the downtown skyline and light the horizon in splashes of pink and red. It’s my very own Rainbow Room, a perch on top of my new world. I’m flushed with excitement… and a little caution. As soon as I can, I find a top-notch massage therapist and arrange for him to come at a moment’s notice to work on my back.

NBC’s Miami Bureau sits on the outskirts of Miami in a non-descript, two-story, white building with dark, reflective windows to mitigate the scorching Florida heat. The minute I step inside, I feel the legacy of the great correspondents who came before me. The bureau came of age in the 1970s during the revolutions in El Salvador and Nicaragua, and the region remains important to NBC News. There are solid stories for me to cover in Miami, but most of my assignments are where I really want to be—down in Nicaragua, Colombia, Guatemala, and El Salvador.

As I travel Latin America, I finally understand why countries here are called banana republics. In the late 1800s, bananas were unknown in North America. Then an ambitious railroad builder from Brooklyn married the daughter of the president of Costa Rica and launched an empire. As he built new railroads, he planted bananas alongside the tracks. Soon, he established numerous plantations and created what became the largest company in the world at that time: United Fruit, with farms, factories, and plantations throughout Latin America.

United Fruit acted like a colonial overlord—controlling commerce, transportation, communications, and the political processes of countries throughout the region. It bought the unconditional support of right-wing dictators who maintained their power by terrorizing their citizens and arresting those who defied their regimes. Workers in the fields were driven off their family farms, paid survival wages, and exposed to working conditions teeming with toxic chemicals and disease. Attempts to unionize and improve conditions were met with brutal force. Peasant uprisings were viciously suppressed. Thousands were tortured or killed. The U.S. State Department consistently supported United Fruit, and the company enjoyed close ties with the CIA, even working with them to overthrow popular leaders and replace them with easily manipulated puppet regimes. The locals in every country nicknamed United Fruit El Pulpo, the octopus.

I discovered the dark side of United Fruit years earlier while I was an investigative reporter at KCRA-TV in Sacramento. I had uncovered a Nazi war criminal living in a retirement home less than ten miles from our TV station. Otto Von Bolschwing was an SS intelligence officer for the masterminds of the Holocaust. After the war, he was given safe haven in the United States, where he worked for the CIA. United Fruit, I ultimately learned, provided his cover job and false identity. As I would discover during my investigations, Von Bolschwing was one of hundreds of Nazi war criminals in the secret program.

The CIA and United Fruit were behind the right-wing military during a bloody, twelve-year civil war in El Salvador that ended in a stalemate, with some negotiated reforms but mostly business as usual. In Nicaragua, however, workers’ advocate Daniel Ortega and his Sandinista Liberation Front managed to galvanize the poor people and, in 1979, overthrew longtime dictator Anastasio Somoza. In subsequent elections, Ortega became leader of the country.

Now in 1990, Ortega is facing the first serious challenge to his presidency. He’s up for reelection against a former colleague named Violeta Barrios de Chamorro, who is being backed by the United States as well as conservative Nicaraguan and foreign business interests who are hoping to re-establish dominance and recover valuable businesses and estates the Sandinistas seized and turned over to workers after the revolution.

“The United States speaks a great deal about liberty and freedom, but it suppresses poor people around the world so that its corporations can make great profits,” Ortega says, making his case to our cameras in the living room at his modest home in Managua, Nicaragua. It’s in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of the city amid rolling green hills dotted with banana trees. Ortega is sipping a mojito, a cocktail that originated in Cuba. Not wanting to be rude to President Ortega, of course, I sip one myself. It’s a sweet blend of sugar cane juice, lime, sparkling water, crushed mint, and white rum. It was Ernest Hemingway’s favorite drink, and I recall having one too many at his favorite haunt, La Bodeguita del Medio, a historic restaurant and bar in Havana, Cuba.

“We have brought justice and dignity to our country,” Ortega continues. “Why does your country seek to turn back the clock?”

The Berlin Wall has just fallen, but the Cold War continues. Ortega has close ties with Cuba, embraces socialism, and is vilified by the American government as a threat to the entire region. It’s the “domino theory,” holding that if one country goes socialist, they all will, posing a dire threat to the United States and democracies throughout the world. The Cold War advocates never mention, however, that the real threat of a workers’ revolution is to companies like United Fruit and the billions in profits they make exploiting third-world labor and resources.

“Maybe your movement swung the pendulum too far the other way,” I say to Ortega as our cameras roll. “There have been abuses and injustices committed by both sides, no?”

“Yes, and we have reined those in. We have punished the perpetrators. Still, this does not compare to more than a century of violence, exploitation, and suffering that your country has supported.”

With Nicaraguan President Daniel Ortega, Managua, 1990.

When I sit down with Violeta Chamorro, she counters Ortega’s argument. “The economy is in shambles. The poorly educated workers cannot run the factories and farms they have been given. The original owners do not deserve to lose their holdings. There must be an accommodation.”

“Some say you are too beholden to the United States,” I respond. “That you will turn your country back into little more than a banana republic.”

“This is not true.” She is firm. Dignified. “I fought against that, and now I am struggling for a better future for all our people.”

I can understand where President Ortega and challenger Chamorro are coming from. Their conflicting views are both valid. In the real world, it’s never good guys versus bad guys. It’s always shades of gray. Ulterior motives. Power struggles. Best and worst intentions. Often at the very same time.

Some accuse the media of liberal bias, but I hear a full array of viewpoints and perspectives at NBC and from colleagues in the field. Sure, there are raging liberals and ardent conservatives, but most are moderates. I’m not interested in taking sides and have never voted a party line. I’ve met few politicians I really trust and none whose rhetoric I take at face value. Our job as journalists is to do our best to find the truth and report it, avoiding outside influences and opinions. I don’t feel Ortega is more correct than Chamorro, or vice versa. As long as I get on the air with a story, I couldn’t care less who wins.

I stay in Nicaragua through the election as Chamorro pulls off an upset victory. There are festivals and protests simultaneously in the streets, live shots to do for Nightly News, packaged reports to produce for the Today Show. By the end of it, my back is on fire again from all the travel and constant standing. I’m popping meds like they’re chicharrónes, the deep fried pork rind snacks so popular in Latin America. My evening glass of wine has become two. Sometimes three. At least I’m in good company. We’re all fairly accomplished drinkers, those of us addicted to exotic settings and occasional war zones.

Back at the Miami Bureau, I’m in survival mode again, carefully hiding the truth about my back from everyone. Some social events are obligatory, but after a few minutes of standing and making casual conversation I start to grit my teeth, look for the nearest exit, and seize my first opportunity to slip out unnoticed. Chronic pain makes me this way: on edge, nervous about the next flare-up, worried that at any moment my life will come crashing down all around me. Every time it flares up I feel a mixture of anger and fear coursing through my veins like hot sauce, which only makes me tenser and exacerbates the pain. Sometimes I want to scream. Other times I want to cry. But I stuff it all inside and just keep shoving myself forward, always diving into the next story.

As the spring of 1990 unfolds, money is tight at NBC, and the network’s interest in Latin America is waning. There’s talk of consolidation and bureau closures. Miami is rumored to be high on the list. My colleagues exchange worried glances, have hushed conversations, and secretly send out resumes. I can’t even process the idea that I could be laid off after being here less than a year. I can’t imagine any other life. I don’t even believe one exists for me.

Then, on August 2, 1990, President Saddam Hussein of Iraq invades Kuwait.

CHAPTER 9

The Persian Gulf War

SADDAM HUSSEIN has been making threats against Kuwait for months, but his invasion still catches most of the world by surprise. Norman Schwarzkopf, head of the U.S. Central Command, had been predicting a limited attack to seize the rich Kuwaiti oil fields. Instead, within hours, Iraqi forces have taken downtown Kuwait City and are headed south toward Saudi Arabia.

The Pentagon fears that Saddam’s forces could roll into Saudi Arabia next, giving Iraq control over much of the world’s oil supplies. This triggers the largest buildup of American forces since the Vietnam War. Members of the U.S. Army 82nd Airborne Division, along with 300 combat aircraft, are quickly flown into strategic bases throughout Saudi Arabia.

By the end of September 1990, close to 200,000 American personnel have been deployed to defend the Saudis in Operation Desert Shield, soon to be renamed Operation Desert Storm. Schwarzkopf and other American commanders believe an offensive to liberate Kuwait City remains too risky against the heavily armed, well- entrenched Iraqi forces, so they call for international support and prepare for the largest military offensive in history.

“Are you willing to volunteer to go to the Middle East and cover the war?” Don Browne asks, knowing my answer already. Since our lives will be at risk, network legal policy requires that we volunteer rather than be assigned to the story. That limits legal exposure for the parent company, General Electric, should we be killed in action.

“When do I leave?”

“This weekend. I already have your ticket arranged. We’ll take care of your bills while you’re gone.”

“How long will I be there?” I ask, trying to gauge NBC’s commitment to the story given its financial woes.

“As long as it takes,” Brown replies. “Three months, six months, a year. Nobody knows. Just get going and keep your head down.”

I buy a new pair of boots, have my doctor write six months’ worth of prescriptions, pack my bags, empty my refrigerator, and give the bureau details for handling my bills. NBC is already beginning to send its own army into Saudi Arabia, and the coverage will cost a fortune. I’m now convinced the Miami Bureau is going to close, so I say good-bye to my Rainbow Room, knowing I might never see it again.

Dhahran International Hotel in Saudi Arabia sits on the Persian Gulf about 200 miles south of the Kuwait border. It’s a perfect headquarters for the international media. The massive lobby is thronged day and night with journalists from around the world. I’m beyond ecstatic as I wade through the crowd, check in at the reception desk, then hunt for our bureau. It’s one of scores of news bureaus that have been set up in every available conference room, office, and suite, and it takes a while to find. When I do locate it, I meet a dozen NBC producers, photographers, and editors for the very first time, feeling like I’ve truly joined the network’s global family.

Desert Storm is expanding fast, as two dozen other nations send in troops. They’re called Coalition Forces, but it remains largely a U.S. effort. More than 540,000 American troops will pour in, with Britain a distant second, providing only 43,000 soldiers. Because the military can’t accommodate hundreds of reporters in the field, the major national broadcast and print media outlets are being assigned limited slots for “pool reporters.” These chosen few will be posted with divisions of the Army, Navy, and Marines. Their reports will be pooled, shared with the media back at the hotel for their own broadcast purposes.

We have several correspondents here, all with more tenure than I, but NBC has given me one of its few spots: pool reporter for the Marines. I immediately realize it’s more important than ever to conceal how bad my back is. Anyway, I’m ready to do anything and everything asked of me. The betting is that the Army, with its massive numbers, heavy artillery, and tanks, will be the first to surge into Kuwait. That is the prime place to be as a pool reporter. But I’m happy just to be picked, and I prefer the Marines. They’re rougher around the edges and quicker on the move.

Then comes the bad news. Before any of us are allowed into the field as pool correspondents, we have to pass a physical. It’s not a doctor’s office workup with temperature and blood pressure. It’s a workout with a minimum of fifty sit-ups, twenty-five push-ups, five pull-ups, and then running a loop behind the hotel that looks to be almost a mile. The push-ups and pull-ups are the easiest for me and I get them out of the way quickly. I have to fake the sit-ups, being constrained by my brace, yet I manage to get through it. But the running?

I was never a runner. I hated it when we had to do the weekly mile around the track in high school. Whenever the coach wasn’t looking, I’d dive behind the bleachers, hide until the final lap, then sneak out, and sprint in while trying to conceal the guilty look on my face. And I certainly haven’t tried to run since fracturing my spine four years ago. The mere thought of it hurts.

Am I going to fail this test and be sent home or ordered to sit in the hotel bureau and log videotape? No. I’ve gotten this far, back pain and all, and nothing is going to knock me out of this game. I take a few deep breaths at the starting line and decide to go as fast as I can. Just go, just go, just go, I scream silently to myself with every breath. After twenty yards, my heart is pounding and my back is throbbing. Down a dead-end street behind the hotel…looping back now through a parking lot…almost last in my group.

Just go, just go, just go. Crossing the finish line, I’m in a daze. I must get to my hotel room. I can’t let anyone see me limp. Stopping a bellhop in the lobby while panting like a mad dog, I hand him a wad of Saudi riyals. “Bring enough ice to my room to fill the bathtub please. Right now, please. Right away.”

I stagger to the elevator and lie down inside of it when the doors close. I crawl to my room and swallow a load of Motrin and slip a handful of Valium under my tongue. Next, I open a bottle of Chivas Regal and gulp down a shot. Alcohol is illegal here. An American woman I met at the hotel restaurant is a flight attendant for the Saudi Royal Family’s private fleet of jets. She smuggled the bottle to me as a gift, along with a tin of expensive Beluga caviar. I smile at the hypocrisy of the royals in this Islamic monarchy, whooping it up on their private jets filled with booze and beautiful women while Saudi citizens caught drinking are punished with public lashings. I swig another shot and feel it burn all the way down to my belly.

The bellhop arrives and pours the ice in the tub. I hide the Chivas behind my back and try not to breathe in his direction. I tear my clothes off the moment he closes the door, struggling with my jeans and boots because of the pain shooting through my back. As I finally pull my socks off, my legs are on fire. My spine feels like it’s been hit with a grenade. I spread a bath towel over the freezing bed of ice and lie down in the tub, the bottle of Chivas clutched in my left hand and the tin of caviar on my belly. Ahhhhh.

One week later, I’m sitting on a narrow wooden bench in the rear of an open troop truck, bouncing through the desert. It takes all day to reach the Marine encampment. I have to cinch my back brace tight, clench my teeth, grip the railings, and wedge my boots against a heavy wooden ammo box to support myself the whole way. When we finally arrive, I learn we’re a hundred miles inland and less than five miles from the Kuwait border and Iraq’s army. For now, this is the front line of the ground war.

The desert is flat, barren, and endless, except for a berm, a long mountain of sand that’s been bulldozed along the border to slow down Saddam’s tanks if they invade Saudi territory. We’re on one side of the berm. Iraq’s notorious Republican Guard is on the other. Literally dug in. Its artillery is camouflaged, tanks are buried under the sand, and troops are holed up in underground bunkers. The Marines are all business, exercising and holding strategy sessions throughout the day. Their toughness is remarkable and their commitment is unshakeable, but I also sense apprehension and a silent fear. Many of these men have yet to turn twenty, and most have never seen combat.

My cameraman and I have been assigned to one of the many tents in the Marine encampment. It’s sweltering during the day, freezing at night. Scores of little rats, the color of desert sand, flit through our tents in the darkness hoping to find an open MRE, meal ready to eat—the standard military ration that sits in your gut like a bomb. Little snakes and large, fat lizards slither in and out looking for mice. We are in the middle of nowhere, knowing at any time all hell could break loose. I love it.

But it’s a waiting game. The Coalition Forces are continuing to build and refine their plans to push north into Kuwait while simultaneously staying on high alert for Saddam’s forces coming south. A junior officer serving as a press aide, called a flack, is always standing behind me, keeping an eye on my cameraman and listening closely to every word I say. He wants no controversy, insists on overseeing everything we shoot, and aggressively blocks answers to even the most benign questions I ask the Marines. At the same time, he pushes light, superficial stories, like a feature on MOPP suits the troops have been issued.

MOPP stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture chemical uniforms. It’s a heavy rubber body suit with a head cover and gas mask that’s bulky and ill fitting. Even though we’re all apprehensive about the chemical and biological weapons Saddam is widely rumored to possess, the MOPP suits strike me as ridiculous and I doubt they will protect us. I do imagine, however, that some well-connected defense contractor is making millions selling these getups to the Pentagon. I need to find a real story.

One night after my flack has gone to sleep in his tent, I join a group of Marines in a deep cave they’ve dug in the moist sand and covered like a bunker, creating an underground clubhouse where they can gather and let off steam. Using a night-vision lens on a small video camera, I begin interviewing them by candlelight. I’ve gotten to know these men over the past several weeks, and they’re finally loosening up around me.

“I admit it, I’m scared,” one Marine says bluntly.

“We don’t know what’s going to happen when we roll over that berm,” another says, “but it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

A third says, “Let’s admit it, we’re not even sure what the reasons are behind this war.”

When I ask what they think the real reason for the war is, everyone gets quiet. “It doesn’t matter,” one Marine finally says. “We’re here to fight and we’re ready to go.” All the men agree with this. After all, they’re Marines. Without the flack listening in, these Marines are speaking their truth, letting us in on their emotions, being real. This is incredibly moving material and there’s no way to exaggerate how much I admire these brave warriors. I know the flack would kill this story in an instant, because his job is to show troops who are nothing but gung ho with no reservations about the looming conflict.

To file my reports, I have to write my notes for the pool, which includes all the networks, then write and record separate stories for NBC, and send both with the videotapes via military courier for a long trip back to Dhahran. The flack always reviews the material and wants to edit every script I write, but I keep this one from him, slipping it in with the feature story on the MOPP gear. I know he would go ballistic if he saw this stuff, especially because we shot it without his permission. It always takes a few days for the material to arrive in Dhahran and, being in the desert, I have no idea what happens to the reports. But when this story makes Nightly News and the other networks in the pool, the military’s public relations machine goes crazy and I hear about it immediately.

My flack, who must have been admonished by his superiors, screams at me and even makes an empty threat of violence. I respond by telling him I’m leaving to cover another Marine unit, having just heard that Marines in Khafji recently came under some artillery fire from the Iraqi Republican Guard. Khafji is a Saudi city sitting on the Persian Gulf just below the border of Kuwait, and this is the first time the Iraqi Republican Guard has launched an attack over the border. I go directly to Command and Control headquarters at our current location and ask to be reassigned. As the pool reporter for the Marines, I argue, it’s my duty to get to Khafji immediately because it’s where the news is happening and those Marines need their story told. Within a day, my request is approved. My cameraman and I pack up and head out in one of NBC’s four-wheel drive Jeeps, both of us glad to be gone after a month of frustration and thankful for the independence we’ll now have by being on our own.

We arrive at the new Marine camp at dark and are taken to the tent that houses this unit’s division headquarters. General John Admire, who’s in charge, is a calm and gentle man. I explain why I left the first unit and make my case for joining his. “We’ll cover whatever you have going on with complete objectivity,” I tell him straight off, “but we’ll always tell the whole story. I don’t want a flack on my back all the time trying to manage the news.”

“We don’t have a flack here,” Admire says in a tone that is strong yet soft. “You do your job, we’ll do ours, and I’m sure we’ll all get along fine.”

We’re given cots in a small tent near headquarters and manage to make it to dinner before the mess hall closes. General Admire’s unit is part of the First Marines. Nicknamed “The Old Breed,” it’s the oldest and largest active duty division in the United States Marine Corps, with a ground combat force of more than 19,000 men and women. As promised, the general allows me full access, even letting us into the briefing room with a camera as he plans strategy with his men and updates them on the latest intelligence. Admire also agrees to an on-camera interview, discussing the artillery attack, which missed its mark and created no casualties. Then he offers a candid assessment of the coming war. He is insightful and straightforward, telling the world it won’t be easy but that it will be done right and the Coalition Forces will prevail. It’s the first time a general in the field has gone on-record like this, and it gives me the strongest reports I’ve filed since going into the field.

The following day, we drive to the port of Khafji to cover a unit of the National Guard providing security for coalition ships in the Gulf. Most of these men are part-time Guardsmen who got called up for the war. They’re not as indoctrinated as the regular troops, and they prove to be completely candid.

“This war has nothing to do with democracy,” one Guardsman says bluntly, stunning me with his candor.

“And America couldn’t care less about liberating the Kuwaitis,” another agrees.

A third says, “We all know it’s about oil. Just oil.”

A fourth chimes in, “Who wants to die for oil? Not me!” Everyone nods in agreement.

When this story hits the air, it causes a roar far greater than the report from the underground clubhouse. Even though Kuwait is a monarchy with a history of injustice and oppression, the White House and Pentagon have worked hard to cast Desert Storm as a fight for freedom and democracy, not oil. Top brass from the National Guard are flown in to make public statements about the commitment of their troops, the men who spoke their minds are reprimanded, and General Admire tells me he’s been pressured to send me packing.

“I told them no,” Admire says. “We made an agreement. You tell the truth and we do our jobs. That’s how democracies operate, and freedom of speech is one of the key things that sets us apart from dictators like Saddam.”

A few nights later, on January 29, 1991, the Iraqi Army invades Khafji, its first and only ground incursion into Saudi Arabia, and the First Marines spring into action. It’s the biggest story yet, and we’re the only media here.

For reasons of politics and appearances, the First Marines are ordered to hold a position just outside of Khafji while Saudi and Qatari forces take the front lines as Coalition Forces provide air support. On the second night, however, artillery shells begin to burst all around us. Everyone but me drags on the bulky MOPP suits and gas masks as we dive into bunkers. We’ve been warned repeatedly that Saddam might use chemical and biological weapons, and all of us are terrified by the prospect. But I have no faith in the protective gear and it’s a pain to get it on with a bad back. My cameraman understandably chooses to stay in the bunker as I grab his camera, crawl out, and film the greatest fireworks show I’ve ever seen. It’s an instinctual act. I’m not courageous or suffering from illusions of invincibility. I just can’t help myself.

The battle to take back Khafji rages for days. We push up to the outskirts with the Marines and film from a distance as the Saudi and Qatari ground forces fight to take back the city. Each night we return to our tent. The next morning we rush back to the front lines. Roadblocks are set up at strategic points to keep Saudis from driving to Khafji. We only get past them because I’m the pool reporter.

One morning at dawn we’re stopped at a roadblock by Marines I don’t recognize. A British print journalist is there claiming he is the pool reporter. It’s not the first time my colleagues or I have departed from the truth to get to the action, but with two of us there, the Marines aren’t letting either of us pass.

I pull my colleague aside and say, “Look, I’m the pool reporter. Everyone gets the story once we send it back to Dhahran. You have to take off.”

“Piss off,” is his answer. He wants the story exclusively for himself, everyone else be damned. If he can’t go, he’s wants to block access for the pool so that no one will get the news. It’s all I can do to not grab him by the collar and force him to leave.

“Time for you both to turn around and depart,” a Marine at the barricade says with stern authority.

“Radio General Admire,” I ask with urgency. “Ask him who the pool reporter is. This guy is a liar.” The Marine pauses, tired of all this. But he finally agrees with my plea. Within minutes he has an answer. The British journalist is sent packing with his tail between his legs. Months later I will learn that he went home and wrote false stories trying to damage my reputation.

After days of conflict, the Iraqis retreat. We enter Khafji with the Marines as they secure the area, which is now a ghost town filled with death. There are bodies of Iraqi soldiers and Saudi civilians littering the streets. Iraqi tanks destroyed by Coalition air strikes sit in the hot sand, their gray metal frames burned black. Scorched soldiers, charred like burned marshmallows, poke out of the tanks with contorted faces and flailing arms, frozen in time as they desperately tried to escape when the rockets hit their tanks. It’s so macabre that my emotions go numb as I take close-up still photos.

We file our reports every day until the battle for Khafji is over. To bypass the sluggish military courier system, I drive our Jeep for several hours every night to Dhahran and deliver our tapes, then turn around and speed back, often arriving just before daybreak, collapsing for an hour or two on my cot before heading back into the field. It’s exhausting, but the adrenaline rush keeps me going and helps hold my physical pain at bay. When it’s finally over, the horror of Khafji remains fresh in my mind, but I feel a tremendous thrill of accomplishment and have an even deeper understanding of how addictive war can be.

With General John Admire, Khafji, Saudi Arabia, February 1991.

A few weeks later, the Coalition ground war is launched and I have more good fortune. It isn’t the Army leading the charge toward Kuwait City as everyone expected; it’s the First Marines.

As we cross the desert, most of the roads have been blown up or strewn with land mines, and we’re forced to move at a snail’s pace. The retreating Iraqi forces have set the Kuwaiti oil fields on fire as part of their scorched-earth policy. More than 700 burning wells are spewing so much thick smoke into the atmosphere that the sky is black even at midday. Oil constantly rains down, covering our clothing, saturating our hair, and flooding our eyes, noses, ears, and lungs.

It takes two grueling days to make it less than a hundred miles across the desert. Portions of the highway have been destroyed, forcing us to navigate around these areas by driving through the firm sand, where the Iraqis have managed to set a few landmines. The First Marines are just ahead of us and we follow their tire tracks with precision to avoid setting off an explosion. On the second day, we catch up with the Marines a few miles outside Kuwait City. Columns of escaping Iraqi vehicles have been hit so heavily by Coalition air strikes that the road has been nicknamed the “Highway of Death.”

To reach the city, we have to drive through, around, and over heaps of twisted steel. There are bodies littered everywhere. Some are still clinging to life. Others are in pieces and strewn among the wreckage. A few hundred yards from the city, we stop to film. As I walk through the carnage, I have to keep from slipping in pools of blood. When I stop to steady myself, I see a caterpillar on my pant cuff. It’s quivering. I lean down, pick it off, and examine it. My breath stops as I realize it’s not a caterpillar. It’s the upper lip of an Iraqi soldier, covered by a thick mustache. And it’s still warm.

More than feeling startled or repulsed, I’m deeply saddened. Throughout the ages we’ve attacked and destroyed one another in endless unspeakable ways, and as I drop the piece of human flesh, I wonder if we’ll ever evolve to a point where we’re mature enough to find a better way to resolve our differences. It’s a brief reflection, then I hop back into our Jeep and we push on into the city.

A towering five-star hotel sits across from the U.S. Embassy in the heart of downtown Kuwait City. The fleeing Iraqis have sacked every room and it’s now deserted. It’s the perfect place to set up our broadcast headquarters. I find a suite on the third floor with a wide balcony overlooking the embassy. It’s completely trashed, but the view is perfect and we quickly get set up. Soon, Tom Brokaw arrives from Saudi Arabia to anchor the retaking of Kuwait for Nightly News, debriefing me live as the Marines rappel from helicopters into the U.S. Embassy compound and raise the American flag.

There are small groups in the streets cheering the Americans as liberators, but most Kuwaitis have fled or remain in hiding. The city has been pillaged, and many have been murdered. After covering the securing of the embassy, I find my way to the main hospital, seeking to interview wounded citizens. Surprisingly, there are only a few Iraqi soldiers in the trauma ward, all with minor wounds. Their glances are furtive. I suspect they fled to the hospital rather than get caught in the Coalition air attack.

With Tom Brokaw, Kuwait City, Kuwait, 1991.

“Where are your wounded Kuwaitis?” I ask the doctor who has allowed me in.

“There are none,” he answers matter-of-factly. “If they are here, they are dead.”

“Where?” I say.

“In the basement morgue.”

“Please take me there.”

“You do not want to see this.”

“Yes, we must. Please. Let’s go there now, doctor.”

The stench in the morgue is tremendous. We have to wear hospital masks over our noses and mouths, and it barely cuts the acrid odor. Bodies are piled everywhere, heaped on top of one another. I see dead men with horrid facial wounds. Tongues cut out. Acid poured over their faces. Eyes gouged out. Some have been castrated. Others have multiple gunshot and stab wounds. The bodies of young girls show signs of violent rape, some with iron construction rods, called rebar, forced into their body cavities. I am overwhelmed with grief. What dark evil dwells within us that could ever prompt such atrocities?

None of the horrors in this morgue can be broadcast, but we film anyway so there is a record of this savagery. It’s likely the Iraqi soldiers lying comfortably in their hospital beds three flights above me took part in some of this grotesque torture. I feel a surge of rage. Part of me wants to find a weapon, burst in, and shoot them dead. Then I realize my response would be a mild version of the same madness that drove them to commit such horrible acts of cruelty.

“Doesn’t it outrage you, treating those Iraqi soldiers in your trauma ward?” I ask the Kuwaiti doctor as we depart the hellish morgue.

“It is my oath as a physician,” he says calmly. “I am here to save lives, whomever they might be.”

It’s an extraordinary expression of compassion in the face of demonic human behavior. I’ve met many heroes while covering this war, but this is a man whose courage, integrity, and compassion I will never forget.

CHAPTER 10

The Gulf War Aftermath: Kurdistan

THE PAIN. It always gets worse when I’m exhausted. Tonight, at the end of another long day, a sharp, electric sensation shoots down the back of my left leg, spiking into my heel bone. This has been happening more frequently lately. It feels like a tripwire from a grenade is lodged in my lower back, ready to explode if I make the wrong move. I take a few extra pain pills and slip into my sleeping bag on the bed of my sacked hotel room across from the American Embassy in Kuwait. As has become my nightly routine, I whisper to myself that the pain will be gone for good in the morning. It has to go away. It just has to.

This is my fifth day in Kuwait City. The Iraqi Army has proven to be no match for the Allied Forces led by the Americans, and has fled home in disgrace. Operation Desert Storm is over. Kuwait has been liberated. But there’s hardly time to breathe as a new crisis begins to unfold in the northern provinces of Iraq.

The region is known as Kurdistan: a rugged, mountainous territory spanning a wide area where the borders of Iraq, Turkey, Iran, and Syria converge. The Iraqi Kurds, some 4 million strong, have sought independence for more than a century. Their armed fighters are known as peshmerga, which literally means “those who face death.” And face death they have, suffering massacres and mass casualties at the hands of Iraqi troops every time they have risen up for independence. Now emboldened by Saddam’s defeat in Kuwait, a new uprising has begun.

Saddam’s troops have swarmed into Kurdistan to crush the revolt, overrunning and pillaging village after village. It was just eight years ago that the Kurds suffered a similar fate when they sided with neighboring Iran during the Iran–Iraq War. Scores of villages were destroyed. Thousands were killed. And at the end of the war, in 1988, Saddam hit the Kurds with chemical weapons in a massacre known as Bloody Friday. It was this attack that convinced America that Saddam would use chemical weapons against U.S. forces in the Gulf War. Now, millions of Kurds are fleeing into the high mountain ranges along the Turkish-Iraqi frontier. Their maxim has long been, “Kurds have no friends but the mountains.” It’s the only safe haven they have.

I’ve been posted to a base camp established for the media just across the border in southern Turkey, covering the Kurdish refugee crisis for NBC News. Periodically, U.S. Army helicopters lift us into the mountain refugee camps, banking down steep, sheer cliffs to avoid the possibility of Iraqi artillery fire. It’s harsh terrain, far from friendly to the Kurds. Conditions in the camps are beyond dismal. Each family has put up a small tent for shelter. They only have what little food they could bring, mostly grain, and it is running out fast. Winter is yet to come, but the bitter cold is here. Merchants and artisans, farmers and traders, grandmothers and infants huddle together to keep warm, wondering if they’ll ever see their villages again. The fear of Saddam and his brutal army is palpable, even visible in their terrified stares.

The camps are just above the timberline. Most of the available wood has been gathered and burned for cooking a traditional gruel, called sawar, made with crushed wheat grain. The sawar is running out, and the United States has begun airdropping Army rations, the MREs that stuck in my belly while I was a pool reporter with the Marines. These ancient people can’t digest this food, and diarrhea abounds. There is no sanitation, and the Kurds often relieve themselves right in front of their tents. As a result, dehydration has begun claiming lives, and there are fears of a cholera outbreak. As so often happens in war, children are the first victims. Already, a few mothers with glazed eyes cling to cold, lifeless babies, refusing to acknowledge they have lost their infants.

Kurdish Refugee Camp, Northern Iraq, 1991.

A French medic from Médecins Sans Frontières, a renowned humanitarian organization that provides medical aid to victims of war, is with one young woman. She’s holding her dead child in her arms as she wanders aimlessly through the camp. She appears to have no other family. Our best guess is that her husband was killed by the Iraqis. This fragile young mother, extremely thin from lack of nourishment, can’t be more than sixteen years old. Her thick, matted auburn hair hangs down over her face like a mask but can’t conceal her intense blue eyes, which are locked in an empty stare. Time feels as frozen as the sharp icicles hanging from tattered refugee tents. Neither of us speaks her language, so we simply comfort her by wrapping a warm blanket around her shoulders.

We wait by the mother’s side, hoping she will come to the realization that it’s best to allow a burial. Finally, she begins to sob, almost imperceptibly, and slowly offers the child to the medic without ever making eye contact. He gently receives the bundle and walks softly toward the makeshift burial pit. The young mother stands like a statue, gazing at the ice-cold ground. It’s a stark reminder that the pain eating away at my back right now is nothing for me to whine about.

In the valleys below the refugee camps, the same U.S. and British air forces that have been airlifting aid to the refugees have established a no-fly zone, promising to shoot down any Iraqi aircraft that violates this decree. They also have moved ground forces into Kurdistan that are pushing the Iraqi Army out of Kurdish cities and back toward Baghdad. It’s delicate. Any direct conflict could trigger another allout war. The Pentagon calls it Operation Provide Comfort, and while journalists have been allowed to fly on Army helicopters into the mountain refugee camps, we’ve been denied access to this dangerous ground game.

After covering the refugee crisis, I manage to get ahold of an old camper van with a bed and stove that NBC has rented indefinitely. This becomes my living quarters at the media camp just across the Iraq border in Turkey. I need it. It’s getting tougher to wriggle into a sleeping bag with a sore back, and the ground feels like it keeps getting harder. The camper bed, by contrast, feels luxurious. And the vehicle gives me some freedom of movement. We’re not allowed to wander from the media camp without military permission, but I can’t help myself. I want to cover the war, not just the refugee crisis. So I decide to make an attempt to cross the border secretly into Iraq.

When my Turkish cameraman and I drive the camper up to the Iraqi border checkpoint early the next morning, it’s desolate and eerily quiet. Trash is strewn everywhere. There’s no one in sight. We slow to a crawl, zigzagging around cement barricades that are posted with Arabic signs warning that the border is closed. We warily move toward a group of inspection buildings that look abandoned. Just as we’re about to cross, a lone Iraqi border guard in a tan uniform appears from a small guard stand.

“Qef!” He shouts the Arabic word for “stop” with menacing authority. The guard is in his fifties, tall and beefy. With his hair and moustache dyed black, he looks like an impersonator of Saddam Hussein. He is clearly a Sunni Muslim. The Sunnis and Shiites are factions of Islam. Sunnis form the minority in Iraq, but they hold power. This means they typically get the better jobs, run the government, and form the backbone of the military. I was hoping we would find a Kurdish guard, or maybe a Shiite who might be pleased that America just vanquished Saddam in Kuwait. But instead we’re in a dicey situation.

Pointing his automatic rifle just above our heads, the guard aggressively waves us to a halt. I can’t understand much beyond qef, but he’s clearly asserting control and demanding to know what we’re doing here. I slowly reach into my shirt pocket and carefully hand him a large wad of crumpled Turkish lira, offering a reasonable border crossing fee for these dangerous times, with a friendly smile, of course. He pauses, staring me hard in the eyes as if he’d rather shoot me than return my smile. Then he takes the money and sternly waves us through with his rifle. I punch the gas pedal and drive as fast as the old camper will go, just in case he changes his mind.

We soon arrive in Zakho, a normally bustling trading center that has become a ghost town. Zakho was once home to the ancient Catholic Diocese of Malta. It was also called “The Jerusalem of Kurdistan” before brutal campaigns against the Jewish population sent this small religious minority fleeing to Palestine in 1920. That left Zakho predominantly Kurdish, until now. It appears all 600,000 residents have fled into the mountains. We can’t find a single soul as we film looted stores, empty homes, broken windows—the visible evidence of hasty exits and shattered lives.

We return to the border before nightfall, passing the same guard, who apparently lives in a nearby shack and is the only one here. In the media camp, we reveal our crossing point to no one. I only let our producer at our Turkish base camp know that I’ve discovered a route into Kurdistan and am going back the following morning. I quickly send one of NBC’s Kurdish assistants for beer. He has to travel more than a hundred miles north to the Turkish city of Diyarbakir to buy it. When he returns, I take the beer and make a bargain with the American soldiers: beer for MREs. They love this deal and I’m quickly stocked full, ready for my road trip, with more than a few extra beers stashed in the camper for myself.

The next morning at dawn, I give the border guard another crossing fee plus a six-pack of beer, just so we can stay friends. Despite my generosity and thoughtfulness, he still won’t return my smile. My cameraman and I pass through Zakho and drive into the expansive valley beyond. Here we film deserted villages, destroyed Iraqi vehicles, huge caches of abandoned artillery shells, wooden crates of ammunition, and empty Iraqi bunkers. I walk gingerly toward each bunker, carefully inspecting the dirt pathways and occasionally spotting a trip wire. These must be connected to small explosive devices, so we get off the trail and approach through the brush to reach the bunkers and film their contents.

I’m on high alert every moment, scanning the horizon and scrutinizing every road. Iraqi troops are still in command of certain areas, and if we’re discovered before we can hook up with American or British troops, my best guess is that they will take us prisoner, interrogate and beat us, accuse us of being spies for the CIA, and ship us south to a Baghdad prison or even a public execution. It’s hard to describe what a rush it is having this story all to myself, danger all around us, my heart pumping like a piston. I feel like I have to keep proving myself to the network again and again. Stay ahead of the pack. Get the exclusive story. Push forward and then push and push some more, hiding the back pain all the while.

We’re gone for days, winding through an ancient and now abandoned land as eerie and silent as Zakho. Signs of war abound, with destroyed trucks and automobiles lying by the roadsides, many flipped onto their sides and riddled with bullets. I have to periodically siphon gas from one of these wrecks to keep the camper going. Whenever we stop to do this, I make a perfect target for a sniper, so I’m on even higher alert, ducking down and concealing myself as best I can.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” A heavily armed convoy has suddenly appeared from a side road and stops us dead in our tracks. I can’t believe I never heard or saw them coming, and I’m profoundly relieved when I spot American soldiers holding M60 machine guns at the ready.

“I’m American, and I have I.D!” I say quickly and loudly as I fumble for the pool reporter badge I still keep in my canvas shoulder bag along with other essentials. “I covered the war. This is my cameraman, and he is Turkish, not Iraqi!”

It takes a few minutes for trust to be established, but soon we shake hands, everyone smiles, and we join the soldiers as they continue to secure the countryside. It’s still a powder keg, with occasional tense negotiations and verbal conflicts between the advancing Americans and reluctantly retreating Iraqis. But the Americans clearly have the upper hand. Whenever an Iraqi commander refuses to withdraw his men farther south, an A-10 Warthog fighter jet is radioed in. It screams over our heads at the lowest possible altitude as a reminder of who has supremacy in the region. The aircraft got its name because, like a warthog, it is loud, ugly, and dangerous. The flyovers work every time.

After a few days, we sneak back across the border into the media camp and file our reports. Stocking up on more Army MREs and grabbing more beer for the border guard, we head back into Kurdistan as quickly as we can. Tonight, an ancient village called al-Amadiyah has become our safe haven. It’s perched on the flat top of a high, rocky mountain rising majestically from the valley floor. My Turkish cameraman tells me that, with a history dating back more than 5,000 years, al-Amadiyah was once home to the priests of ancient Persia known as the Magi. The most notable Magi were the Three Wise Men who made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, taking offerings of gold, frankincense, and myrrh to Jesus Christ shortly after his birth.

Given its unique location, al-Amadiyah has long provided great security for its 6,000 residents, but, like everywhere else here, it’s been overrun by the Iraqi military. The city is intact, but the stores and homes have been looted and al-Amadiyah is deserted, except for a few free-roaming chickens pecking in dirt yards by dusty clay homes. We’ve run out of our pasty army rations and can find nothing to eat in the looted stores, so I’ve been trying to catch a scrawny chicken all morning. I’m dreaming of gutting and plucking it, cooking it on my camper stove, lathering it with a one-ounce bottle of Tabasco that came in an MRE, and devouring the bird like a barbarian.

It’s amazing how our perspectives can shift: what becomes important and what lacks significance in circumstances such as these. Three of my most precious possessions are the tiny Tabasco bottle, a roll of thick twine I use to replace my worn-out boot strings, and my Swiss Army Knife. The comforts of home we cling to, the overflow of possessions stored in our cupboards, closets, and garages, are utterly meaningless to me now. My belly is screaming, and all I want is a meal. Despite my desperate efforts, I can’t catch the damn chicken, and my back is killing me from the attempt.

“Thok-thok-thok-thok-thok.”

I suddenly hear it. The distant sound of a helicopter. Louder now. As I head toward my camper, an American Blackhawk helicopter swoops overhead, creating a huge dust cloud as it lands in a nearby field. I forget all about the chicken and hurry over as General John Shalikashvili steps out of the Blackhawk and walks toward me. With his oversized glasses, short stature, and pepper-gray hair, the general looks more like a fatherly librarian than a commander, but he is a born leader with an amazing life story.

Shalikashvili is the son of a prince from the Republic of Georgia forced into exile when the Russians invaded his homeland. As a child, he lived through the destruction of Warsaw while his father fought against the Third Reich. At age sixteen, hardly speaking a word of English, he emigrated to America and eventually was granted the first official citizenship he ever held in his life. Then he worked his way through college and ultimately earned a master’s degree in International Relations before joining the Army. An American success story, he is now commander of Operation Provide Comfort.

“How did you get here?” General Shalikashvili asks in his thick eastern European accent when he sees me. I had interviewed him in the media camp and am thankful he recognizes me.

“Lucky, I guess. Why are you here?”

“Just wanted to see this historic city,” the general replies. After looking around with him and getting an on-camera interview, I confess that I’m out of food and low on gas. “How about a ride back to the base camp?” I ask.

“Fine with me,” he says. “Hop in.”

Good things happen when you least expect them. It’s why I like to step outside the boundaries and follow my instincts. The chopper is full, so my cameraman stays behind and waits for my return later that day. The general agrees to have me back in al-Amadiyah before sundown. This trip would have taken days in the camper, but we make it in just over an hour in his sleek and powerful Blackhawk. Along the way, the views of Kurdistan are breathtaking. I poke a camera out the open door and film stunning panoramas that will add great visual texture to my reports.

When we land at the media camp, reporters run through the dust cloud to question the general. There are looks of shock as I jump out first and hurry my videotapes and reports to our editing trailer, trying not to wince from the pain or look like I’m limping. I grab a handful of MREs from the stash my Turkish helper has been acquiring in my absence. There is noticeable anger from the media mob when I reboard the Blackhawk and we lift back into the sky. Every reporter wants equal access to every story. It’s part of the natural competition among us, and we can get furious when it looks like someone has elbowed us out of something. I’m no exception to this rule.

The trip to base camp was a breeze, but by the time we land back in al-Amadiyah my spine is on fire again. I have burning sciatica down the backs of both legs, especially the left one. I have to steady myself getting out of the chopper and limp to my cameraman’s tent to share dinner. We talk briefly about what tomorrow might bring, deciding to push farther south at the break of dawn. The sun has set quickly and it’s a moonless night, but the sky is exploding with stars so bright that it’s easy to find my way back to my camper.

The pain is excruciating. I pop a beer and chug it down in one continuous gulp, then roll onto my bed and unzip my shoulder bag. Before I came to the Gulf, a friend who specializes in tropical medicine put together an emergency field kit for me. It has bandages, sutures and salves, antibiotics, and antibacterials. It also contains potent amphetamines in case I’m forced to flee long distances without sleep, Vicodin pills for minor trauma, and injectable morphine for more serious wounds. These are heavy drugs. Far heavier than anything I’ve been prescribed.

I witnessed what hard drugs could do to people in my teenage years, so I’ve avoided the medications in the kit. But my prescription bottles of Valium and Motrin are empty. My circumstances pale in comparison to the wounds I’ve seen, but I need relief. I take the field kit out of my canvas shoulder bag and fold it open. Rolling onto my bed, I begin my own Operation Provide Comfort. Everything starts to feel like slow motion.

Staring now at the syringe and bottle of morphine. Feeling wounded…

Starting to remove the plastic casing from around the needle. It crinkles in my fingers…

Pulling the cap off a sterilized needle and screwing it onto a syringe…

Gazing at my right shoulder muscle…

Beginning to push the needle through the soft rubber seal of the morphine bottle…

Don’t do it. A voice in the back of my head whispers insistently before I draw the clear, oily fluid into the syringe. Save this in case you are truly hurt.

I take a deep breath, cap the needle, and unscrew it from the syringe. Drop the syringe back into the kit with a soft thud. But I do open the Vicodin. It’s a powerful narcotic analgesic often used after surgery. I take a double dose and swallow it while chugging down a second beer. Rolling to one side, I peer out the camper window and see the North Star shimmering in the sky. It looks to me like a celestial beacon, and I wonder if there are any Wise Men left on Earth who might guide us out of this madness of war.

Woozy now.

Warm.

Fuzzy.

No pain.

Drifting.

Gone.

Iraqi forces have retreated to Baghdad and Coalition troops are pulling out of northern Iraq. Operation Provide Comfort is declared a success. The media has finally been allowed to cross the border, and they flood in. A United Nations refugee camp, being furiously constructed in a wide swath of open land just outside Zakho, is being established as a temporary stop for the thousands of Kurdish refugees still in the mountains. The Kurds are wary. They fear Saddam has little respect for the U.N. and will return to slaughter them once the troops depart. It takes delicate negotiations to coax them down before winter strikes.

As the Kurds finally flood into the camp, sanitation becomes a crisis. Diarrhea is epidemic and the fields are soon covered with it. A hot sun bakes the earth. Relief trucks roll in and create clouds of dust. An afternoon storm begins to thicken the air. The clouds turn yellow. They hang low and heavy, ominously filled with fecal dust kicked up by the trucks.

“Those clouds are filled with diarrhea and it’s going to rain toxic soup,” I tell a few colleagues in our new location, which lies at one end of the relief operation. They laugh and dismiss the vulgar thought. But I don’t think it’s a joke. I duck into my camper and seal all the windows just before it rains. My windshield turns a sickening brown when it finally pours down.

A few days after the storm, there is more sickness in the camps. Diarrhea, infections, gastroenteritis, and even a few cases of spinal meningitis. It hits the refugees like a fire. Soldiers are down as well. A number of reporters are medivacked out. Thanks to the shelter of my camper, I feel healthy and strong—at least for now. I continue pushing forward, looking for the next story…with the help of a Vicodin or two every time my back pain returns.

CHAPTER 11

Asia Stories

IF I WERE YOU, I’d take Hong Kong,” the senior producer for Nightly News says with conviction as we sit together at his desk in the middle of the network newsroom. “Japan is an economic powerhouse, China is surging, Burma has become Myanmar with a brutal military junta in charge, Cambodia is now Kampuchea and still recovering from the Khmer Rouge bloodbaths, Laos is in chaos, relations with Vietnam need mending. You’ll never be at a loss for important stories.”

Marc Kusnetz is arguably the most intelligent person at NBC’s headquarters at 30 Rock. Remarkably seasoned in domestic and foreign news, he is compact, studious, and handsome, with thicklensed, John Lennon glasses and a bushy head of salt-and-pepper hair. Whenever I want guidance, I seek out Marc, my news guru.

Covering the Gulf War cost NBC a fortune and the Miami Bureau has been closed, so I’m a homeless foreign correspondent. Other bureaus also have been closed or downsized, with photographers, producers, and correspondents let go. It’s been a bloodbath. But because of my work in the Gulf, I’ve survived, and have been offered three choices for a new posting. Two are for what we call domestic news, at a bureau in either Atlanta or Los Angeles. The third is a foreign news posting, in Hong Kong. NBC covers all of Asia from its Hong Kong bureau, with mini-bureaus in Tokyo, Beijing, and Manila. I’ve been fascinated with Asia since the Vietnam War protests of my early teens and have always longed to see it. Hong Kong already was my first choice, and Marc’s confirmation is all I need to finalize my decision.

Hong Kong is like a mini New York on steroids. Carved from China’s southern coast, it’s enclosed by the Pearl River Delta and South China Sea. Its heart is Hong Kong Island, where the British first established a colonial foothold in China after the Opium Wars in the early 1800s. The island’s tallest mountain, Victoria Peak, rises almost 2,000 feet above sea level, offering stunning views of the expansive harbor and burgeoning city below.

In late fall of 1991, I find a beautiful flat on Victoria Peak at the end of a dead-end road in the jungle foliage that rings the mountainside. This is the tropics. Humidity is often above 90 percent, with temperatures topping 100 degrees. The forest is full of cicadas. The drone of their deep mating call constantly fills the air. Dragonflies course the thick breeze like miniature helicopters. Giant, multicolored spiders weave fantastic webs that hang between the branches like canopies. My new home is all windows, with sweeping views of Hong Kong’s dazzling skyline and the vastness of China beyond. Looking out from every room, I feel like an eagle perched above its domain, ready for the hunt.

In the early morning, I often walk from my flat to the top of Victoria Peak and circle the top of the island to exercise my back before it’s boiling outside. The journey begins with a panorama of the South China Sea with its thick scent of salt air. As I wander down the path, there’s a wide natural park on my left, facing the ocean. Wealthy Chinese who live on the Peak gather here at daybreak under the shade of massive, ancient banyan trees, with thick roots hanging down from their branches like vines. The Chinese are doing tai chi, a meditative form of slow-motion movement that dates back to the time of Buddha. Despite the heat and humidity, many of them, men and women alike, wear mink coats as a display of their affluence. Beyond the park, the path becomes remote and heavily wooded, as if far from civilization, and I have it all to myself. Suddenly, halfway around the Peak, the Hong Kong Harbor and skyline come into view again as the din of the city cuts through the silence with a roar. It’s a complete knockout, the most dazzling sight I have ever seen.

Hong Kong is still governed by the British, who are on notice from the People’s Republic of China that the colony will revert back to Chinese control six years from now, in 1997. Known as the bankers of the world, the British have long made Hong Kong the financial center of Asia. The world’s most elite global corporations maintain a high profile here as deals are cut to fund major projects throughout the vast region. It’s like an international village, and the NBC Asia Bureau is smack in the middle of it all.

Hong Kong is also known as a gourmet’s paradise. After a morning of researching stories, my producer and I usually venture out for a sumptuous meal of Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Filipino, or Thai cuisine. The streets are always thronged, and the traffic is thick. Because the British drive on the left side of the road, I’m disoriented and have to be careful not to step out in front of one of the double-decker transport buses that dart by at full throttle just inches away from the curb. At the end of the day, I drop by the Foreign Correspondents’ Club to have a drink with seasoned reporters from around the world and listen as they swap tales of adventure and intrigue.

Before we shoot a story, unless it’s breaking news, we have to pitch it on the conference calls with 30 Rock. Either Nightly News or the Today Show has to want it before we’re allocated a budget and authorized to spend funds. Given the size of Asia, it’s always an extended road trip for us when we do get approval. Then we’re hurriedly packing our gear, dragging a dozen or more heavy metal cases of camera and sound equipment through airports, checking in and out of hotels, loading travel vans, unpacking, then repacking again.

Traveling throughout Asia is fascinating, but the distances between the countries we cover are daunting. Sitting on long flights and working longer hours gnaws at me and fills my body with tension. My lower back is always tender now, and has started to flare up more often. To keep the secret of how much pain I’m in, I’ve doubled the strength of the Valium to relax my muscles, and increased the dosage of Motrin to lower the inflammation. I also have a refillable prescription for Vicodin, the narcotic medication that helps kill the pain. Since I renew all of them as early as possible to ensure I always have extra meds for an emergency, my travel kit is beginning to look like a mobile pharmacy, or maybe a drug dealer’s private stash.

Thai Sex Slaves

Once called the Kingdom of Siam, Thailand enjoys an important strategic location in Southeast Asia and was long a buffer zone between the French and British colonial empires. Bangkok, an exotic and dynamic city of more than 9 million, is a regional force in finance and business. Ancient cultural landmarks stand amid its growing number of skyscrapers. Hundreds of ornate Buddhist temples dot the city, symbols of a deep spiritual heritage. And then there’s Bangkok’s infamous prostitution industry.

There is a slum in central Bangkok called Klong Toei. It’s right next to a pig slaughterhouse, aptly nicknamed Slaughterhouse Slum. Thousands of Bangkok’s poorest people live crammed together here in makeshift shacks, sitting in the shadow of one of the most expensive cities in the world. An acrid stench of death permeates the air. Rivulets of pig blood, urine, and feces run through the narrow mud streets. The only hope for the hordes that live here is Father Joe.

“Ho, ho, ho, I’m a renegade and we’re taking back what belongs to these poor people!” Father Joe Maier is a pudgy, red-faced Irish-American in his mid-fifties who wiggles his hips when he laughs his trademark “ho, ho, ho,” like an elfish Santa Claus without the beard. He lives in the slum, too, alongside those he serves.

“The rich can take care of themselves,” he says with a glint in his eye. “It’s the poor who need us,” Father Joe tells me as we walk carefully along with my camera crew, watching our step to avoid pools of filth. As we turn a corner, he stops abruptly, leans down, and hands a crumpled bill to an emaciated old man sitting in the dirt.

“I don’t care if someone is going to spend it for taking drugs, sniffing glue, or drinking booze,” Father Joe says with an impish smile. “You have to give every crazy person you see on the streets a few baht [Thai currency]. We take them all in, people with AIDS, child prostitutes, dope addicts. These aren’t bad people and we have no right to pass judgment on them. Jesus never judged anyone, He just loved them all.”

Father Joe’s personality is so authentic and infectious that it’s impossible not to love him instantly. He is a down-to-earth, unpretentious, and truly spiritual human being who has devoted his life to the people here, building schools for the slum children, hospices for the AIDS victims, and shelters for young prostitutes. To free the girls from the sex trade, he tells us, he has to buy their freedom from their pimps, and it usually takes a tough attitude, firmly standing his ground, and never giving an inch.

“Some of these girls are as young as ten years old,” Father Joe says gravely as we enter a small schoolroom filled with ex-prostitutes. They now have desks, a few books to study from, and the incredible luxury of a teacher. “Poverty forces them into it. Then the gangsters enslave them. And don’t forget,” he delivers this point with great emphasis, wagging a finger in the air, “it’s American, European, and rich Asian men who are responsible for this and they should be made to take the blame. Shame, shame, shame on all of them!”

Father Joe courageously confronts organized street criminals who prey on the poor. He occupies unused portions of government land, erects makeshift shelters overnight, fills them with destitute families, and shames the government into not evicting them. He condemns the Catholic Church in Bangkok as being too interested in serving the privileged and indifferent to those truly in need. He’s more than an activist. He’s a radical for peace, compassion, and justice.

After filming a story on his work in the slums, Father Joe agrees to collaborate with us on an investigative piece into the sex-slave trade. Given his work in rescuing young prostitutes and dealing with pimps, he’ll be an invaluable source on the inner workings of Patpong, the massive red light district that forms the heart of Bangkok’s sex trade. Due to its proximity to Saigon, Bangkok was the city of choice for American troops on R&R (rest and relaxation) during the Vietnam War. As a result, prostitution boomed. Thai women are known as among the most beautiful women in the world, and so the clubs have thrived, gaining international popularity. Now they’re filled with foreigners from all walks of life, many of whom signed up for “Sex Tours” in their homelands designed to look like business or tourism trips.

Inside Patpong’s glitzy bars, outdated disco music blares from cheap speakers as colored lights swirl around the walls and ceiling of the dark, smoky rooms. Young girls, most of whom have been sold to the slave traders by their impoverished families, dance topless on stage, wearing neon colored string bikini bottoms. Numbered cards hang around their necks like they’re cattle at a livestock auction. Titillated customers whisper a number to a waiter with the casualness of placing their drink orders, and arrangements are quickly made to slip the girl of their choice into a back room or send her off to the customer’s hotel. Thai-Chinese gangs run the show behind the scenes, and they can be brutal with anyone who gets in their way.

“There’s AIDS here, so you have to be careful,” a businessman from Arizona yells out over the music to Father Joe and me as we stand at the bar of a Patpong club. He proudly lets us know that he’s here with several buddies on a “Sex Tour” organized by an American travel agent to look, of course, like a business and tourism junket.

“I’ve been coming to Patpong for years. My wife thinks these are business trips.” He laughs, pleased with himself. “I only choose the youngest girls, you know, twelve, sometimes eleven. Less chance of disease. Stick with me and we’ll find you a young one, too, maybe a virgin!”

Even if he watches the news back in the States, it’s too dark in here for him to recognize me, and he has no idea that I have a hidden camera in my lapel filming his every word. I wonder what possesses him to do this and how he justifies it to himself in whatever moments of self-reflection he might have. I wonder even more what his wife and kids will think when they see him on the news and discover what he really does on his “business trips.” It’s impossible for me to have compassion for him, but I feel terrible for his family back home.

After filming in the clubs, we interview Thailand’s Minister of Tourism, Mr. Weerasak Kowsurat. He’s a tall, handsome man dressed in a perfectly cut dark blue suit with a crisp white dress shirt and burgundy paisley tie. Having earned a law degree at Harvard, he speaks impeccable English, which he demonstrates as he stares straight into our camera and says, “I invite all of you from anywhere in the world to come to our beautiful country. Come enjoy our temples and dance, our cultural heritage and fine cuisine, our beaches, parks, and mountains. Come enjoy Thailand. But leave our women and girls alone. Have some respect and do not exploit our poverty. Please, have the same respect you would expect us to show your wives and daughters.”

Asia’s sex slaves are usually coerced into opium addiction, making them easier to control and manipulate. Thailand is a major producer of opium. My crew and I cover this next, beginning in Chiang Rai, a village on the northernmost border of Thailand. Nestled in rolling mountains with tropical forests, Chiang Rai is just what Mr. Weerasak Kowsurat is talking about: a mixture of ancient temples, thatched hut villages, rice fields, wilderness parks, tall mountains, and meandering rivers. It’s also the gateway to the Golden Triangle with Burma and Laos. The region is home to warlords who oversee the vast, golden poppy fields and the production of heroin derived from the flowers’ capsules. Just like cocaine from South America, most of the heroin is smuggled to the warlords’ number-one customer: America.

Opium is the sticky, tarlike resin that comes from slicing the bulbous opium poppies. It’s expensive when refined into heroin, but in its raw state it’s a poor man’s high. North of Chiang Rai, in a small village dating back thousands of years, we enter a dark thatched hut with the sweet smell of opium smoke permeating the air. Elderly men and women with sunken eyes and emaciated bodies are lying on bamboo mats in the dim candlelight, utterly stoned. Puffing long, thin bamboo pipes, they still wear the ornate and colorful outfits with patterns woven to articulate their tribal heritage, but the drug has destroyed their culture, ruined their lives, and stolen their Souls, just as it is now doing to thousands of girls in the sex-slave trade.

“What do you do with your life?” I ask a middle-aged man as he lies on his side smoking opium. Deep wrinkles cover his emaciated face like a network of rivers.

“Nothing,” he says, his yellowish eyes glazed into a blank stare, plumes of bluish-white smoke swirling around his head. “I just smoke and all my worries go away. There is nothing else to do.”

His simple words illustrate how helpless, resigned, and addicted the drug makes its victims, which is exactly what the slave-traders want.

The most beautiful Thai prostitutes are never found on the stages of Patpong. Instead, they’re sold by the Thai-Chinese Gangs to the Yakuza, Japan’s powerful organized crime syndicate. The Yakuza enslaves them in major cities such as Tokyo, Osaka, and Yokohama, forcing them to work in very private, very exclusive clubs. They are taught Japanese manners and dressed in expensive evening gowns, with their hair and makeup done by professionals. Then they are forced to serve the elite class of politicians and businessmen, who are willing and eager to pay thousands of dollars for an evening of sensual delight.

So our third and final stop in our coverage on sex slaves is Tokyo, where we locate some of the private clubs in the richest districts of the city. Getting inside these clubs would be impossible. They are guarded by heavily armed Yakuza, and our Japanese film crew wisely advises that we not even try. We shoot a few stand-ups outside the buildings for this element of the story, then interview a middle-aged Japanese woman devoted to helping locate and liberate these young women, after agreeing to darken her face and alter her voice during the editing process to conceal her identity.

“Their passports are taken away from them when they arrive,” she tells us with a look that blends anger with sadness. “They have no documentation to prove who they are or where they came from, no money, and no freedom. They are kept locked in small apartments all day long, as many girls as they can cram into a single room, and only brought out each evening to work at the clubs. Their only pay is food…and drugs. If they cause trouble, they are beaten. If they get a disease from sex, they are isolated until they die and their bodies are disposed of by the gangs.”

Back in the Hong Kong Bureau we produce our reports, focusing on the lucrative conspiracy the sex trade has created between drug lords, gangsters, politicians, the wealthy class, and Western tourists addicted to exploiting young women for their sordid pleasures. As I view our segment on the Golden Triangle, I remember that, like heroin, morphine is also a derivative of opium. Gazing at the videotape of the opium addicts in Chiang Rai, I think about the day in northern Iraq when I almost stuck a needle filled with morphine into my shoulder muscle to alleviate the torment of my back pain.

Vietnam Twenty Years After the War

Quang Ngai Province, rural Vietnam, 1992. The long wooden shelves hold rows of tightly capped five-gallon glass jars filled with formaldehyde. The strong preservative is yellowed with age. It takes a while to realize what’s floating in the murk. Then, as we peer closely, it becomes obvious. Each jar holds a deformed human fetus. Large clusters of reddish tumors visible on small, contorted faces. Tiny arms and legs deformed. Little bodies twisted in the agony of death. It’s heart-wrenching to look at them. As my cameraman shoots closeups, we glance at one another, silently acknowledging that this is worse than much of the carnage we have seen on battlefields.

The fetuses were stillborn as a result of prenatal exposure to dioxin, an extremely toxic herbicide banned in much of the world, and a key component of Agent Orange. The United States sprayed 20 million gallons of it on the Vietnamese countryside during the Vietnam War.

“This is what Agent Orange has done to our people and continues to do to them,” Dr. Nguyen, whose name rhymes with Win, tells us as we walk down an aisle in his laboratory with cameras rolling. As a government scientist for Vietnam, Dr. Nguyen’s life is devoted to documenting the ongoing effects of dioxin on the Vietnamese population.

The Pentagon dubbed the program Operation Ranch Hand. It was designed to defoliate rural villages and forests, denying the communist guerillas of North Vietnam food and cover as they surged south. The spraying of Agent Orange also helped create “forced draft urbanization,” a tactic the Pentagon deliberately concealed from the media. Destroying the countryside’s rice and vegetable crops eliminated the ability of South Vietnamese peasants to support themselves, forcing them to flee to U.S.-dominated cities such as Saigon. Destitute, their only choice was to join the South Vietnamese Army and fight against their own countrymen from the North.

Operation Ranch Hand destroyed 5 million acres of forest and millions of acres of crops, and seriously polluted most of the waterways in the regions where it was sprayed. Widespread famine occurred, leaving hundreds of thousands of people malnourished or starving. According to the Vietnamese Ministry of Foreign Affairs, close to 5 million Vietnamese were exposed to Agent Orange attacks. Almost a half-million were killed or maimed. An even greater number of children were born with birth defects, and they’re still counting. American soldiers were also hard-hit by the defoliants. Thousands of veterans reportedly contracted debilitating skin rashes, suffered neurological damage that triggered psychological problems, and developed cancer. Many also had children born with birth defects after the war.

Dr. Nguyen explains it matter-of-factly: “This is the legacy of the American chemical companies and the U.S. military, but they refuse to take responsibility even now. They must be held accountable.” Dr. Nguyen wants the military and the corporations to admit their wrongdoing and offer compensation. He is adamant that justice must be done, but any anger he once may have held has vanished with the passage of so much time.

The primary producers of Agent Orange were Monsanto and Dow Chemical. Both continue to deny their chemicals were to blame, but in one of the most heavily sprayed areas in Quang Ngai province, we are shown more of Vietnam’s evidence of the devastation wrought by the herbicide. Portions of the tropical forest surrounding Quang Ngai are lush again, framing peaceful vistas over rice fields and waterways. But in the villages, human deformities abound. In small, thatched huts we interview older men and women, sprayed during the war, with huge tumors deforming their faces into hideous masks. We film small children with unusable limbs, giant heads filled with fluid, tumors covering their bodies.

I remember opposing the war in my teens, shocked at the pictures of Agent Orange being sprayed from Army helicopters over villages such as this. I remember being sprayed with mace by the National Guard and smacked on the head with a billy club during protest marches. To me, loving one’s country never means turning a blind eye to such horrors. It means seeking the truth and speaking out in the face of obvious injustice. Freedom of speech is one of the most powerful forces in democracy, and it has always been worth risking everything for. As we film these deformed children, I wonder: What were we doing? Where were the moral principles that gave our country its greatness? How could anyone not speak out?

From Quang Ngai we travel north to Hanoi, joining a delegation from the Select POW/MIA Committee, led by Senators John Kerry, Bob Smith, and John McCain, all of whom served in the armed forces during the Vietnam War. The senators are here on a historic mission. It’s the first time an American political delegation has been allowed in the capital city, which served as the headquarters of the North Vietnamese Army during the war.

Unlike bustling, modern Saigon in the south, which was renamed Ho Chi Minh City after the war in honor of North Vietnam’s greatest hero, Hanoi offers a journey back in time to the era when Vietnam was a French colony. Many of its streets are lined with spacious three-story French colonial homes with finely carved facades, dormers, and sidegabled roofs that once housed the French elite. They’re now occupied by government agencies or foreign embassies. Most Vietnamese here live in far humbler quarters and only a fortunate few can afford the luxury of a car. The primary means of transportation is bicycles, which creates a peace and quiet rarely found in a major Asian city.

The centerpiece of downtown Hanoi is Turtle Tower, an ancient, three-story stone temple sitting in Hoan Kiem Lake. The waters around the tower are covered with lily pads that blossom white each spring, sending their fragrance on gentle winds into the city. The Old Quarter, nestled on one edge of the lake, is a dense maze. Shops of furniture makers, silk traders, vegetable markets, artisans, and craftsmen are knitted together along narrow, twisting streets.

The American domino theory proved wrong. Vietnam never became a puppet of China or a rigid communist dictatorship. Instead, it has emerged as a major economic power in Southeast Asia, and American businesses are hungry for the same access their European and Asian competitors enjoy here. First, however, the U.S. delegation must close the book on the controversy over U.S. prisoners of war and those still deemed missing in action. The POW/MIA debate remains an emotional issue in the States and is the major roadblock to normalizing relations.

Following two decades of refusal, the Vietnamese have agreed to open their archives from the war, allowing senate aids and U.S. Army researchers to pore over old files, examine dog tags, helmets, uniforms, and personal effects of Americans who were captured or killed. At the government palace in Hanoi, our cameras are denied access to the actual negotiations, but we’re allowed to film ceremonial meetings between the senators and top Vietnamese officials. Many of these officials fought in the war and were vilified in America at the time. Here in Hanoi, they’re national heroes.

It’s an intricate dance of diplomacy. McCain, Smith, and Kerry must find a way to close the POW/MIA cases without angering opponents back home, signal a formal government apology to Vietnam without it appearing so, and ultimately lay the groundwork for ending a terrible chapter in our history even though gaping emotional wounds remain on all sides. Like the United States, Vietnam recognizes the enormous economic and political advantages involved, and so the two countries finally hammer out an agreement that will have to be ratified back in the States.

After the senators depart Hanoi, my crew and I take a day trip into the nearby countryside to shoot what we call “color” to add texture and context to our reports. The moment we leave the city, we’re surrounded by lush rice fields. Small villages, with traditional huts made of grass and bamboo, integrate perfectly into the natural environment as if they grew here of their own accord. Even a bicycle is a luxury in the countryside, and most rural Vietnamese walk to their destinations. They are lean and strong from diets of rice and vegetables, and while their poverty is palpable, they carry themselves with a silent dignity and inner peace. Like their villages, they appear balanced and in harmony with the natural rhythms of life.

The following morning we find our way to Hun Tiep Lake, in a residential district just outside Hanoi proper. Sitting in the middle of the lake’s murky water is the wreckage of an American B-52 bomber. Its nose and wings are submerged. A large, twisted piece of the fuselage pokes into the sky with a white Air Force star at its center. Its rusted landing gear sticks out to one side at the waterline. Nicknamed “Rose 1,” it was shot down during Christmas air raids on December 19, 1972. It’s been two decades since the war ended, but the bomber looks like it just crashed.

During the Christmas raids, President Richard Nixon was negotiating to end the war, trying not to make it look like a complete surrender. Secretary of State Henry Kissinger had just uttered the famous words, “Peace is at hand,” during negotiations with the North Vietnamese at a summit in Paris. Then came the surprise American bombing attack that shocked and outraged the world. It was called Operation Linebacker II, a football metaphor for eleven days of relentless aerial bombardment, the heaviest strikes launched by the Air Force since World War II. More than 1,600 civilians were killed in Hanoi and surrounding villages. Tens of thousands were wounded. In America, the pilots who flew the sorties some twenty years ago are still revered as heroes. Here, they’re remembered as demons that came in the night and wreaked havoc. For the Vietnamese, this B-52 in Hun Tiep Lake is a monument to victory over a mighty and brutal foe.

My photographer and I are paddling out to the wreckage now in a small rowboat. The silence is only interrupted by the occasional croaking of small frogs sunning themselves on lily pads. An elderly Vietnamese woman in a woven straw hat is waist deep in the water, harvesting watercress. Her face is soft and serene despite deep lines of age. She could be anyone’s loving grandmother. Her gentle, rhythmic movements send small, circular ripples lapping against the bomber’s fuselage and give our boat a gentle rock. She pays us no mind, as if we do not exist. I try to imagine what it was like for her and her family on the nights the B-52s screamed overhead and the bombs rained down, shaking the earth with their thunder.

Hun Tiep Lake, Vietnam, 1992.

Each morning at dawn, I walk from my small hotel in the center of Hanoi to visit Hoan Kiem Lake and Turtle Tower, and then I slip into the Old Quarter. This helps work out the kinks in my back and I also get to immerse myself in the local culture. I’m always drawn to the places where the poorer people live. Their lives inevitably tell the story of a nation’s past, how its leaders have treated their people, and what the future might hold. Wandering the Old Quarter, I love the aromas of the outdoor markets drifting through the air and the wrinkled, smiling faces with missing teeth that reveal a history of quiet suffering and perseverance.

Even at this early hour, the quarter is bustling, yet it retains a sense of quietude and peace. Residents squat in the streets with rice bowls, silently enjoying breakfast. It’s rare for an outsider to be here, especially a tall, white one. Even though I must be a sight, few look up or acknowledge my presence. For three days straight, however, I’ve made eye contact with a middle-aged man during my morning walks. Like most men here, he’s clad in the traditional pajama-style black shirt and trousers. On this morning, he signals me to squat down and join him for a bowl of rice.

Although the United States fears the Soviets are meddling here, most Vietnamese loathe Russians and would never befriend one. They also dislike the U.S. government. But they like Americans. I don’t speak any Vietnamese, so the only words I utter are, “Je suis Américain,” hoping he understands French from the colonial days.

“Très bien,” he answers with a wide grin.

This almost exhausts my French, so we communicate with open smiles, subtle body language, and simple gestures. As we eat steaming, gooey rice with our fingers, I remember Afghanistan, where the left hand is used after going to the toilet; thinking it might be the same here, I am careful to use my right hand for the rice. I feel privileged to sit in the street and enjoy this simple meal, and although it’s only rice, it tastes sumptuous and far superior to the pricey, processed MREs I lived on during the Gulf War. As we finish, my friend floats up to standing with ease. It takes me a while to get up from being cross-legged on the ground for so long, and it’s a struggle to do it without groaning.

Once I’m on my feet, he beckons me to follow him. We walk through a narrow, dusty shop filled with old wood and iron parts for repairing the hand-pulled street carts used to transport goods throughout the Old Quarter. A creaky door in the back of the dilapidated building leads to his home. There are at least three generations of his family living in this tiny space, which is partitioned into miniature rooms by gray blankets tacked to the ceiling. His grandchildren, peeking from behind one old blanket, are wide-eyed. There must be at least a half dozen of them. They’ve never seen such a stranger, let alone one right here in their home.

My new friend guides me to a far corner. We step past his wife as she squats before a tiny hot plate on the floor, cooking more rice while paying us no mind. He pulls back a tapestry on the wall, revealing a door. It opens onto a narrow passageway, barely illuminated by oil lamps. For a moment, I wonder if I’m being set up to be robbed or roughed up, but I feel genuine kinship with this man. I follow him into the catacombs. The still, dank air smells a thousand years old.

We zig and zag as the hallway narrows. My shoulders brush the walls as my friend slides along effortlessly. My boots land with jarring thumps. My friend’s footsteps are silent. A few sharp turns now. There are no more lamps. It’s pitch black, except for a faint glow at the end of the corridor outlining another door. My friend slowly opens the door and light floods out from a small room brightly lit by hundreds of candles. Stepping inside, I see that the room is filled with beautiful Buddhist statues, artwork, and artifacts. Incense sweetens the air. Wax runs down the candleholders, forming layers of thick puddles on the rough wood floor. It is a humble temple, yet it feels holier than any great cathedral I have ever seen.

The French suppressed Buddhism in Vietnam when they colonized much of Indochina in the mid 1800s. It was further suppressed in the 1950s after Ho Chi Minh and his communist guerillas, known as the Vietminh, established a Democratic Republic of Vietnam in North Vietnam. I sense the candles in this temple have been kept lit throughout the years as a silent protest, secretly paying homage to the flame of an ancient spiritual tradition. My friend gazes into my eyes, brings his palms together at his heart, and gently bows toward me. I’m not sure what this means, but it feels like a great honor and I return the gesture with a soft smile of gratitude for being allowed to enter this sacred space. I’m mystified, however, why he brought me here.

Golden Buddha

A gilded wooden statue of Buddha is the centerpiece of the temple altar. It’s about a foot and a half tall. The Buddha is standing atop a beautifully carved lotus. The index finger of his left hand is pointing up, his right index finger is pointing down. I don’t know what this gesture symbolizes, but the statue has an aura of wisdom and serenity. My friend steps over and gently lifts the golden Buddha from the altar. I watch spellbound as he wraps it in a beautiful piece of light brown silk cloth, turns toward me with a tender gaze, and offers it to me. I’m stunned. I resist at first, but he softly persists. He gestures to me to conceal it in my shoulder bag. I finally understand—at least I think I do. He wants the statue smuggled to freedom.

I wonder what will happen if it’s discovered by the authorities during my departure from Hanoi. Will I create an incident? Be arrested and imprisoned for smuggling a spiritual artifact out of Vietnam at such a delicate time in history? I pull back a corner of the silk to reveal the Buddha’s face. I swear he’s looking at me as if to say, “Let’s go!” I gently cover him up and carefully tuck him away in my bag, offering a gentle bow of my head to my new friend who gave me this precious gift.

Japan’s Economic Bubble

Throughout the ages, all great spiritual texts have counseled against greed and self-indulgence. The Bible warns it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. The Bhagavad-Gita calls greed, anger, and lust “Doorways to Hell.” Buddhism warns that avarice and desire are afflictions that inevitably lead to suffering. Yet we never seem to listen or learn. Great empires perpetually overextend, over-consume, and overindulge—and most eventually come crashing down.

Rising from the ashes of World War II, Japan’s so-called economic miracle is the darling of the capitalist world. It’s the early 1990s, and the economy is rocketing. Real estate prices have soared to astronomical levels. The Tokyo Stock Exchange is surpassing record levels. Credit is readily available to all, with interest rates at virtually zero. Speculation is rampant and hubris abounds. But now there are subtle signs and undercurrents indicating that the Japanese economy is in a huge bubble that is about to burst, yet everyone here is in denial and none will acknowledge it.

I’m hitting a wall as I try to report this. Government spokespersons, economists, and businessmen hold deep fears about the bubble, but won’t go on the record with me. Corporations won’t discuss downsizing or layoffs, especially in a nation where jobs are all but guaranteed for life. As a result of being isolated on an island throughout the millennia, Japan is a unique culture in Asia. Foreigners are kept as outsiders, tolerated and treated with respect but rarely trusted or allowed to fully integrate into the culture. Shintoism, the indigenous spiritual tradition here, is designed to sustain a present-day connection to the ancient past. Its rituals are complex, ornate, and arcane. Shinto includes an approach to life called honne and tatemae. Honne is true circumstances. Tatemae is the art of hiding the truth when revealing it would be embarrassing.

White-collar workers, called “salarymen,” form the new middle class, which traditionally consisted of farmers and shopkeepers. The salarymen endure long commutes and work horrendous hours for Japan’s burgeoning corporations. It’s a life of maximum stress, and as a result they are notorious for their consumption of saké and beer. It’s rare to see them, or any Japanese people, show emotion, because to do so is considered weak and undignified. Talking about one’s troubles or being seen as a failure is called “losing face” and is taboo on both the personal and national levels.

The only hard evidence I have for this economic crisis is an interview with an American economic expert in Tokyo documenting increased layoffs, widespread psychological depression, and a growing rate of suicide. I’ve been pitching the story on the morning conference calls with 30 Rock for days. No takers, everyone wants more texture and some definitive proof, and all I get is tatemae. Finally, in a small article buried in a newspaper from Shizuoka Prefecture on the foothills of Mount Fuji, a tragic confirmation: A salaryman who lost his job walked up into the deep snows of the mountain with his wife and two young children. They never returned. They chose death rather than public humiliation and loss of face.

I can almost see them: The salaryman in his conservative black business suit walking silently in front of his wife, their two children obediently following behind. Giant pines tower around them. Snowflakes swirl in the breeze and drift into snow banks. The sun begins to set. Temperatures plummet below freezing. The family huddles together as the darkness descends, awaiting their inevitable fate.

It’s a modern-day form of seppuku, the ancient ritual of suicide originally reserved for Samurai warriors who had failed a great task and therein lost face. Seppuku was an elaborate ritual performed in front of spectators. The Samurai would draw a sharp blade, called a tantō, from a finely designed gold sheath, and then plunge it into his abdomen, eviscerating himself. Through the courage of this act, “face” was posthumously regained.

When the news of the death-walk up Mt. Fuji spreads to Tokyo, many Japanese feel the salaryman has shown great courage and earned dignity for himself and his family. The tragedy provides the evidence I need to convince the producers that the story needs to be told. The report on Japan’s economic bubble bursting—and the fallout from that—finally makes Nightly News.

As the story is picked up by global media, the bubble completely bursts. Throughout the country, suicide rates soar as Japan’s economy collapses. Sadly, the ancient texts have been proven right again. Greed has taken a terrible toll. I can’t help but think of the time in al-Amadiyah when I realized my small bottle of Tabasco, ball of twine, and pocketknife were all I needed, and catching a scrawny chicken would have made my day.

But I also wonder: Am I practicing my own form of honne and tatemae as I continue to hide the truth of my pain? The long travel distances while I’m on assignments in Asia have continued to test me and brought deeper pain to my back. Vicodin has lost some of its punch. I’ve doubled my dosages of Valium. I dissolve the pills under my tongue at various points throughout the day, and often take a few extra to feel relaxed. Still, I’m getting more and more uptight. I snap even more quickly at someone if they disagree with me or get in my way. I’m always embarrassed afterward, but then it happens again. By the end of any given day, all I can think about is a bottle of good wine, a hot bath, and another dose of drugs to help me sleep.

Poverty and Prosperity in the Philippines

Institutionalized crime, corruption, crushing poverty, pollution, and disease. They plague the third world, and the Philippines has them in spades. The capital city of Manila is huge, hectic, and hellish. It’s 1992, and more than 11 million people live here, virtually on top of one another. Most of the country’s wealth is held in the hands of the privileged few. There is hardly a middle class. Tens of thousands live in complete destitution. Many families are forced to find shelter beneath bridges or in abandoned buildings, or build shacks from whatever discarded materials they can scavenge. Typhoid, malaria, and dengue fever abound.

Smokey Mountain dumpsite is just outside Manila, in the hot and humid rolling hills and steep ravines of what was once tropical forest. The dump is enormous, with more than 2 million tons of waste decomposing at temperatures so high it frequently catches fire. Thick plumes of toxic smoke rise up from the smoldering filth, which is how the dumpsite earned its name. The stench is so heavy it burns my nose and eyes.

Smokey Mountain is home to vultures, wild pigs, dogs, snakes, gigantic rats—and human beings. Scores of squatters live on its edges, surviving on what they can scavenge from the rubbish. They rush in like clockwork every time the gigantic Dumpsters arrive, competing for position as hydraulic motors lift the rusty collection bins into the sky and fetid trash comes raining down. Children clutching tattered plastic bags scurry beneath the legs of the adults and snatch what they can, stuffing it quickly away then dashing off to safety.

“Look, there! Those little kids. Focus on them!” I say to my crew the moment I spot the two smallest children in the dump. We catch them on camera in the middle of the crowd of scavengers as a line of huge trucks rumble in and disgorge their contents. The tiny pair are masters at quickly identifying anything of value, especially food that has yet to fully rot. They dart in, deftly seize a prize before any grown-ups can beat them to the punch, stuff it in their bags, and quickly make a swift and artful getaway.

We hurry after them as they retreat deeper into the dumpsite, clutching their bags of loot. Plumes of rancid smoke from embers of rotting trash rise up around them from beneath the porous surface. Hungry vultures stare from the branches of barren trees, beady eyes protruding from the ruddy skin of their featherless heads. Their sharp hooked white beaks, designed for tearing flesh from the bone, glisten in the hazy sun. A wild pig snorts and roots in the filth, pausing briefly to glance at the children with disdain.

Following these kids through Smokey Mountain is like watching little angels navigate Dante’s inferno. Our presence makes them nervous and they speed up. Almost losing us, they dart down a steeper ravine, where the trash is more firmly compacted from aged, thick roots and grass shoots holding it together in steamy layers. Now they disappear into a small, musty cave they’ve clawed in the rubbish.

Once we catch up, we begin coaxing them out with the help of our interpreter. Eventually they come to the entrance and stare at us with caution. It takes time to gain their trust and learn their names. Adalin is five years old. Her brother, Junaz, is barely four. Their ragged clothing is as filthy and fetid as everything else in the dump. Yet, despite the coat of oily sludge covering their faces, their gigantic, dark eyes and plump cheeks show through, making their beauty and innocence inescapable.

“Is this your home?” our interpreter asks my question in the native Filipino tongue of Tagalog.

“Yes,” Adalin says, quickly shoving something foul and gooey into her mouth. As we reassure them they’ve done nothing wrong and are not in trouble, they tell us more. We learn their mother died a few months ago, and they never knew a father.

“It’s okay,” Adalin says defensively. “We are happy here.”

It’s hard to believe these children have survived this long. I can’t imagine them making it through the coming rainy season when the monsoon brings torrential rain and floods the ravines. As I think back on all the childhood comforts I enjoyed, it’s nearly impossible to comprehend the tragedy of such destitution and hopelessness, especially when the victims are so young and innocent. Like Alejandro smoking his basuco in the dry Bolivian riverbed, I want to hold them in my arms, hug them closely, and take them home with me for a new life. Just as we finish filming, we hear the roar of more trucks arriving at the dump. Adalin and Junaz grab their plastic bags, slip past us, and scurry back into the inferno.

Smokey Mountain is a symbol of the immense poverty and suffering created under the regime of deceased dictator Ferdinand Marcos and is also a continuing source of national shame. When Marcos fled Malacañang Palace in 1986, his wife, Imelda, left behind 15 mink coats, 508 gowns, 1,000 handbags, and 3,000 pairs of shoes. She and her husband were reported to be worth 35 billion dollars, most of it from pocketing international aid. They enjoyed cozy relations with the CIA and American multinational companies that profited greatly from the Philippines’ desperate work force and readily exploitable resources. Now, six years after their downfall, Imelda is returning to run for president in what can only be characterized as an incredible act of hubris. I’m here to do background reports and cover her controversial return.

We’re lodged in the historic Manila Hotel, a 500-room, five-star palace in the heart of the city. Priceless antiques are elegantly on display in its spacious ballrooms. Ceilings and walls are paneled with polished cherry-brown hardwood. Expansive foyers are lit with finely cut crystal chandeliers. Plush carpets patterned in burgundy and green designs accentuate shiny marble floors. In times past, this magnificent structure housed Ernest Hemingway, James Michener, and John Kennedy. The Imperial Japanese Army occupied it for a time during World War II. General Douglas MacArthur lived here from 1935 to 1941 as he waged his campaign against the Japanese.

To my delight, my suite is the very one MacArthur called home those seven years. Gazing off my wide veranda toward Manila Bay, I’m awestruck at the privilege of being here. Me, sleeping in General MacArthur’s room, paid extremely well for work I would still do for free. But thinking back on where I was this morning, I’m reminded that precious few in Manila ever enjoy such luxury. As I use my pocketknife to scrape the filth of Smokey Mountain from the soles of my boots, I think of Adalin and Junaz peering out from their hole in the dump. The stark contrast to the opulence of my surroundings sends a surge of embarrassment through my bones.

NBC News keeps a permanent room here in the Manila Hotel, filled with editing equipment. Walking down the hall to view videotape after a day at the dump, I feel my back burning more intensely than usual. My legs start to feel like noodles again. I’m wobbling so much that I have to keep a hand on the wall to steady myself. It’s been seven years of chronic pain. This pain, however, is new. It’s not another ice pick attack. No, this time it’s more subtle—yet much more overpowering. I can feel my whole body quivering with agony.

I’m sitting with my editor now, looking for scenes to add historical context to the story of Adalin and Junaz. We log video of workers laboring under the sweltering skies at plantations, homeless families living under bridges, children who look like they haven’t eaten in weeks. We flash through file video of the downfall of Marcos: huge crowds protesting at Malacañang. Imelda’s high heels lined up beneath the mink coats in her massive closet. Police attacking demonstrators. I hear myself snapping at the editor to speed up, then I snap at him to slow down.

The pain in my body suddenly soars to a deeper level. The back of my neck is on fire. My arms throb and sting. Lightning bolts flash down my legs. The thick muscles along my spinal column spasm and knot. I grit my teeth and squirm on my chair, desperately seeking a comfortable posture. The images on the viewing screen start to blur. Then, as the edges of my peripheral vision turn dark, I feel something pop at the base of my spine. It’s so excruciating it knocks me off my chair and onto the floor. I roll over to one side and scream like a wounded soldier. In this moment of agony, I finally realize the inescapable truth: The game is over. I plead to my producer, “Get me a doctor!”

He and the editor struggle to help me back to my room. I have to crawl most of the way down the corridor. I can barely climb onto the bed. I beg someone to bring my travel kit from the bathroom, fumble to open the Vicodin and Valium, pour several pills into my mouth, chew them into a pulp, and gulp them down with a glass of water from the nightstand. Then I curl up in a fetal knot. As I wait for the drugs to kick in, I can’t understand it. After all the rigorous challenges in mountains and deserts, war zones, and riots, my back gives out while I’m sitting on a padded chair in a luxury hotel.

I wait for the doctor to come. Ten minutes goes by. Twenty. I keep waiting, moaning out loud while forcing myself not to scream. Thirty. Forty. It’s an hour before a local physician arrives and gives me a shot of morphine, choosing the same shoulder I almost chose long ago in al-Amadiyah when I nearly shot myself up. The plan is to stabilize me, get back to Hong Kong, and take it from there. I’m woozy and disoriented as two hotel employees help me out to the front of the hotel and into a waiting limo, laying me across the backseat. The driver speeds to the airport, where a wheelchair is waiting. Thanks to our local “fixers,” who are masters at working the system, I’m rolled to the front of the line at customs and an official quickly stamps my passport with barely a glance. Before I know it, I’m lifted onto a commercial jetliner for the long trip back to Hong Kong. A minute later and I would have missed the flight. I can’t remember the rest of the trip home.

When I wake up in my bed the following morning, I feel like a tank rolled over me. My head is spinning, and the pain is overwhelming me again. I reach for my pants on the floor, fumble with the pockets, and find the vial of morphine tablets the Manila doctor gave me. I swallow one, then curl up on my side, gazing out my bedroom windows at the Hong Kong skyline as the drug kicks in. I can hear my breath sounding slower and louder than usual as a woozy sensation of pleasure floods my whole body. The city begins to blur, and I slip into a coma-like haze.

CHAPTER 12

Fusion

SAN DIEGO has long been a mecca for sports medicine and some of the best back surgeons practice there. It’s also where my two sisters and mother live, and they have found a top neurosurgeon and arranged for me to have an emergency evaluation and immediate surgery. It’s going to be a long, tough flight out of Hong Kong, and the pain is so deep that, even after five days of bed rest, I don’t see how I’m going to make it. I shake the morphine vial. Plenty of pills. I’ll have to medicate myself all the way.

My current girlfriend, an American named Pamela, has been living with me here in Hong Kong for more than six months. I’ve been on the road so much that we’ve hardly seen one another. I down three morphine pills as she helps me get ready for the trip. Then I cinch my elastic brace as tight as I can get it around my lower back and limp out the front door, with an arm over Pamela’s shoulder for support, as our driver pulls up in the bureau’s old Mercedes to take me to Hong Kong International Airport.

Halfway there, I’m so doped up I throw up out the back window the entire way. I’m still in a stupor as they put me in another wheelchair and push me to the boarding gate, where I say good-bye to Pamela. A flight attendant helps me into a first-class seat for a seventeen-hour flight to San Diego. Sitting next to me is a glamorous American fashion model who just finished a photo shoot in Asia. As we gain altitude, she leans over and says, “Excuse me, I recognize you from the news. I’m sorry to mention it, but you don’t look so well. Are you okay?”

I’d love to be a fascinating flight companion and engage her in spellbinding conversation, but I can’t even sit up straight. I begin to slur a polite response, and then suddenly become sick again, all over both of us. Flight attendants rush to the rescue. I lapse into another haze.

An acrid stench, like there’s something dead in the room, forces me awake in the early light of dawn. It takes a few minutes to realize it’s me, smelling almost as foul as I did after months in the Gulf without a shower or change of clothing. My mouth tastes like Smokey Mountain dump. My temples are pounding, and I feel like my head might explode. Where am I?

As I squint at the room and try to focus, it looks like a quaint bed-and-breakfast, with dark oak antique dressers and nightstands, a flowered quilt, fluffy throw pillows, and powder blue walls. Every muscle in my body aches. My lower back is screaming. My left leg alternates between complete numbness and throbbing pain. Where am I?

Slowly, it all begins to come back to me: collapsing in Manila; throwing up all over someone during the flight from Hong Kong; my sister Valerie picking me up at the international airport in San Diego. I’m in the guest room of her historic home in Coronado, a small island in San Diego Bay connected to the mainland by a gently curving blue bridge. I have two siblings, Valerie and Pam. Both live here in Coronado. My mother, Doris, is here as well. It has long felt like home base to me even though I only lived here briefly between the jobs in Dallas and Boston.

I can barely get out of bed. Groggy. Dizzy. My back on fire. Nauseated. Everything blurry. Hobbling to the bathroom for a drink of water, I have to steady myself by holding the wall, then the doorframe, now the sink. Dry heaves. My head is pounding. I grab a toothbrush from a porcelain rack on the wall, squish a load of toothpaste into my mouth, and brush like crazy, but I can’t get the terrible taste to go away. Then I run a hot bath. My back is so shot it’s a struggle to get into the wide tub. Drying off and dressing myself afterward is a Herculean task. If I weren’t still so stoned on morphine it would be impossible, but the drug also makes me feel woozy, off-kilter. That reminds me: Take another pill. The nightstand. My wallet. The pill jar. One or two? Two.

We have an appointment to see a surgeon at the Neurosurgical Medical Clinic in San Diego, so after breakfast, which I can barely eat, Valerie helps me into her car. As we cross the Coronado Bridge, a sense of emptiness drags me down, like gravity might pull me right through the floorboard. My thoughts usually spin a mile a minute, but now my mind is an empty void and there’s a dull ringing in my ears. I’m trying to be jovial but can’t stay with the conversation. I catch myself staring into space like a zombie.

At the doctor’s office I can barely pull myself onto the exam table for an X-ray. Afterward, my sister and I wait in a lobby while a technician reads the results. I hurt so much that I have to fold my head down toward my lap and grit my teeth while we wait for the doctor. “You’re going to be okay,” Valerie says in her usual upbeat and loving way as she reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. I just grunt, trying not to be sick again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, we’re ushered into the surgeon’s office.

Dr. Sam Assam is silver-haired and dignified, like an actor playing a seasoned physician on one of NBC’s prime-time drama series. I hear my words slurring as I slowly tell him the whole story; the slip from the ledge, the years of pain, the medications, the snap in my back as I sat in the Manila Hotel. I spare him details of the scene I caused on the airplane.

“I don’t know how you managed it,” Dr. Assam says with dispassionate authority while comparing my current X-ray with the original from 1986, which my sister somehow got the doctor’s office in Boston to send out on time. “You’ve spent seven years with a mildly broken back, and now it’s a major break.”

Like the first doctor those many years ago, he uses a pen as a pointer to trace the dark lines, comparing the X-rays this time, showing me the difference. In the first X-ray, the line is thin and runs part way through the pedicle bone on the left side of my fifth lumbar vertebra, which sits right above my sacrum. In the new X-ray, the line is thicker and runs all the way through the pedicle bone.

“We might think of it like a small crack in a picture frame that suddenly splits across the glass,” Dr. Assam continues. “It’s very serious. If it opens further and impinges on your spinal cord, you could be paralyzed.”

Dr. Assam insists, in his distant and professional demeanor, that surgery is the only option. The procedure is called a “fusion-laminectomy,” and it’s major surgery. There will be two incisions. The first one will be on my left side, near the iliac crest of my pelvic girdle. The doctor explains that this area of the pelvis holds a large amount of red bone marrow and is ideal for bone graphs. He will slice pieces of bone from the iliac crest, then make a second incision along my lower spine. The broken pedicle will be removed along with the discs between my two lowest lumbar vertebrae, L4 and L5. Next, the sides of these two vertebrae will be scraped down to expose their marrow. The chips of bone sliced from the iliac crest will then be “laminated” against the vertebrae and exposed marrow. Then they stitch me back up.

“In time,” Dr. Assam says confidently, “the bone chips and shaved vertebrae will fuse into a bone mass that will stabilize your back.”

I can barely follow him, but it sounds more like a construction project than a surgery, like welding iron rods together to bolster the frame of a building. I feel profoundly resistant to anyone cutting into my back, but what choice do I have? Dr. Assam is making it clear there is none. I close my eyes and a collage of images that have become etched in my subconscious float through the darkness.

Kuwaiti torture victims heaped on top of one another in the morgue.

A piece of a dead Iraqi soldier on my pant leg, my boots covered with thick, warm blood.

Afghans missing arms and legs, third-degree burns covering what’s left of their bodies.

Starving African infants with distended bellies and faces covered with black flies.

Kurdish mothers in refugee camps with glazed eyes clutching dead babies in their arms.

Palsied Bolivian kids slowly dying as they smoke basuco in holes scratched in a dry riverbed.

Orphaned Filipino children living in a rancid garbage dump alongside snakes, vultures, and wild pigs.

My chronic pain and this surgery are nothing by comparison. I have always feared missing work more than I ever feared war zones or injuries, but there’s really no choice. To pump myself up, I have a little inner conversation: This is great, I tell myself, I only have to miss three or four weeks and it will mean an end to all these years of pain!

“The surgery takes at least two hours,” Dr. Assam says, breaking my little pep talk. “Then there’s a recovery process during which you’ll be in a large body brace. You’ll need to rest and relax, then, eventually, do some physical therapy. Depending on how quickly the fusion takes, you could be back to work in less than six months.”

Six months! I can’t miss that much work. So I negotiate, pressing for the earliest possible date I can return to the field if everything goes perfectly. I’m still slurring my words and it’s hard to stay focused, but I push Dr. Assam hard even though I can tell he’s not used to this. When I have him down to a “best of all worlds” scenario of less than two months, I say, “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

I’m flat on my back, watching Styrofoam ceiling panels whiz by as I’m wheeled down the hospital corridor into surgery on a gurney. The chemical smell in the surgical theater reminds me of the odor people in war zones exude when they’re gripped with fear. The atmosphere of the room feels tense. Monitors are buzzing and beeping. Black cords and plastic tubes are strung like tinsel everywhere. Surgical instruments click as attendants position them in perfect alignment on steel trays. Rubber gloves snap; bright lights glare. People in medical gowns with greenish masks and white gauze head-covers roll me onto my side to expose my lower back.

The anesthesiologist slips a needle into a thick vein on the back of my hand and places an oxygen mask over my face. A few deep breaths now. The room sways. Voices dim. I close my eyes and drift off into the mountains of some far-off place where a revolution is underway, getting ready to go live on NBC Nightly News.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dr. Assam says, almost breaking character and expressing emotion, after I awaken from the anesthesia. “I thought I would need to cut the broken pedicle out, but it was so loose I lifted it out with a pair of surgical tongs. It was even more dangerous than I thought, being so detached like that.”

I have to spend a night in the hospital in case of unexpected bleeding or infection. The next morning, as a nurse’s aide pushes me in a wheelchair, my sister and I stop at the lobby pharmacy to pick up more prescription drugs, including another two weeks’ worth of morphine. As I lift myself from the wheelchair into my sister’s car, all I can think about is getting out of this place and on the road to recovery. But by the time we get to my sister’s home, all I can think about is lying in bed and never moving again. I feel like I could sleep forever.

After a few weeks of bed rest, I’m fitted with a massive body brace. It’s a large Kevlar contraption called a Clamshell, with two thick, white plastic halves that fold around my torso like a clam, held tight by thick Velcro straps. It’s hard as a rock on the exterior with soft foam lining inside. A heavy electrical device called a Stim is buckled around the lower portion of the brace. It ticks like a windup clock, sending an electric current into my spine, which Dr. Assam tells me is designed to promote fusion. I’m weaned off morphine, but stronger doses of Vicodin are added to my regimen of Motrin and Valium. It’s my new form of meeting “deadlines”—popping all these pills at precise times throughout the day.

My girlfriend, Pamela, flies in from Hong Kong and we settle into my sister Valerie’s guest room in Coronado. Pamela and I have been seeing one another on and off for more than a decade. Mostly off because of my career priorities and disinterest in committed relationships. She’s upbeat, adventurous, vibrant, and willing to put up with me. I now feel dependent on her and it makes me uncomfortable. Am I using her? Being selfish? I’m not sure and, anyway, I can’t really face it. The bottom line is that I need her support, physically and emotionally, more than ever.

One month after surgery, with my new body brace strapped on tightly, I obediently follow the doctor’s orders and begin taking short walks through the quiet suburban neighborhoods of Coronado to strengthen my back and legs. Pamela steadies me as we go. I wear an oversized T-shirt to cover my Clamshell and Stim. It makes me look like a stiff, top-heavy robot from a B movie. I feel okay during these brief outings, but standing up without moving for more than a minute is excruciating and sitting for prolonged periods is out of the question. I’m forced to spend hours on the bed, my back propped up by fluffy pillows.

Lying in bed, I devour the news voraciously, but every time a foreign correspondent comes on the air, it’s too much for me to handle. It should be me out there. Doing the only thing I know how to do. Pushing forward. Getting the story. Watching someone else in the field makes me feel helpless, worthless, and weak. I grab the remote, mute the TV, and default to the zombie stare.

Every day I manage to walk a little farther, but I still feel tender, sore, and unstable in my spine. I expect the pain to be slowly diminishing, but I’m so heavily drugged it’s hard to tell if this is happening. Nevertheless, I stay meticulous with the schedule: wearing the Clamshell and Stim all day long, removing the brace at bedtime, recharging the Stim overnight, strapping the brace back on every morning, hooking up the Stim again, taking all the meds religiously, never missing a walk, always pouring a glass of wine before bed. Maybe two glasses now and then. Sometimes three.

Four weeks go by and nothing really changes. Before I know it, six weeks have passed. Still, no change. I’m staying devoted to the routine, praying that it all works. But my back remains terribly sore. Every time the drugs start to wear off and I feel the pain beginning to surge, I grab for the next dose as quickly as I can. It’s not the pain itself that troubles me. After so many years, I’m used to hurting all the time. It’s something deep down inside me that fears this might not work. There’s no way I can face such a possibility, and I have to shut that voice down any way I can. As I swallow the pills I silently say:

It’s going to be okay.

I’m going to make it.

My back is going to heal.

I’m going back to work soon.

It’s been eight weeks now and still, not much change. My back remains unstable, and I can’t imagine walking without the Clamshell strapped on as tightly as possible. An occasional jolt of burning sciatica, which is caused by the compression of a spinal nerve, shoots down the back of my left leg. Eight weeks. This is when I should have been going back to work. Maybe it’s supposed to be this way. My back is healing, but the tenderness and instability will persist a while longer. When I see Dr. Assam, he confirms this possibility.

“We can’t really tell what’s happening without a new scan,” he says in his usual distant tone.

“Then can I go back to work?” I must sound like a broken record.

“We’ll see,” he says in the same monotone. “Let’s get a new scan and go from there.”

I can feel my anger and impatience starting to rise. I’m tired of all this. Could he have botched this operation? I almost confront him, but catch myself, stand up slowly, and trundle out of his office, unable to stop myself from slamming the door behind me as I go.

The machine is a large, cream-colored, space-age device called a bone scanner. It’s much more sophisticated than an X-ray, capable of detecting the slightest sign of fusion in my back. I lie on a steel table as a substance called a radioactive tracer is injected into a vein on my forearm. The tracer, which feels like metallic ice water, flows through my bloodstream and eventually finds its way into my bones. The table electronically slides forward until I’m beneath the scanner. A special camera called a gamma detects the tracer, records images, and sends them to a monitor. Areas of rapid or new bone growth will show up as bright, hot spots. Dark or cold spots indicate areas with little or no blood flow. Any cold spots at the base of my spine, therefore, are indications that the fusion isn’t taking.

When I meet with Dr. Assam afterward, I can see it on his face before he speaks a word.

“It’s going to take more time,” he says, always deadpan, “maybe four to six more weeks.”

It feels like a punch in the stomach and shakes my confidence. This isn’t part of the plan. If I have to wait any longer, I’ll explode.

“Then why not go back home?” I can hear myself sounding frustrated and impatient. “I can start by working in the news bureau without any travel. I’ll wear the brace. Lean back in my chair or lie on the bureau couch. I’ll be careful.”

The truth is, I’m furious with the doctor, blaming him for my lack of progress. But I have to be nice. Without his okay, NBC won’t approve my return. I persist, as calmly as I can, making my case that, aside from a long flight home to Hong Kong, it doesn’t matter where I am while the recovery process continues. “Alright,” Dr. Assam finally consents after giving it a great deal of thought. “Keep walking, use the Stim, don’t overdo it. Work no more than two or three hours a day at first, and only a few days a week. Get plenty of rest. Report in to me regularly.”

I’m so thrilled about going back to Hong Kong that I can feel adrenalin rushing through me, but I’ve lost confidence in the doctor and have to be careful not to slam the door behind me again when I leave his office. The moment we return to Coronado, I book the next available flight to Hong Kong, and before the week is out, Pamela and I are in the air. I recline my first-class seat back as far as it will go, drink a glass of wine, and then dope myself up, deliberately knocking myself out for hours so I can endure the trip. When I finally come to, I look out the window and see the Hong Kong skyline glowing in the evening sky. I’m home. Nothing else matters. I’m home.

As we drive to the end of Barker Road on Victoria Peak, my flat comes into view, glistening white against the lush, verdant background of the jungle foliage. I smile at the profound pleasure of being back in Asia and am already wondering what’s happening in China, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and everywhere else in my region. I can’t wait to set foot in the bureau again, pitch a story to Nightly News, and have lunch at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club, where I can catch up with old friends.

Then I feel a small knot in my stomach as a voice flashes in my head:

Can I really do this?

How long will this be my home?

Will I ever be pain free?

I immediately shut the voice down and go into a state of complete denial, telling myself it’s impossible that the fusion will fail. It’s absolutely impossible.

CHAPTER 13

Pyongyang

I LOOKED ODD enough hobbling down the sidewalks of Coronado in my body brace, but in Hong Kong I cause public scenes. I tower over most Asian people, and with my stilted gait I look like a giant robot from another planet. When someone bumps into me on the heavily crowded streets, which happens constantly because I lack the ability to maneuver, they’re shocked to hit my hard brace. They cry out with surprise and stare wide-eyed, thinking I might not be human.

It’s the fall of 1992 and Bill Clinton has defeated incumbent George H. Bush for president of the United States. Domestic news has the upper hand at NBC and it’s all but impossible to sell a foreign story, so I’m off the hook at a perfect time. I spend most of my limited work hours at the bureau leaning back in my chair to keep the pressure off my back. I balance the keyboard on my lap and diligently track all the news in Asia on my computer, staying informed, keeping files on potential stories. Every hour, like clockwork, I lie down on the visitor’s couch by the bureau entrance and rest, then take another robot walk and scare the locals again. It’s frustrating, like being under the control of some invisible force that doesn’t have my best interests in mind.

My growing anger, fear, and anxiety are worse than the physical pain. I hate the body brace, but I’m scared to death to take more than a few steps without it. I want to slam the Stim against a wall, but I keep hoping it’s going to work. I’m sick of all the pills, and yet I’m so dependent and frightened of what might happen without them that I never, ever miss a dose. I know I’m drinking too much, but I need it to release the tension. When I lunch at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club now, or anywhere else for that matter, I always have a glass of wine, or two. It’s a new habit, drinking this early in the day. I’ll do anything to numb my body and my mind.

As I struggle to cope, a compelling story begins to unfold in one of the strangest, most forbidding countries in the world: North Korea. Longtime communist dictator Kim Il Sung runs a totalitarian dictatorship and rules his people with a brutal hand. Thought-police are everywhere. Critics of the regime are routinely tortured and killed. The economy is in shambles. People in the countryside are dying of starvation. There are rumors of cannibalism in remote rural villages.

Kim’s only allies are Russia and China, and he even keeps them at bay, holding to a policy of juche, which is Korean for self-reliance. North Korea is highly militarized and a constant threat to stability in the region. Capitalism is vilified as the world’s greatest evil. But juche has proven to be a failure, and the regime is so strapped for cash that it has invited a group of high-ranking Japanese entrepreneurs for a historic tour. Kim is promising them workers, factories, and resources for next to nothing, hoping to persuade them to fund major industrial projects and get desperately needed capital in return.

The Japanese have agreed to Kim’s offer, mostly because their economy is still on the rocks and an easy profit is appealing. Luckily, the businessmen insist that journalists be allowed to accompany them, which will boost their images back home. The story is a mustcover and, after some pleading and cajoling, I win Dr. Assam’s permission to make the trip, something NBC is still requiring. There’s one final catch: Journalists are rarely allowed into North Korea, and the Kim regime loathes Americans most of all. To ensure I get in, we submit our travel papers through my office in Tokyo under the names of my Japanese film crew. My name is at the bottom of the list like an afterthought. This simple ruse works, and I’m soon among the first American journalists ever to fly into the capital city of Pyongyang.

I’ve seen a great deal of misery in the world, but never a place as strange as this. Kim has constructed a massive cult of personality, brainwashing his people into believing that he alone defeated the Allied Forces in World War II, and that he’s been worshipped daily throughout the world ever since. Americans and Europeans, Kim teaches his people, are subhuman and demonic. As the economy of North Korea nosedives, Kim funds more towering statues and colorful murals glorifying himself, while continuing to build his armed forces and periodically threatening to invade South Korea.

Pyongyang is an extremely modern city with wide avenues, imposing monuments, and monolithic buildings. There’s a perfect replica of the Arc de Triomphe, intentionally built slightly taller than the original in Paris. The arch was dedicated on Kim’s seventieth birthday, with each of its 25,500 blocks of fine white granite representing a day of his life up to that point. It’s the epitome of arrogance and ego in the face of the plight of his people.

Unlike the crowded streets typical of almost every other modern city in Asia, in Pyongyang people are nowhere to be seen. Many of the towering high-rises are perfect on the exterior, but unfinished and derelict inside. There are few cars on the roads, except for the occasional spanking new, black Mercedes Benz with government officials inside, often weaving the wrong way down a wide highway.

I’ve been in totalitarian countries before, but the paranoia here is unprecedented. The North Koreans want to completely control our agenda. Our hotel room is bugged and we are tailed everywhere. Our filming is heavily restricted. The few people we find on the streets are far too frightened to speak with us. We begin playing games to lose our followers and finally manage to shoot video of the empty buildings and desolate streets, grab a few interviews about the dismal economy and lack of freedoms on hidden camera, and do our best to document this strange story.

On the final day, we take a three-hour train ride with the Japanese entrepreneurs to a port farther north where Kim hopes they will set up shop. It’s a brutal trip for me, sitting on a hard metal seat while the dilapidated train bumps and sways like a cheap carnival ride. All we do at the port is watch the North Koreans escort the Japanese around a few vacant warehouses. We aren’t allowed to go anywhere else, and it’s a huge waste of time. When I get back to our hotel in Pyongyang at midnight, I’m on fire again. The flight back to Japan is even worse.

In our Tokyo bureau, I grit my teeth through days of writing and editing. I want to lash out at the whole world and almost scream out loud:

I can’t make it!

I have to stop!

It’s unbearable!

But my fear, my hubris, and a growing inner rage prevent me. I have to make it, shift my thoughts, tell myself it’s okay:

God damn this injury.

I am not losing this battle.

Just get through this until the fusion takes.

The pain will go away and you’ll be home free.

Before checking out of my Tokyo hotel, I swallow a handful of medications without counting the pills, then down a few glasses of wine on the plane back to Hong Kong. I used to keep track of my drinking, but these days I don’t care. It would be a great mistake for anyone to suggest this behavior might be self-destructive in the long run. I’m not open to such advice and would offer very unkind words in return. It wouldn’t be pretty.

After filing my reports from the Hong Kong bureau, it’s time to return to San Diego for a final checkup. I still have persistent pain, but the fusion is definitely supposed to have taken place by now. As I land at Lindberg Field, I can feel the little knot of uncertainty in my belly again, but do my best to ignore it and tell myself it’s a lie:

I’m just fine.

I’m going to whip this thing.

Great news is right around the corner.

The radioactive tracer feels colder and tastes steely this time as it’s injected into the same vein in my forearm. The electronic table hums as it slowly slides me beneath the bone scanner. The camera buzzes and clicks, sending new gamma images to the monitor. I close my eyes and visualize pictures filled with glowing hot spots at the base of my spine. A perfect fusion, solid as a rock. But I can see it in Dr. Assam’s eyes again when we sit down afterward.

“I don’t understand this,” he says grimly. “You are a perfect candidate for fusion. You’re young, strong, and otherwise healthy. You don’t smoke or have any other habits that would inhibit bone growth. You follow the orders, wear the brace, use the Stim. But there’s no evidence of fusion. None.”

“So how long will it take?” At the conscious level, I refuse to entertain any possibility of failure. At a deeper level, I know I’ve lost the battle.

“You have another three months at most.” Dr. Assam is not very convincing. “After that, it’s just not possible.”

I have to blame someone, so in my mind I blame the doctor. He must have botched this. He’s ruining my life. I want to clobber him. Instead, I say good-bye, slamming the door behind me as loudly as possible. As usual, I book the first flight I can find, knowing I’ll need to dope myself up again for a return to Hong Kong.

The pool at my apartment building on Victoria Peak sits on the edge of the steep jungle slope. I can lie down on a shallow ledge in the warm water and gaze east over the Hong Kong skyline toward the endless expanse of China. It’s a vibrant, exciting world filled with adventure, mystery, and intrigue that I have barely tasted. I feel like a beached whale.

Outwardly, I’m still avoiding the truth, but the knot in my gut has grown to the size of a grapefruit. It’s a big, roiling ball of stress eating away at me. I’m too physically and emotionally spent to take “robot walks” any longer. When I get to the bureau on a rare occasion, we talk about all the stories we’ll do once I’m better. Everyone knows it’s just talk. My producer, the camera people, the editors, all the staff, they know. Out of kindness, no one says a word as they continue to pretend that everything is fine as three months slip by and nothing changes.

It’s mid-1993 as I board a plane back to San Diego for a final evaluation. I struggle to get into my seat. I can feel that my back is still broken, and I’m losing all hope. Yet I have no idea that this is my final departure from Hong Kong or that I will never again return to my beautiful home on Victoria Peak.

The results of the new bone scan are the same. When I’m told this, the ball of stress in my gut explodes. It feels like hot acid flooding all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. I walk out of Dr. Assam’s office vowing to never see him again. In an act of final desperation, I make an appointment with Dr. Steve Garfin, chairman of the Department of Orthopedic Surgery at the U.C. San Diego Medical Center. Dr. Garfin is a leading authority on spinal surgeries. I’m hoping he’ll find some tiny glimmer of hope to which I can cling, something in the gamma pictures that everyone else missed. After a thorough review, however, Dr. Garfin also confirms that I have a failed fusion.

My only hope, he says, is a second surgery, this time with two alternatives, each far more invasive than the first surgery. In one option, the fusion would be redone with titanium rods screwed into my vertebrae to hold everything in place. In option two, they go in through the front, pulling all my abdominal organs out of the way and, working on the transverse side of the spine, insert cadaver bones between the lowest vertebrae.

Both procedures sound appalling, and the possibilities of complications are far greater than the surgery that has already failed. Still, I want to know the odds and assess my chances. I swallow hard and play reporter with Dr. Garfin. He’s candid: The odds are 50-50 for either procedure. As I press for details, the facts drop my jaw. Half the patients who have “successful” fusion operations end up with as much or more pain. Half whose surgeries “fail” experience significant reduction or a complete end to their pain.

To me, it’s clearly a roll of the dice. There’s no solid proof that any of these procedures work. Some recover and thrive. Others end up worse. Some are paralyzed. A few even die from infections and complications. The kicker is none of these results seem predicated upon whether the operation is technically deemed to be a success. Why didn’t Dr. Assam ever tell me this? I’m overwhelmed with rage. There won’t be a second surgery. I’m done with it.

I’m required to fly to NBC headquarters in Manhattan. Physicians for our parent company, General Electric, review the X-rays, bone scans, and doctors’ notes. GE’s doctors reach the same conclusion: failed fusion. They conclude that my condition is so severe that a trip back to the West Coast is dangerous enough. Returning to Hong Kong is out of the question. I start to protest, but the head doctor holds up his hand to silence me. “There’s no room for any discussion here. You are not returning to Hong Kong and that is final.”

In an act of surprising generosity, NBC agrees to continue my salary for a full year, cover all my living expenses, plus pay for extensive physical therapy. If I recover, they confirm in writing, my job will be waiting for me. I stare at the paper, realizing it’s all I have now, a document promising that my former life will await me for up to one year. As I slip it into my briefcase, I can feel a lump in my throat and have to fight back tears.

From the very beginning, when I landed my first reporter’s job at a small station in Eureka twenty years ago in 1973, I’ve been fully convinced that I could face any challenge, overcome any obstacle. My confidence was always solid as a rock. Now, two decades later, it feels like a facade, like one of those monolithic buildings in Pyongyang, North Korea, with a polished exterior concealing nothing but darkness, desolation, and emptiness within.

CHAPTER 14

Puncture

LE MÉRIDIEN HOTEL spreads out along the bay in Coronado with generous views of the San Diego skyline. It’s the sort of luxurious setting people often envision for their dream vacation. The restaurant’s French cuisine is superb. A Brazilian jazz band plays during dinner on the outdoor terrace overlooking a wide pool facing the bridge as it spans the bay to San Diego. The spa has Jacuzzis and saunas, massage therapists, and warm lap pools. NBC is being more than generous. I have a villa on the south end of the hotel complex, sitting quietly on a grassy slope, framed by coral trees and palms. I lie on my deck recliner watching the sunset reflect off the glass high-rises of the city. A gentle breeze caresses my face. Sailboats course the calm blue waters of the bay. But this is not a dream vacation and I find no joy in being here.

Pamela remains in Hong Kong, overseeing the process of packing up our belongings and coordinating with the news bureau to put them in storage. I’m on a desperate mission to explore every therapeutic modality available. I have one year to heal my back and reclaim my career, and for the first time in my life, I fear I’m losing control over my destiny. I look at the promise on the contract from NBC almost every day. I constantly give myself the sort of pep talks I’ve always given others to help them face challenges in their lives.

You must stay focused and manage the pain.

You have to get strong and healthy.

You will get back to work before this year runs out.

You can do this.

A renowned orthopedic surgeon named Dr. Vert Mooney, whose revolutionary therapeutic techniques have earned him national recognition, has designed my first physical rehabilitation program. In his early sixties, Dr. Mooney favors wearing wild, artistic ties with conservative sport coats. His snowy white hair is neatly parted on one side and his huge spectacles make his eyes gleam like an elf. His constant smile is infectious, revealing a gentle and compassionate man whose top priority is to avoid surgery whenever possible. At our very first meeting, Dr. Mooney lets me know he would not have recommended my first operation and he thinks a second surgery would be far too risky. When he shares this, I feel like steam is coming out of my ears and I want to strangle Dr. Assam.

“I doubt you would get any better with more surgery,” Mooney says frankly, “and you might end up much worse.”

Dr. Mooney believes I might have achieved a tolerable level of stabilization through his program, if only I had found him shortly after the initial accident. He explains that with a failed surgery, it’s a much steeper mountain to climb.

“Most people just won’t do the work,” he says. “They want a quick fix. One in which time and effort isn’t required. I don’t believe in that any longer. That’s why I avoid surgery.”

The clinic rehab facility looks like a cross between medical offices and a high-tech athletic training center. After an evaluation, Dr. Mooney escorts me into a large room filled with thickly padded exercise machines fitted with computers to track a patient’s range of motion and muscular resistance capacity. He has designed these exercise machines to stabilize the entire spine while seeking to enhance flexion and slowly build muscle strength in precise areas. I have to admit it scares me. I no longer have the discipline I used to take for granted. I don’t know if I can climb this mountain.

I’m assigned a personal therapist who completes a detailed evaluation then straps me firmly into several machines, guiding me into performing gentle movements with minimal resistance from the weights of the machines. It’s painful and I can barely stay with it. I keep whispering “You can do this” to myself as I strain against the light weights, but I fear I might be fooling myself. My muscles are soft and atrophied from so much time in the body brace. I’m tired and weak.

Still, I go three times a week and give it all the energy I can muster, hoping to be a miracle case of delayed fusion. That patient who astonishes all the experts. Or, I tell myself, I’ll get my feet back under me well enough to live with the pain and return to NBC. But after two months there’s no progress. Pain continues to grip my lower back and shoot down my left leg. Dr. Mooney lets me know it might be best to try some gentler alternatives, softly suggesting that I can try the program again if I improve. In the meantime, he has a prosthetic specialist modify my brace by adding a metal bar on the left side that juts down my leg to just above the knee, where it straps onto my lower thigh for more support.

Dr. Chen is from Taiwan and comes from a long lineage of renowned masters of Chinese medicine and acupuncture. He has me lying down on a padded table for up to two hours at a time, poking needles in my body from head to toe like I’m a pincushion. After several treatments, he hooks an electrical stimulation device to some of the needles. This sends currents through key energy points, like the Stim device I wear, but with much more power. I can feel pulsations and vibrations in the exact areas where the pain is most intense, and my hopes begin to soar.

Dr. Chen also performs an ancient technique for creating suction and increasing blood flow called “fire cupping.” He picks up a cotton ball with long metal tongs, soaks it in rubbing alcohol, and then lights it like a torch. He holds the flaming cotton inside a thick glass cup the size and shape of a tennis ball cut in half. The heated cup is placed on my lower back, just above the left iliac crest of my hips directly between the two scars from my surgery. It’s incredibly hot, but Dr. Chen artfully knows how to keep it just below the burning point. The heat creates a suction that draws my skin up into the cup, turning it bright red as blood floods into the area.

After learning about the bone scan procedure, and how “hot spots” indicate blood flow and potential bone fusion, the cupping technique makes sense to me. Make the stagnant blood flow in my sore back. Get energy moving and bring life back to the area. I feel optimistic after each treatment, and my hopes soar even higher. But the minor level of relief always fades away within a few hours, leaving me back where I began. After more than a month of needles and cups, plus a regimen of foul-tasting Chinese herbs, Dr. Chen sits down with me for a talk. His face holds an expression I’ve seen too many times before. I know this story too well.

“There is nothing more we can do,” he says with a sense of professional frustration. “I am afraid acupuncture is not going to heal you.”

I should be getting used to news like this, but it’s harder to take each time. A wave of emptiness rolls over me. My stomach feels nauseous. My skin tingles with fear. I just can’t face it. All I can do is pretend it’s not there. I stuff the emptiness so deeply down into my subconscious that nobody could ever find it. Not even me.

Every night in my villa I order fine French food from Le Méridien room service. As I lie down on a lounge chair, my dinner balanced on my lap, I stare out at the brightly lit skyline of San Diego, watching the colors dance across the bay. I eat far more than I need and usually drink almost a full bottle of Burgundy or Bordeaux. Lately, I’ve had to loosen the Velcro straps on the Clamshell body brace and my pants are getting too tight around the waist. Glancing in the mirror before bed, I realize that, for the first time in my life, I’m getting heavy. In the past, vanity would have prompted me into taking immediate action. Now, I don’t care. Fine food and vintage wines are among the few comforts I have left. Honestly, they’re more than comforts; they’re my escapes.

It’s been almost six months. I’m desperate. The only treatments I’m being offered are palliative. Palliation is the process of masking symptoms instead of dealing with underlying causes. In my case, this means finding ways to lessen the pain so I might be able to function a little better. Epidural corticosteroid injections are in this category. My doctors explain to me that a corticosteroid is a substance naturally produced in the adrenal cortex of the human body that reduces both pain and inflammation. For these injections, it’s made synthetically. Like the cupping in acupuncture, this procedure also makes sense to me. I recall how the pain went away when I was in a war zone or on a deadline with my adrenals pumping like mad. Maybe a steroidal substance from the adrenal cortex will trigger the same result.

For precision, I’m told, a fluoroscopic X-ray is used to guide a needle into the epidural space of the spine. The dura is the area between the protective covering of the spinal cord and the bony vertebra. It’s filled with fat and small blood cells and covers each of the spinal nerves as they leave the spinal canal. The steroid is mixed with an anesthetic numbing agent called lidocaine and injected into this sensitive area in hopes of relieving pressure on any inflamed nerves, like the one that keeps firing sciatica down my left leg.

Driving a car is next to impossible for me, and it’s not allowed following an epidural injection. My friend Kenny, who escaped West Covina with me when we were teenagers, has been visiting for the past several days and takes me to the appointment. Sitting in the waiting room, we reminisce about the days when we got lost in the redwood forests together, camped on remote riverbanks, and jumped off towering cliffs into deep pools by river waterfalls. The memories are comforting. I’m more at home with who I used to be. I have no relationship with the person I am now.

After a long wait, I’m finally called in. The pain specialist immediately makes me wary. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve always had good instincts. He’s in his mid forties and looks more like someone you might find at a disco club than in a medical office. He talks too much about his expertise. Lacks the seasoned humility and compassion of Drs. Mooney or Chen. He also seems rushed and indifferent. Maybe my instincts aren’t so good these days. I’ll try anything to stop the pain. But the guy is a creep. I have to tell myself, Just get this over with. What have you got to lose?

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon when I put on a hospital gown and lie on my side on a metal table. My lower back is scrubbed with antiseptic soap and shaved around the area where the needle will be inserted. Pillows are wedged between my knees and under my head, but I can’t get comfortable.

“This will take time,” the doctor says. “We are going slowly. After it’s done you just lie here and rest until someone comes to get you.”

Despite this prelude, it still feels like he’s distracted and hurried. I almost call it off, but the promise of a month or two of relief is too tempting. I close my eyes and think about a healing waterfall cascading around me. I can feel the needle moving in deeper now, a few stages at a time. It takes fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. The injection is cool and tastes metallic again, like the radioactive tracer used during my bone scans. Time seems to be suspended as I drift off for a few minutes. When I wake up, I realize the doctor has left without saying a word. I’m all alone. There’s no one in sight.

As I lie here on the table, I pay close attention to my back, trying to see if I notice any soothing effects from the corticosteroid. Instead, my head starts to pound. It feels like hot ice has been injected into my brain. Both hemispheres are throbbing like crazy. Suddenly, I begin to sweat all over. Now I’m freezing cold. It flashes back and forth, sweating then shivering, my head pounding harder and harder.

I’m trying to stay with it. Relax and let it pass. But it gets worse. Has it been thirty minutes or an hour since the doctor walked out? Why is no one checking on me? I call out for someone. Anyone. It’s painful to make the sound. More throbbing in my brain. I call louder, yelling, “Heyyyyyy,” shivering with the chills. It hurts to open my eyes. Pleading for someone even louder now, worrying that I shouldn’t sit up yet, and that I might not be able to anyway. Louder. Screaming now. Holding my head between my palms.

“Oh, my God, what is it?” The receptionist rushes in.

“Get the doctor!” I yell at her. “Something’s gone wrong!”

“He went home a long time ago,” she says. “I’m the only one here. I was supposed to check you out in about five minutes.”

I will later learn that I had a “dural puncture.” The doctor missed the mark and punctured the membrane covering my spinal cord, resulting in a leakage of my spinal fluid into the epidural space. This causes acute, debilitating headaches that can last several days.

When the receptionist tells me the doctor is gone, I completely lose it and start screaming at the poor woman. Kenny hears my outburst and rushes into the room.

“Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Get me out of here,” I say, holding my temples in my hands. “Please take me home.”

“Shouldn’t we go to the emergency room?”

“No. Please, Kenny. I’ve had it. Just get me home.”

CHAPTER 15

Final Season

CHRONIC PAIN is consuming. It eats away at you day and night. Robs your body of its energy. Twists your emotions into knots. Like being locked in an invisible prison and continuously subjected to torture. Your tolerance level nosedives. The smallest stressful circumstance sets you off and brings out the worst in you. As the months roll by and my back pain continues to gnaw away at me, I see the negative side of things in an instant. I’m rude and pushy without meaning to be and can’t seem to control it. I easily take offense at real or perceived slights and am quicker to lash back if I sense an adversary. I don’t like myself this way, but I can’t figure out how to turn it around.

At the same time, I cling to a thread of hope that I’ll eventually escape this nightmare. I have to hold onto something or I might completely break down. I trundle around in my Clamshell brace and keep turning on the Stim, deluding myself that a miracle remains possible. Along with my lower back, my left leg is crippling me. Persistent sciatica shoots down the hamstring at least once a day. I have to use a cane to support myself when I walk, which I do as little as possible because these days I can barely tolerate it. I continue to eat and drink like a foreign correspondent, not even noticing how stoned I am or the weight I’m continuing to put on.

Years ago, I did reports on widespread struggles against addiction, but I’m delusional enough to believe this doesn’t apply to me. After all, the drugs are prescribed by the very best doctors. The wine is elegant and expensive. Anyway, I’m in crisis and have a right to spoil myself a little. It beats self-pity, doesn’t it? This is how warped my mind has become as it rationalizes self-destructive behaviors in order to cope.

The only treatments I can find offer little relief. Therapeutic massage. Ultrasound. Hot packs. Cold packs. I’m getting nowhere and need more ways to escape, like becoming hooked on bestsellers. I can read a thick novel in a day or two. The stacks of books on the floor by my bed could fill a bookcase. Volumes by Robert Ludlum, Scott Turow, Tom Clancy, Elmore Leonard, Ken Follett, John Grisham. I won’t admit it to myself, but I’m living vicariously. Numbing my mind with drugs, wine, and meaningless fictional intrigue to replace the global life of adventure and accomplishment I once enjoyed.

When I collapse into sleep, I often have a recurring dream. The characters and locales change, but the theme is always the same: I’m in my office in a newsroom. Reporters, producers, directors, and editors are running in every direction. The evening news is about to begin, but I’m just sitting there staring at the computer screen on my desk. I haven’t filed a report for months and feel tremendous guilt. No one has noticed yet, but the moment they do it’s certain I’ll be fired. I want to run to the assignment desk and beg to be sent into the field, but I can’t get out of my chair.

In reality, I can’t even sit in a chair anymore. It puts too much pressure on my spine. The hotel staff has brought a poolside lounge into the living room of my villa. This is where I take every meal, lying prone with my plate balanced on my growing belly, another novel open by my side so I can read while I eat. Half the time, I spill the plate, knocking the book on the floor and toppling my wine glass. This makes me scream out loud with frustration and rage—and then drink some more.

Pamela is in Hong Kong looking after our life there, and I don’t feel much like being social. It’s a lonely existence, but I do have a new friend. He’s an old duck, with graying feathers around his shimmering teal and green neck that bulge out to one side like it’s broken. He also waddles with a limp and is clearly in pain, making his takeoffs and landings very tenuous. I can sympathize.

The old duck arrives every morning as I’m lying on my lounge on the deck. He’s always looking for last night’s dinner bread, which I feed him with glee. I recognize his quack and sometimes mimic it to invite him in. In no time at all, we establish a bond. There was a TV show my parents watched when I was a child: I Love Lucy. An older couple, Fred and Ethel Mertz, were best friends and neighbors of the stars, Ricky and Lucy. The duck reminds me of Fred: a little portly. Slow. Aging. Kind. Easy to be with. When I leave the sliding glass doors to my bedroom open overnight, Fred the Duck waddles in the next morning to find me in the shower. To my surprise and complete delight, he joins me under the spray, wriggling in the water at my feet, nibbling at my legs, prodding me for bread, and quacking like crazy. It makes me laugh with abandon when I realize that Fred has become my best friend.

One day, Fred brings his partner, whom I name Ethel. Ethel is shy, and for three mornings straight she stays in the bushes framing the deck. She finally decides I’m safe and joins Fred, cautiously nibbling bits of bread from my hand. Soon, the three of us become a family. When mating season arrives, the young mallards on the hotel grounds are in a frenzy, cornering and assaulting all the hens. Unable to battle these stronger ducks, Fred brings Ethel to my villa to seek refuge. Sometimes I have to grab my cane and beat back a gang of young hopefuls as Fred and Ethel hurry into the living room and cower behind the couch, quacking up a storm.

Fred looks like he shouldn’t even be alive. It’s clearly his last season. Without me as his protector, Ethel would surely be taken from him by the younger males. I decide it’s his undying love for Ethel, and hers for him, that keeps him going. It reminds me of a lesson I learned long ago in the refugee hospital on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan where I met the little boy, Mahmoud, with napalm burns covering his body. A lesson about the power of love.

The medical staff was in a state of controlled overwhelm, doing the best they could with limited medical supplies and a stream of seriously wounded victims flooding in daily. During an interview, the head of the refugee hospital, Dr. Shahwani, noted how amazed he was that many of the Afghan patients overcame incredible odds and somehow managed to survive, even when it seemed medically impossible. The Pakistani fighters, however, who were mercenaries that joined the battle for money and ideological reasons, didn’t fare nearly as well even though their injuries were similar to those of the Afghans.

I remember that there was always a family member at the bedside of every wounded Afghan, but few in the ward where the Pakistani mercenaries were being treated. The people by the wounded Afghans’ bedsides were there around the clock, praying and loving them in their own quiet and reserved ways. That was it. The reason so many seriously wounded Afghans managed to survive against such enormous odds was due to the power of love. In much the same way, Ethel’s love for Fred the Duck is helping him through one last season, and Fred’s love is helping me along, even though I might not get another season in my life as a foreign correspondent.

Pamela has returned from Hong Kong and is with me now, as supportive as ever. We go to the pool, sit by the bay, take walks when I feel capable. I tell her about Fred and Ethel, who seem to have disappeared. It’s the only big story in my life these days, far from the sort of news I used to report. One morning, as I’m lying on my back on the living room floor, I hear Fred’s familiar quack. Then a chorus of tiny quacks. Suddenly, Fred and Ethel proudly enter the room with eight ducklings in tow. I whisper for Pamela to come in from the bedroom and meet the family. We’re all introduced, and soon a few of the ducklings hop over my legs and jump onto my belly. Then they waddle off. Fred gives me a glance and cocks his head to signal a final good-bye before winging into the sky. He’s in bad shape, but at least he can still fly.

It’s been a year now. Countless failed treatments. Thousands of pills. Gallons of wine. Scores of cheap novels. Endless false hopes. I know it in my heart. I have to face the truth. My time is up. I’ve lost the battle. There will be no return to my career. No more global travel. No more reports on Nightly News. No more of the life I loved more than life itself. I feel resentment, anger, fear, and failure.

I take the letter from NBC promising to hold my job, crumple it into a ball and hurl it against the wall. It hits with a crispy thud and falls behind the couch. Then I limp to my lounge, lean over to my computer, and compose a brief good-bye email to my former colleagues at the network before I’m deleted from the system. I make it as upbeat as possible, but I feel like a fraud trying to sound so positive. There’s a final visit with Dr. Garfin at UCSD, but it’s only a formality. Like a bird that can no longer fly, I’m officially declared:

PERMANENTLY DISABLED.

CHAPTER 16

First Prayer

THIS IS PARADISE. I wish I lived here!”

This is what we hear from most everyone who visits Coronado. It’s a stunning place, nestled in San Diego Bay with sunny skies, beautiful beaches, and world-class resorts. Ever since it was founded in 1885, it’s been a destination for the rich and famous from around the world. On any given day you can hear a dozen languages during a walk along the beach in front of the historic Hotel del Coronado, sitting like a Victorian jewel facing the Pacific Ocean. The Wizard of Oz was written in Coronado. Its author, Frank Baum, used the hotel as inspiration for his Emerald City, and the city’s main street for the Yellow Brick Road.

At the same time, Coronado is a quaint village of 30,000 residents that seems like a throwback to the 1950s, with small cafes and shops, quiet streets, and cozy homes. Despite the ridiculous cost of real estate, families often go to great lengths to move here just so their children can attend the excellent public and private schools. It’s also a military town. On the north end of Coronado there’s a Naval air base and on the south end, a Special Warfare Command, where the legendary Navy SEALs are trained. Retired admirals live on the village’s best streets in luxurious homes made affordable by their generous pensions.

Now that I’m classified as “permanently disabled,” staying in Coronado is the logical choice, especially with my family here. But despite its charm and quality of life, I can’t get used to it. Without my career, I don’t know who I am anymore and I’m no longer comfortable in my own skin. My body brace feels like a prison cell, especially with the thick metal shaft on the left side that runs down my sciatic leg and straps onto my thigh just above my knee. Even with this addition, I have to use my cane to further stabilize myself on my increasingly rare walks. I’m not sure which hurts more, my back or my heart. I just want to click my heels together like Dorothy did in the Wizard of Oz, whisper “There’s no place like home” three times, and miraculously be transported back to my home in Hong Kong, covering Asia for The Nightly News.

NBC was generous in providing a year with all expenses paid while I tried to heal and it continues to cover my health care. The network also compensated me well while I was a correspondent, covering all my expenses due to the requirements of living abroad and facing extensive travel. This allowed me to put almost every paycheck into a savings account, which was bolstered with stock from the parent company, General Electric. The savings are a godsend now, and the only sense of security I have. Almost every day, though, I wonder what will happen if and when the money runs out. It feels emasculating, like I can’t take care of myself or fight back against whatever my fate might be.

Despite everything, Pamela and I share an abiding love for one another. We’ve decided to get married and are trying to establish a new life. I’m not sure I’m worthy of this any longer, but she’s caring and compassionate and I need her more than ever, especially since my self-esteem plummeted after being declared permanently disabled. I often wonder if she feels love for the vibrant man I used to be and now holds more of a sense of obligation to the damaged and dependent man I’ve become. Given my lack of mobility, constant pain, and emotional fluctuations, I question my ability to be a good husband and meet her needs. Most of the time, I’m faking it—pretending to be happy and whole. This makes me feel guilty, weak, and inadequate.

I measure each day in handfuls of painkillers and antidepressants. With every dose, I get further away from any sense of who I am, and barely notice as time trudges by. It’s all blurry. Slow motion. Months soon become a year, and then two years. The changes in my body and mind are so gradual I don’t really notice my continued weight gain, increased weakness, and personality problems. As a journalist I was paid to be cynical, wary, contentious, and probing. Targets of my investigative stories were adversaries, usually trying to conceal their corruption and misdeeds. Now, almost anyone can become an adversary at a moment’s notice. I’m always looking for faults in others, finding hypocrisy that isn’t there, criticizing and blaming. If I witnessed someone else doing this, I’d dismiss him or her as obnoxious and insecure, but I give myself permission. After all, I think, I’m wounded. Life has been unfair. I have a right to be this way.

With my arsenal of medications, there are times I feel stable enough to attend social events and even take a rare vacation with Pamela, but there’s always a price to pay. Just as I begin to feel I might be making a slight degree of progress in my ability to cope with this life, a wrong move triggers a sharp thrust of pain in my tailbone, then radiates up my back into my shoulder blades and shoots down my legs to my heels. Every time this happens I’m bedridden for days. It’s so debilitating that I have to use a bedpan to relieve myself, which is profoundly humiliating and leaves me feeling even more frustrated and hopeless.

Even on good days, I can’t sit or stand for even a short time without the tip of the ice pick stabbing me again and scaring me to death. I have to lie down for almost everything. We’ve bought a folding lounge chair on wheels to take to parties, dinners, the local movie theater, and Coronado’s outdoor Sunday concerts at the park half a block from our home. Pamela packs the bulky lounge into the car, then has to drag it out, roll it to wherever we’re going, and set it up for me. As a result, most people treat me differently, usually with a sense of care and compassion. I’m starting to realize what it’s like to be the recipient of this. I’m touched to my core by the inherent goodness in so many people, yet I also feel embarrassed, and I instinctively recoil at being an object of pity.

Pamela also hosts dinner parties and does her best to keep me surrounded by people so that I feel engaged in the world. Yet even after two years, I have trouble relating to a suburban lifestyle. It’s like I’ve moved to a country where I barely speak the language. As a news correspondent, I lived in such a different world that it’s more than not speaking the language. I often feel like an alien from another planet. I’m used to glib journalists, cynical expatriates, and wry world travelers who talk endlessly about foreign policy, global intrigues, and which area of the world is likely to be the next powder keg. The conversations in this new world are more domestic in nature, filled with nuances and references I don’t understand. No matter how hard I try to fit in, something deep inside of me says you don’t belong, and every time I hear this inner voice I simply shut down.

So I stay on the edges, keeping it light and happy, making small talk when I can, telling war stories only when invited. When I do share some of my past, I feel like a has-been, someone who used to be somebody, and now is a pathetic nobody. But the experiences from my journalistic past stay with me. I can’t forget the men, women, and children I’ve seen tormented, crippled, and maimed from the ravages of poverty and cruelty of war. When people complain about traffic, a rude waiter, a foggy day, or their favorite team being beaten in this or that game, I think about how they don’t seem to appreciate the comforts and conveniences—the good life—we have in America, especially here in Coronado. How ironic. I’ve been dealt a bad hand, so I can complain, I reason, but everyone else had better not.

In hopes of fitting in better, I’ve started watching more TV. I feel like I have to learn which sport season it is and who to root for in the big game. You know, the one that comes up almost every weekend and has everyone talking and planning a barbecue. I also need to get reacquainted with the primetime dramas so I can comprehend the endless social references to characters, plot lines, and scenes that permeate all the small talk. I find it superficial and boring, but I do it anyway because I worry about coming off as some sort of elitist snob. The truth is that I don’t feel better than these people in any way. I just feel broken, lost, and completely out of place.

I’m struck by how much of American culture is formed by television shows and their relentless streams of commercials. It reminds me of a night long ago, during my first news job in Eureka, when our television station, KVIQ, got knocked off the air during primetime. The phone banks lit up immediately. I was the only one there, preparing the 11 P.M. newscast. Out of curiosity, I began to randomly answer some of the calls. People were angry, shocked, even frightened, demanding the problem be fixed immediately or their favorite programs scheduled for rerun.

“I’ve been waiting all week for this show,” one caller almost screamed. “How can you do this to me?”

I did my best to explain how the programming was fed in from a cable by the parent company of our station in San Francisco. It had malfunctioned. There was no way to know when it would come back online and there would be no rerun. Many callers went ballistic, like addicts in withdrawal. Even though at the time I was making my living by being on TV, I never related to those shows very much and wondered why we allowed ourselves to become so manipulated and dependent on our TV sets, living vicariously and separated from reality. It was all I could do to keep from suggesting that the agitated callers relax and read a book or maybe talk to their kids.

“Why don’t you join Rotary?” Marshall is a new friend who does village banking in the third world. “We meet every Wednesday for lunch at the Hotel Del. You can launch a service project, get involved.”

His offer is intriguing. There are more than 250 members in Coronado Rotary: bankers, lawyers, accountants, money managers, retired admirals, city council members, and the mayor. The club is wellheeled and funds projects around the world, including clean-water systems in Africa, facial surgery for deformed children in Mexico, and camps for disabled kids at a facility just south of town. It’s an opportunity to be involved. Do something meaningful again. Widen my shrunken world. I’m eager to join, but have to confess that I can’t sit for the meetings. Marshall calls the next day to say that the hotel staff came to the rescue, agreeing to bring a poolside lounge into the ornate conference room where the club meets weekly for lunch.

By the time I’ve attended my third meeting, I have an idea for a new Rotary project that I could spearhead. When I think of humanitarianism, the first person who comes to mind is Father Joe from the Klong Toei slum in Bangkok. I call him in Thailand and ask what we could do to help in his efforts to combat the sex-slave industry. “Village banking,” Joe says immediately. “We need to give these women a way to start small, home-based businesses and become self-reliant.”

Inspired by these words, I launch a Rotary project to bring village banking to the poor women of Thailand and fly Father Joe to Coronado to speak to our club. Within a few months, and a ton of help from my fellow Rotarians, we’re able to raise enough money to establish the first Grameen Village Bank in Thailand. Grameen is a revolutionary system of compassionate banking spreading throughout the third world that provides small, low-interest loans to people with no assets. For as little as twenty dollars, an impoverished Thai woman can establish a home-based business, often something as simple as growing vegetables for market or weaving baskets. This allows her to generate survival income and helps her keep her daughters out of the hands of the sex-slave gangs. It also keeps me connected to my past life and gives me a sense that I’m still an active citizen of the world, contributing something to humanity, doing something with my life.

I’ve always had compassion for those who suffer. Every time I was in a war zone or place of crisis, I was always deeply touched by those hit hardest, especially the children. I did everything in my power to show the world what was happening and tried to help in any way I could. This project in Thailand reminds me of that part of myself—the person once filled with care and concern. But I can’t shake a growing sense of malaise and ennui, especially lying down in the back of the room at Rotary on my lounge chair. I’m fat and getting fatter. In a body brace. My cane leaning against the armrest. My meal precariously balanced on my belly. There are food stains on my shirt and a mess on the floor beneath me.

The sense of being weak, tired, unworthy, and insignificant is like a tsunami always washing over me. There’s no way I can ever travel to Thailand to see what we have created, and I’m not sure I even have the energy to keep pushing the project and raising more funds. Worse, at every Rotary lunch I’m always being treated like the walking wounded, and I cringe every time someone offers to bring me a dessert or help me stand up. I know they mean well, but it always makes me feel eviscerated and impotent.

Bottom line: Instead of being a prominent foreign correspondent dashing off to a new adventure, covering an important story that helps chronicle the history of the world, I am now the fat crippled man lying on the lounge in the back of the room dribbling his food all over himself. My identity is so shattered that I can’t even begin to face it, much less piece any of it back together, and while I don’t like it when others show me pity, I’m dripping with self-pity. It’s like I’m falling into a bottomless abyss.

To deal with this emotional turmoil, Prozac has been added to my regimen of prescription medications. It’s an antidepressant that numbs my mind, helping me forget about what my life has become. It also makes me feel like I’m pulling a thick wool mask over my head to hide from the world. Like running away without going anywhere. When it works, I’m almost happy and Pamela and I still manage to share moments of laughter, romance, and intimacy. Then periods of darkness hit like sudden storms. I lash out again, start new arguments, brood and withdraw even further. As a result, we spend more time in different rooms. It must be difficult for her, wondering what she has gotten into and where it’s all going.

“You have great compassion for others,” Father Joe says after I confide some of this to him on one of his return visits to Coronado Rotary. “But I see your inner turmoil as well.” He is the only one I’ve told about the heartache and the darkness. As he continues to counsel me, he pulls his chair close to my recliner and speaks with a mixture of tenderness and strength. “You need some compassion for yourself. You have to accept what your life has become. And you need to find your Soul.”

My heart is heavy as an anvil, and I’m aching inside for something to grasp onto, but I’m uneasy about where Father Joe is heading. I’m all too familiar with the violence that has been committed throughout the ages in the name of someone’s God. I’ve witnessed firsthand the role religious intolerance can play in war. I’ve reported on the scandals, hypocrisy, and self-righteousness of various creeds and cults. I don’t think I can handle being preached to, I’m not sure that I can ever accept what’s happened to me, and I can’t imagine joining a church.

Father Joe surprises me. “I don’t care if it’s Christ or Krishna, Buddha or Mohammad,” he says. “It’s not about religion, it’s about Spirit. Anybody who tells you their way is the only way, even if it’s a jolly old Catholic priest like me, is a deluded fool.” Father Joe’s credo of activism and engaged spirituality has always touched me at the deepest level. Jesus said we should serve the poor, turn the other cheek, and love our neighbors, and that’s what this wonderful man does. He has his priorities straight and practices what he preaches. “You see,” Father Joe continues, “no matter how big our field of vision might be, there’s always a bigger picture. Find the true voice of your Soul and listen to it as carefully as you can. Then do your best to follow the advice you receive.”

With this, he reaches out and takes my hand into his as a rare flood of tears begin streaming down my face. I don’t quite know what to do with Father Joe’s advice, but this remarkable man has become one of the few people in the world I completely trust, and I’m desperate to find some meaning in the void my life has become.

Our Coronado friends have long invited us to join their community church. Inspired by Father Joe, I put my resistance aside and make this my first tenuous step. Raised by secular parents, I have rarely attended a church service and never could relate. Fortunately, the community church is light, more of a social event than a service. The pastor is affable, nondogmatic, and humorous. I listen, analyze, and try to accept it all—but I am doubtful, cynical, suspicious. Still a journalist at heart.

Yet even though I’m so wary, I keep returning to the Sunday services. There’s something stirring inside of me, a nascent spiritual sense I’ve never known. Tonight, just before falling asleep, I said my very first prayer:

Whoever you are, help me out of this pain. I don’t think I can take it much longer.

Tell me what to do.

Give me a sign.

Please.

The next day, Wednesday, March 13, 1996, we learn that Pamela is pregnant.

CHAPTER 17

Shining Light by the Sea

I’D LIKE TO THINK the pregnancy is a divinely orchestrated moment, an answer to my first prayer, but my rational mind dismisses this idea as patently absurd. We’ve wanted to have a child for more than a year and have been seeing a fertility specialist for months. The treatments finally worked. It would be foolish to think otherwise.

Still, it’s given me a sense of purpose far beyond anything else in my life and helps me find something within myself I thought was gone forever: hope. Who cares that at forty-eight years old I will be a “dino-daddy” when the child is born? Who cares that I’m disabled and severely limited in what I can do? Why worry that there will be no running on the beach, chasing a ball, camping, hiking, or coaching at his soccer games? People with serious disabilities have proven to be wonderful parents, I tell myself, as I jump into the preparation process with the fervor of old.

Six months into the pregnancy, we learn that our child will be a boy, and we begin turning an upstairs bedroom into a nursery. The centerpiece is a large, white crib with musical mobiles dangling overhead. I even manage to mount a safety gate at the top of the stairs. This accomplishment makes me feel satisfied, like I’m still worthwhile despite my crippled body. Downstairs, we design a playroom with built-in cabinets and a Murphy bed for the eventual playdates and sleepovers with little friends. This is work I used to be able to do. Now it’s far beyond me and I have to hire someone to install everything.

Before we know it, Pamela is in labor and we are in the hospital delivery room. On December 13, 1997, Morgan Bradford Willis arrives in the world. Morgan, a name of Welsh and Old English origin, means “great shining light by the sea.” Like most Americans, Pamela and I share European ancestry, and the image of living by the sea and bringing a shining light into our lives feels perfect. I watch Morgan as he makes his debut in the world, and I cut the umbilical cord myself, listening to his first cry. When the doctor places him in my arms, I stare at his tiny face and a new kind of love floods my heart. It’s an emotional experience beyond anything I have ever known.

Home from the hospital, we establish a new routine with feeding schedules, burping, nap times, diaper changes, bathing, and powdering. Pamela and I grow closer together as I immerse myself in it, but I also have limitations. Pain episodes strike. There are days when I’m down and can’t contribute much. Little fears about not being able to be a successful father bubble up regularly, but I tuck them away in the growing file down in my subconscious where I cram all the stuff I lack the courage to face. I weigh close to 215 pounds now, thirtyfive more than in my prime when I was a correspondent. Things no longer function well in my body. It’s more than physical disability and weight gain. My inner rhythms are out of sync, like I’m a song so out of tune that it hurts your ears.

Fortunately, Morgan is an easy baby. He’s always calm, never gets colic, rarely cries, and smiles endlessly. With his flaxen hair, cherubic cheeks, and milky skin, it’s as if an angel has descended into my arms. When I’m able, I love to feed him, change his diapers, wash his tiny body, dry him off, dust him with baby powder, and get him dressed. I hold him every chance I get, coo at him, make silly faces, gaze endlessly at his tiny fingers and toes.

I run warm baths almost every evening, slip in, then lift Morgan onto my belly and dip his toes in and out of the water. I bob him up and down, going deeper and deeper, up to his ankles, then his knees, now his hips—always making sure we stay within his comfort zone. Soon, I have him in up to his shoulders, with water splashing everywhere as he gurgles and coos. Then I suddenly lift him high over my head and dip him down in again, making a big whooshing sound, wwwwhhhoooooaaaaaa!!!!

After his bath I wrap him in a warm blanket and bring out his baby rattles and stuffed animals for a little play. He gazes with glee as I shake the rattles. When I rub the soft, furry face of his teddy bear onto his cheeks, he swoons with joy. My son really is a shining light, and I have found a new identity: I’m a father. The broken back, the failed surgery, the lost career, the constant pain, and the emotional turmoil don’t matter quite so much anymore. This radiant light of new life has opened the seas of my heart, giving me a reason to live.

It’s early 1998. Morgan is only three months old. I woke up this morning feeling incredibly sick. It’s like a heavy cold, only without a sore throat, runny nose, or headache. I’m feverish, achy all over, exhausted, spent. I fall back to sleep hard.

Day Two of the illness. The symptoms seem to be changing. I get steamy hot and then suddenly feel freezing. My head is pounding. More sleep. I can hardly move.

Day Three. The worst head cold in my life. I can’t breathe through my nose. My lungs are filled with goop.

Day Four. I can’t stop coughing. The fits are so bad I sometimes think I’ll never be able to inhale.

Day Five. The malaise subsides and I start to feel better.

A week later, it hits me again. This time it’s more like a classic head and chest cold. Three days later, I’m recovering again, wondering what the hell just happened.

Then I get walloped and begin to fear that something insidious is inside of me. This time, the sickness lingers with persistence, still taking on different personalities. My sinuses throb. Then it’s in my lungs. Now my temples are on fire. One afternoon I have full-body aches. The next night I struggle with more sweats and chills. My doctor is baffled. Maybe it’s mononucleosis, or a rare infection. Blood tests are inconclusive and antibiotics have no effect.

Over the next few months, the mysterious illness keeps coming in waves, hitting harder and lasting longer each time it strikes. One morning, I reach to rub a sore spot on the left side of my neck and discover a lump about the size of an almond. Within days, the lump grows to the size of a walnut and continues to get larger and more painful.

“It’s probably just an infection in the lymph node,” Dr. Schafer says. He’s an ENT—an ear, nose, and throat specialist—that I’ve been referred to by the medical group that contracts with my insurance company. “We need to biopsy it, just to be safe. Then discuss your options.”

As always, I want details.

“A biopsy is a fairly simple procedure,” Dr. Schafer explains. “A specialized needle is inserted into the lump, it’s aspirated—meaning cells are sucked into the needle—and then the cells are analyzed under a microscope. You’ll be under anesthesia, so it’s painless.”

The next morning, September 11, 1998, I’m on a gurney being wheeled down a hospital corridor at Sharp Chula Vista Medical Center, just south of San Diego. In the operating room, it’s the back surgery scenario all over again. Bright lights, plastic tubes, computer monitors, and clinking steel instruments. The anesthesia needle slips into my vein and the mask slides over my face. In less than a minute, the thick, wet sound of my breath is all I can hear.

I’m dying!

I’m unconscious, but I can hear myself whispering this into a black void.

I’m dying!

I can feel my life leaving my body.

A female voice comes from somewhere beyond the void as I try to hold on: “Wake up! Come back! You’re not dying!” She sounds insistent, but far away, like I’m at the bottom of a deep well. I feel myself slipping further away, but the woman’s voice gets stronger, demanding that I come back to life.

“Right now. Come back here! It’s your sister, Valerie!”

Finally, I slip out of the void. I feel life slowly returning to my body and start to find my way back into the world. But I have no idea where I am and begin thrashing and trying to get up. Two big men begin restraining me like I’m a prisoner caught during an escape.

“Get off me! Let me go! Dammit, let me go!” I hear myself trying to scream, but my voice won’t come out.

“You are in the hospital recovery room,” a nurse says with authority as the two strong orderlies continue to hold me down. “Snap out of it!”

I struggle and fight some more as the room finally comes into view. My sister Valerie is right next to me. It was her voice beckoning me back from the beyond. As she holds my hand and comforts me, I’m convinced that without her I would have permanently slipped away.

“You had major surgery,” Valerie tells me. “You’ve been out for hours.”

“What do you mean, major surgery?” I’m barely able to rasp this out, and it hurts my throat like crazy.

“Let’s wait and talk to the doctor,” a nurse says firmly while guiding me into lying back down. “You still need more rest.”

It’s one of those unspoken things. Everyone knows something is terribly wrong, but it’s not time to discuss it. There is some complication. Maybe a mistake during the surgery. Too much anesthesia. Possibly something worse. I try to swallow again, but there’s tremendous pain in my throat and my neck is throbbing as fast as a jackhammer. I reach for my neck. The entire left side is heavily bandaged. This was more than a simple biopsy.

“There’s good news and bad news.” The surgeon, Dr. Low, is offering me a classic cliché. It’s mostly bad news, so the approach is to look on the bright side first, then deliver the hard facts as softly as possible.

“The lump wasn’t the source of the problem,” he continues. “We found the source and took care of it.”

“So what was the source? What’s the problem?” I’m still barely able to speak but am back to playing journalist and want to get straight to it.

“It was in your tonsils,” Dr. Low says. “We were able to cut it all out and remove your tonsils along with some of the areas around them.”

“Cut what out?” I sound like a hissing snake.

“Squamous cells,” he says.

“What are squamous cells? What do I have? Just come to the point.” Now it feels like my throat might explode.

“You have oropharyngeal carcinoma,” Dr. Low says, as if it’s a confession. “When we biopsied the tumor we found the squamous cells. We had to sedate you further and perform emergency surgery. After we removed the lymph gland from your neck we found that the squamous cells weren’t just in the lump. We had to follow it, go into your throat. We found the source there, in your tonsils. We cut out as much as we could find.”

“Carcinoma,” I croak the word out slowly. “That’s cancer.”

No one ever wants to say the word. Cancer. That frightening disease that always happens to someone else. Cancer. One of the leading causes of death in America. Cancer. Fifteen hundred people a day, more than half a million annually. Cancer.

“You are going to need some treatments,” Dr. Low says. “Radiation is a necessity. We need to try to kill any squamous cells that may have been missed in the surgery, get everything we can. You’ll begin radiation treatments once the incision on your neck heals a bit.”

“So what are the odds of beating this?” I ask the question Dr. Low has probably heard a million times, my voice almost inaudible.

“We don’t know,” Dr. Low says calmly, “and I don’t think it’s ever helpful to speculate and talk about percentages. Each case is different. We just have to do our best and be positive. For now, try not to talk much and just go home and rest.”

Go home and rest. But will I survive? Will I die? If so, how long do I have? These questions drive me crazy on the drive home. Even though I’m still stoned from whatever they gave me during the surgery, and now have a new bottle of heavy painkillers, I feel half crazy and completely hyped up. All night it pounds in my head: Cancer. It’s hard as hell to swallow anything with my throat sliced open, but I manage to down a few extra Valium, after crushing them up and mixing them with water. Still, I can’t doze off.

It’s late now. Well past midnight. I still can’t sleep. Cancer. I can’t get the word out of my head. I get up as quietly as possible and tiptoe into Morgan’s room to watch him sleeping in his crib. I listen to the gentle rise and fall of his breath, feeling connected to the very core of his being. Tears run down my cheeks like wild rivers. It’s a terrible thought that I’ll be leaving Pamela without a husband, although I’ve often felt she might be better off without having to care for me or face my constant emotional flare-ups. But the prospect of leaving my son without a father rips me apart inside.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper softly, the rasp so bad now it’s barely audible, careful not to awaken him. This little shining light by the sea has just flooded my life with meaning and joy. And now this disease wants to steal the life out of my body. “I’m so sorry.”

CHAPTER 18

Radiation

SHE CAN’T BE more than five years old, playing quietly with her doll on the floor of the waiting room in the hospital’s radiation oncology wing. Her red woolen hat matches her winter coat, hiding the baldness that has resulted from her chemotherapy treatments. Her huge green eyes are missing their luster. Her little cheeks are ashen. Her forehead is etched with a frown. She is deeply absorbed in comforting her doll, whispering that everything will be okay. Her parents sit close by watching her, unable to conceal their anguish and pain.

As a journalist, I would instinctively focus on this child as a poignant way to illustrate the heartbreak and tragic randomness of a killer disease. But I’m no longer behind the camera lens documenting the suffering of others. I’m on the other side now, trying to survive. We’re all trying to survive: children, teens, middle-aged adults, a few senior citizens, sitting here together in silence. Waiting in the waiting room. Almost stuck in time. We share a common bond, but there’s little eye contact and no conversation. Despite the floral carpet and nature scenes framed on the walls, it’s somber. Sterile. I can almost taste the quiet desperation in the room.

The little girl hugs her doll and gives it a kiss on the cheek. I can’t take my eyes off her as I wonder if she will survive or if cancer will soon claim her precious little life. I wonder about all of us. No doubt everyone here holds similar thoughts. It’s a huge elephant in the room, and it feels like an eternity before I’m called in to see the radiation oncology specialist, Dr. Chasan.

“It’s been three weeks since your surgery, and your scar seems to be healing well,” Dr. Chasan says as she holds my head gently with her hands, slowly turning it side to side to inspect my neck. “We have you scheduled for fifteen treatments over the next seven weeks. You’ll finish up just before Christmas day.”

Like Dr. Low, Dr. Chasan won’t tell me about my odds for survival. But I do get a new fact from her: The cancer is stage IV. “What does that mean?” I ask quickly when she mentions it. It seems to catch her by surprise. “Oh, I thought you had been told,” she says, sounding a little hesitant. “It can be pretty tough, but we have a good treatment program for you.”

I press for more information, but she artfully dodges. She is very professional, and I begin to realize it’s probably an important protocol not to discuss specifics too much with patients, especially if the news is likely to depress them.

“The radiation procedure is painless, you won’t feel a thing,” Dr. Chasan gets me back on track as she reaches for a thin, black rubber hose connected to a metal box sitting on the counter. I can see that the hose has an oval-shaped glass tip on the end. “But first, I need to look at your throat and take a few images. Unfortunately, this procedure can be a little uncomfortable.”

I can’t imagine any greater discomfort than what I’ve been living with the past several years, until Dr. Chasan holds the glass tip of the hose closer to my face and says, “This is a tiny camera. I have to insert this tube down one of your nostrils to see what’s going on. We need to go in this way to get a full view of the upper throat.”

I take a deep breath through my nose, visualize the process, then swallow hard. “Okay,” I say, “let’s do it.”

She sprays a numbing agent into my left nostril and has me breathe deeply through my nose, holding the right nostril shut so the spray penetrates deeply up the left sinus. Sixty seconds later she begins to insert the tube-cam into my left nostril and down the sinus passageway into my throat. Even with the numbing spray, it’s worse than I feared. The pain is excruciating as she slowly forces the tube farther. My right nostril bubbles and foams with mucus. My eyes flood with hot tears. I want to bite onto Dr. Chasan’s wrist and chew her hand off to make her stop. I gag and convulse with dry heaves when the camera enters my still-tender throat. It’s a complete violation and I can’t wait for it to end.

As soon as I settle down after the tube-cam and can breathe normally, I’m guided into radiation. The treatment room is long and wide, with gray metal cabinets and laminated shelving on the walls. Radiation masks are lined up on the higher shelves like rows of skulls. I was fitted for mine three days ago. To construct it, gauze soaked in warm plaster was layered over my face to create a mold. Once dry, the mold was removed and plastic webbing heated inside of it to form the mask. Designed to block the radiation from damaging areas of my face outside the target area where my tonsils once were, it covers my face like I’m the diabolical killer in a cheap horror movie.

The radiation technician, Greg, comes in now and starts to get me prepped. He is chatty and smart. When I ask how radiotherapy works, he gives me an amazingly detailed answer. “It’s designed to damage the DNA of cancerous cells with photons, a basic unit of electromagnetic radiation. Cancer cells usually reproduce much faster and in far greater numbers than normal cells, but they have a diminished capacity to repair themselves. So the idea is that the ‘bad cells’ will die while the ‘good cells’ will have a chance to regenerate.” I know how critical this is. The oncology partner of the doctor who performed my neck surgery told me during a consultation last week that even if the radiation succeeds, there’s no way to know if it’s one hundred percent, and if the cancer cells begin growing again I have no chance of survival. Zero.

The radiation therapy machine looks similar to the bone scan device, only bigger and more high-tech, built with shiny white, black, and silver metal casings. I’m laid out on yet another long, cold table, this time with my shirt off so the black, pinpoint tattoos on my chest are in plain sight. These were done when I was fitted for my mask, along with two tiny tattoos on my neck. These markers help guide the radiation beams away from sensitive areas. Greg places the horror mask over my face, then sticks a white, wooden dowel into my mouth.

“You have to gently bite on the dowel the entire time to keep your jaw slightly open so radiation doesn’t pass through your jawbone,” Greg explains as two more assistants get me perfectly positioned. “That could cause unwanted damage.”

As I hold the dowel in my teeth, the electric table slides me beneath a wide, L-shaped arm that supports the large, round radiation device. It looks like the tip of a giant microscope hovering above me. As I stare at it, I flash back to dissecting insects in high school biology lab and feel like I’m one of the sacrificial bugs we used to squish between glass plates to view through our scopes.

After the clinicians leave the room to protect themselves, the device aims radiation beams from several angles of exposure to intersect at the area where my tonsils used to be. As Dr. Chasan promised, it’s painless. I can’t feel the beams of radiation at all.

Lying under this machine, it’s impossible not to contemplate what my life has become. I keep drifting back into the past, reliving the life I once led. I was fully alive then. My body healthy and strong. Important things to do. Deadlines to meet. Historic stories to tell. Every day an amazing adventure. Now I’m lying here with a skull mask over my face, biting a wooden stick, and being radiated. I’m so cold, puffy, and pasty white, I feel more like a corpse on an autopsy table than a living human being. “I love you, Morgan,” I hear myself whisper-hissing around the wooden dowel between my teeth. “I love you.”

Radiation Treatment, October 1998.

I’m placed under the giant microscope twice a week. The radiation treatments remain painless, but the side effects are miserable. They give me profound fatigue. My lips are swollen, dried, and cracked, like parched mud. My thyroid gland has been destroyed, which means I have another pharmaceutical medication to take so my body maintains its normal flow of hormones that the thyroid regulates.

My throat feels like burnt toast. Bleeding sores fill my mouth and most of my salivary function has been permanently damaged by the photons. My taste buds have met a similar fate, and my throat is so swollen and inflamed I can’t eat regular food and have to drink nourishment through a straw. Dr. Chasan has recommended Slim-Fast smoothies that are used to provide essential nutrients during weight loss programs. They taste terrible to me. If only there were a blended steak and potatoes drink on the market, maybe with a hint of red wine.

Far worse than the Slim-Fast smoothies are the appointments with Dr. Chasan, who continues to periodically force the tube-cam up my nostril and down into my throat, looking for suspect cells, which would appear as black splotches on the bright red lining of my larynx. This procedure remains an inconceivable violation and I loathe entering her office.

Two months later, just before Christmas of 1998, the radiation treatments—and the invasive tube-cam sessions—end. My voice has gotten much worse than it was right after the surgery. Now I can barely speak in a scratchy whisper that sounds like fingernails on a blackboard. Sometimes my voice disappears completely. I only have two ways to deal with this. When I’m mute, I type on my computer screen in a huge font, then wave my arms and bring Pamela’s attention to my message. When I have a semblance of voice, I put on a gadget called a “Chattervox.” It’s a plastic, hospital-green amplifier that straps around my waist where the Stim used to go when there was hope of promoting a successful bone fusion in my back. A wire runs from the amplifier to a headset with a microphone. I hiss into the microphone in deep, raw tones and my voice is amplified from the speaker at my belly. It sounds like I’ve swallowed Darth Vader.

I now understand the word invalid in a new way. The noun means someone disabled by illness and injury, but the adjective also comes to mind. I’m not valid. My life lacks validity: a broken back, cancer, no career; incapable of raising my son; helpless, hopeless. I can’t imagine how difficult all this is for Pamela. She remains upbeat on the exterior, loving and helping me in every way, sacrificing what little time she has when not taking care of Morgan. But I sense she also has a growing concern for her own future. I don’t blame her. Anyone would be frightened, uncertain, and self-protective in a situation such as this. Our relationship has become like a formal dance. We go through all the moves with great politeness and formality, plaster smiles on our faces, have superficial conversations, and barely touch the cancer issue.

My only comfort and sense of worth is when I’m with Morgan. He has no idea that I’m sick as he crawls into my lap on the recliner and we leaf through his little picture books. When I have a voice, I tell him how much I love him through the Chattervox. When I’m mute, I make silly faces and play with him by turning my hand into a crawly thing or giving him gentle tickles. I wish I could sing the lullabies I used to as he drifts off to sleep in my arms. Every time we’re together, it’s impossible not to be flooded with thoughts of leaving him fatherless. They spin through my head like a tornado and always leave me drowning in grief.

With Morgan, Winter 1998.

Despite the radiation treatments, my prognosis is poor. Although I can’t nail them down on this, as best as I can tell from pressing my doctors is that I’ll be fortunate to live for two years. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if it’s worth it. If it weren’t for this wonderful child, I think I would choose to call it all off and find a way to quickly slip into the darkness forever.

CHAPTER 19

The Journal

STILL A JOURNALIST AT HEART, I have to know all the facts. With my life in the balance, I need them more than ever. I’ve bought a hospital “overbed table” from a medical supply store to use for setting up my computer. It has a strong frame with a serving tray secured to its legs by a single metal shaft on one side. This way, I can lean back on my recliner to ease the tension on my back, then roll the table toward my lap and swivel the tray until my computer is facing me.

The Internet is just beginning to burgeon, and there’s a new service called Google that just came out last year. It’s a search engine that helps me find online articles and information. I pore through everything I can find on throat cancer and soon begin to learn how much I didn’t know. Squamous cell carcinoma comes in various types, from easily treatable skin cancer to aggressive carcinomas that invade various organs. It can show up in the neck, the lungs, the prostate, the bladder. It’s either in situ, confined to the site of origin, or invasive, spreading to other organs. The spreading is called metastasis, and this is bad news. My cancer originated in my tonsils and spread into my lymphatic system, creating the tumor in the lymph gland on my neck. It’s considered invasive. It’s spreading. Metastasizing.

This is what Dr. Chasan meant when she said it was stage IV. In another article, I learn there are four stages of cancer, based on various factors, including tumor size, the depth of its penetration in the body, whether or not it has spread to other organs, and if it has invaded lymph nodes. Stage I is localized and the easiest to deal with. Stage IV is the worst and indicates the patient has the least chance of survival. It’s bad news.

As I read more about radiation, several articles indicate that head and neck cancers such as mine, when metastasized, are very aggressive and generally incurable with radiotherapy since the whole body would need to be treated. The amount of radiation required for this would prove fatal. I can only conclude that my treatments, therefore, were at best just a way to slow things down. But I still can’t find specifics about survival rates for stage IV oropharyngeal carcinoma. Many articles contradict one another. There’s nothing definitive. No matter how much I search, I can’t nail it down with any certainty. I want to discover some new finding that gives me hope or just finally confirms that two years is correct. It’s frustrating, and it remains the big unanswered question: What are my chances of survival?

THURSDAY, APRIL 1, 1999

It’s a blustery morning with huge clouds, high winds, and occasional light rain showers. I’ve bundled you up, Morgan, tucked you into your stroller and wrapped you in a cozy blanket. We cruise around the block looking at all the flowers, smelling the lilacs and gardenias in the humid air, listening to the birds. You love the outdoors, especially when it rains. We have a perfect time together. I hope we can make this a regular routine.

Despite the fact that the scar has finally healed, my neck is becoming tender again. There are new sore spots and, rubbing them all the time, I think I feel little lumps. All my doctors have acknowledged is that if the cancer returns, my death is certain. But they never seem alarmed during monthly checkups, so maybe it’s just fear. I can’t be sure, so I’m trying to keep a journal for Morgan to read when I’m gone, hoping he’ll have some memory of his father.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 7, 1999

Dear Morgan. You’ll be two years old in seven months. I’m planning to set up a film camera on a tripod and tell you the story of my life. I want you to see the places I traveled to and the news reports I did. I hope you’ll view it after I am gone. I can’t get to it quite yet. My back feels like it’s broken all over again right now. But look for it, okay?

Ever since the surgery and radiation, I’ve been even more sedentary, but I’m eating as much as or more than ever. I don’t need so much food. It’s just for comfort. Another way of escaping myself. As a result, I now weigh more than 220 pounds. Morphine has been prescribed on a permanent basis to help with my growing back pain and the residual discomfort from the radiation treatments. It comes in slow-release patches that I stick on my chest and also in stronger pill form for pain emergencies. I still take Vicodin, Valium, Motrin, and Prozac, even though they’re hard to swallow down my swollen throat, and have been prescribed Ritalin and Dexedrine to stimulate me since I’m always so lethargic.

I cling to my drugs out of fear and never miss a dose, and although they help manage physical and emotional pain, they’ve completely masked my Soul. I’m constantly stoned—jacked up on stimulants, numbed by narcotics, dazed by antidepressants, and pickled on alcohol. It’s become a weird sort of reality for me, and I’m slowly turning into a person I don’t recognize.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14, 1999

You saw a wagon on the neighbor’s porch this morning, Morgan, and it transfixed you. You are only sixteen months old and just beginning to speak, but you pointed and said, “waaauuun!” It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you really want something. During your nap I snuck out to the local hardware store and bought you a red wagon. I remember my first wagon and my father pulling me around in it. This is like passing the torch. You should have seen your face when I surprised you with it!

My time with Morgan is now spent in gentle play. I have to hand him off to Pamela for most of his meals, naps, and diaper changes. Despite how difficult I can be, she continues to be loving, supportive, and giving. She recently bought a cookbook for cancer patients and has me choose recipes for her to prepare. She also helps me in a million other little ways, especially when I’m immobilized by pain episodes. I feel like a huge burden. It depresses me even more. I know it’s immature. Another form of self-pity. I try to snap out of it, but I can’t seem to do it.

SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1999

Nature, Morgan, is a miracle. I gaze at the morning sun from my recliner here by my computer, listen to the birds sing, and watch the flowers bloom. Then I turn on the monitor that lets me listen to you in your bedroom and I can hear you breathe while you are still asleep. It sounds like the song of all life.

I’m still obsessed with finding out what my chances of survival are, and I’m getting fixated on whether or not I had the right treatment. Shortly after the surgery on my neck, the first oncologist I saw, Dr. Saleh, wanted me to have chemotherapy as well as radiation. Dr. Low, who performed the tumor surgery, was against chemo. Because he was my surgeon, I chose to take Dr. Low’s advice, but after all the Internet research and conflicting data, I want a new opinion, even though I’m already seeing so many doctors I’m completely confused.

My health insurance company approves this request and I’m sent to see another ear, nose, and throat specialist named Dr. Jimenez. I hate having to find a way to lie down in the reception area so my back doesn’t flare up. I also hate that the doctor is running an hour behind. When I’m finally called into his office, he seems hurried and distracted to me, and it makes me grit my teeth. But I also realize that the drugs make me tense, irritable, and impatient. I’m always annoyed with people, especially most of my doctors. I want everyone to be prompt. Give me clear and concise answers. Tell me what I’m hoping to hear. I’m still trying to play investigative reporter, looking for contradictions, mistrusting everyone, always finding faults.

After a few minutes of reading through my file, Dr. Jimenez glances up and says, “Your case is highly unusual, and very rare, especially for a nonsmoker. I think you should have had much more aggressive treatment, including chemotherapy.” The doctor expresses frustration with the HMO system and the medical group I belong to, even though he’s a member of it. He wants me to see a chemotherapy expert outside the group named Dr. Kourany. “He will tell you if you should have chemo, and he will be straightforward about your chances for surviving.”

I’m losing track of all the doctors I’ve been seeing. The incessant notes I take at every appointment are stuffed in files and folders without the organizational skills I once had as a journalist. It’s incredibly frustrating, and the idea that Dr. Low’s advice might have been wrong infuriates me. I hate the idea of seeing another specialist, but I need to know: Did I get the best treatment? Am I going to die? If so, how long do I have?

FRIDAY, MAY 7, 1999

(A NOTE TO MYSELF)

I carried Morgan out to the yard this morning. He is so small and light, yet it killed my back. Soon, I’m not going to be able to carry him upstairs to bed anymore, and he loves this so much. I don’t want to increase the pain meds, but I need to ask the doctor about it today. There’s no other way.

Despite everything, we still manage to have some good family times, with limited outings and social occasions, but my moments of clarity and freedom from discomfort are far too few. My voice comes and goes. My back comes and goes. Most of my time is spent in bed or on the recliner. When I do have energy, I devote it to Morgan. Spells of darkness, anger, and delusion erupt more frequently these days. My son never sees these, but his mother does. It’s like I’m simultaneously shivering with fear and boiling with anger whenever we’re together. I know I’m not showing up for her. Instead, I’m taking it out on her. There are those special people who face great life-threatening challenges with amazing dignity, strength, and courage. They are inspirations and role models for us all. I wish I could say I’m one of them, but I’m not even close.

TUESDAY, MAY 11, 1999

A recent bone scan shows deterioration in the disc between my third and fourth lumbar vertebrae, the level just above the failed surgery. I took you to the park this morning, Morgan, but as I sat on the grass with you in my lap, the disc lightly herniated. I was frozen in pain and could barely push your stroller the half block to home. I’m now on ice and another heavy dose of drugs. My whole body is gripped with tension and fear. I’m so sorry. All I want is to be healthy and whole for you.

I’ve finally gotten an appointment with Dr. Kourany for the second opinion on my treatments and prognosis. The reception area is tiny and the doctor is late, so his secretary takes me into the doctor’s office so I can lie down on a couch. It’s an expansive room, with rows of bookshelves lining the walls, filled with medical texts.

After a half-hour on the overstuffed leather couch that faces the doctor’s massive desk, I feel impatient. I get up and hobble over to his library, looking for anything that might give me statistics about throat cancer mortality rates. There’s nothing. Moving back toward the couch I notice the corner of a book concealed beneath a stack of files and papers on his desk. It seems like a book patients are not supposed to see, but I slip it out anyway. The title says something about cancer findings. I take the book and lie back down, thumbing through it as quickly as I can, feeling like I’ll be scolded if the doctor walks in and catches me.

In the table of contents, there’s a chapter on head and neck tumors. I go to it immediately, still wary of the doctor’s arrival. Most of the language and data is far beyond my comprehension, but things start jumping out as I rush through the chapter. Head and neck cancers are aggressive tumors. He must have looked through this in preparation for my appointment. Involvement of even a single lymph node is associated with a marked decline in survival. I had a major tumor in one lymph node and several other nearby nodes removed as well. Chemotherapy does not confer an additional survival benefit. So Dr. Low was right. There is significant risk of second primary tumors developing. The prognosis for patients is poor.

Suddenly, the door opens and I quickly slide the book under the couch. Dr. Kourany is an imposing presence, tall and broad shouldered, with thick black hair and a moustache. His name is Middle Eastern, and he looks just like the stern border guard I had to bribe when I crossed from Turkey into Northern Iraq while covering the Kurdish refuge crisis after the Gulf War. “What can I do for you?” he asks in a deep, commanding voice, not even acknowledging being an hour late.

As I explain my story, he thumbs through my file, never once looking up. When I mention I was in the Gulf War and wonder if exposure to something there might have caused this, he finally looks up, stares me straight in the eyes, and says forcefully, “It wasn’t a war. It was a massacre!” He’s literally shaking with anger and I finally get it. He must be from Iraq. Many innocent people were killed during the bombing of Baghdad. Perhaps some were his family or friends.

“You’re from Baghdad?” I venture. “Yes,” he says gruffly. I’ve touched a nerve. “I’m sorry about the war,” I respond and try to get back on topic, but he quickly interrupts, “You should not have had surgery or radiation. You should have had chemotherapy. It’s too late for that now. But it’s no matter. Chemotherapy doesn’t save the life, it only slows things down.”

He seems to be contradicting his own book, but I’m afraid to confront him with this or let him know I took it from his desk. “So what are my odds of survival?” I ask. “Two years,” Dr. Kourany says abruptly as he stands up, signaling it’s time for me to leave. “Two years from when the diagnosis was made. There’s nothing I can do for you.” With that, he turns and walks out through his private entrance door before I can say, “I thought so.”

THURSDAY, JUNE 17, 1999

Morgan, you took my hand this morning, as you so often do, pulled me off the recliner, and “runwalked” me to the front closet, pointed to your box of bubble makers and dragged me out front to blow bubbles in the morning air. Then you did a “Daddy attack,” having me lie on the grass as you climbed onto my belly and we rubbed noses and laughed. You really are a “shining light by the sea,” and I think you are trying to heal me in your own little way. I love you so much for it.

I’ve joined a new church just two blocks away, only because it’s closer and easier to get to. The pastor, Father David, is in his early forties, lean and wiry, with short, wispy brown hair and a glimmer in his eyes. He is as Irish as Father Joe, and as charismatic—always smiling and filled with energy. He comes to visit me at home once a week and prays for a healing. In the quiet moments I have to myself, I find I’m opening more to inner awareness, but not as a religion. To me, it’s a spiritual awareness, a search for deeper meaning in my life, a way to try to cope with my dark emotions and accept that I probably have just a short time left on this Earth. But it’s in its infancy, like a tiny seed sprouting beneath the soil trying to push through the crust of the hard earth and not making much progress.

The cycles of back pain and sickness are tormenting. The ice pick episodes strike periodically despite all the drugs, and the malaise I felt when I was diagnosed with cancer keeps returning, like a dark, malevolent presence invading my body again. It’s not as intense as before, but it keeps hanging around and it scares me out of my wits. It’s often hard to swallow and my throat sometimes bleeds. I can’t keep my fingers off the tender nodes on my neck and am always pressing them, wondering if cancer is spreading through my body.

And I’m totally confused. Was there a screwup? Should I have had chemo? Two doctors say yes, but the book on Dr. Kourany’s desk says it doesn’t confer any survival benefits. I guess that means, like he said, it just slows things down. One thing seems certain: I don’t have much time. Two years. I can’t forget those words. I was diagnosed in September of last year. That leaves me less than a year and a half to go.

MONDAY, JUNE 21, 1999

Yesterday was Father’s Day. You gave me a card that you drew. My throat was bleeding and I had to say thank you through the Chattervox. It was a moment filled with joy, yet I felt a deep depression that I couldn’t shake off. As I write this, hot tears are streaming down my face. I wonder if this is my final Father’s Day with you. I can’t stop worrying about not being here with you and for you.

“Pentagon Denies Claims of Gulf War Illness.” The story is buried in the back pages of The New York Times today. The article doesn’t surprise me. I’ve long had a hunch that it might have been something I was exposed to in the Gulf that caused my cancer. Maybe some chemical weapon used by Saddam that no one ever discovered. As I dig into the article, I find out it wasn’t Iraq that used these types of weapons; it was America.

More than a hundred thousand Gulf veterans are sick and almost ten thousand have died since the war, but it’s being hushed up. After years of denial, the Department of Defense is finally admitting that U.S. air campaigns deliberately blew up large caches of weapons in Iraq, sending clouds of toxic debris toward its own ground troops. As I suspected, the article indicates that the MOPP gear, the masks, and the chemical uniforms that soldiers and war correspondents were issued were of poor quality and little use.

It gets worse. There was an invisible enemy on the battlefield: armor-piercing shells made with depleted uranium used in American tank, anti-aircraft, and antipersonnel artillery. Depleted uranium ordnance is denser than lead, pierces better, fragments more easily, and also bursts into flames. It was cheap for the Defense Department to obtain because it’s a waste product of the nuclear-bomb program. It was highly effective, but it also filled the battlefields with toxic radiation that is carcinogenic. I remember peering into Iraqi tanks that were freshly punched full of holes from these shells. This must be what I breathed into my throat. Was it our own bomb attacks that made me, and thousands of soldiers, terminally ill? The thought enrages me.

SATURDAY, JULY 17, 1999

Morgan, you and I have entered a joyous new world of play. I make up silly Daddy games, pretending my hand is a tickle monster. You catch on immediately and create your own tickle monster to get me back. Then I become all your stuffed animals at breakfast, each encouraging you to drink your milk. In the middle of the fun this morning, I lost my voice again. I see how it disappoints you, and it crushes me.

I’m continuing to investigate the Gulf War Syndrome. I know it will not do anything to cure me, but I need to know the facts. After endless unanswered phone calls to numerous old sources, I finally reach a Marine general I became friends with during the war.

“I can’t say anything on the record,” he tells me. “You can never use my name. I would have to deny we ever spoke.” He must protect his career. When I agree to these terms, he confirms my findings. Many of his soldiers became sick after the war. Several died. He believes the depleted uranium played a major role. It’s a moral dilemma for him and I can feel his distress.

“I wish I could bring back my men,” he says with remorse, “but I can’t. That’s all I can say. Good luck.”

TUESDAY, JULY 20, 1999

There is a painful lump in my throat. I had to return to the throat specialist yesterday for another assault down my sinuses. I am tired of being poked, prodded, and examined. The new oncologist who oversees my case now, Dr. Redfern, says the lump is just swelling and there’s no sign of a new tumor. But he confirmed this morning that I’ll be extremely fortunate now to live more than a year. I had to really press him to get this out of him. I told him I have a solid pact with you, Morgan, to confound all the experts and live for years. I wish I believed it was possible, but I honestly don’t feel I’m going to last much longer. I took you to the pool at the spa afterwards. Having the support of the water is the only way I can still hold you and toss you in the air. My God, I love you beyond belief and want to be your daddy for years and years to come.

I now have two recurring dreams that torment me. Their symbolism is obvious. The first is still the one where I am in a bustling newsroom, sitting at my desk and making no contribution, feeling guilty, and certain I’ll be discovered any moment and fired immediately. The second is more frightening. I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down into a dark abyss. Suddenly, the ground gives way beneath my feet and I slip over the edge. As I fall, I reach out and grab a twisted tree root protruding from the sheer face of the precipice. I lack the strength to pull myself back up and can barely hold on. I feel the abyss pulling me down while I struggle to climb out. Finally, I lose my grip and plummet into the darkness, awakening with a muffled scream just as I’m about to hit bottom.

MONDAY, JULY 26, 1999

Morgan, you wanted to go outside and blow bubbles on the lawn this morning. For the first time in months, I couldn’t do it. My throat was bleeding and my spine was on fire. So I drew a little flower with my finger on the back of one of your hands and a happy face on the other. You hugged and kissed me, and softly said my favorite word, “Da-eee.” I can sense you know what is happening in some innocent, intuitive way, and the ache in my heart eclipses the pain in my back.

I’ve always had a need to feel like I’m in control. I think most people feel this way, especially men. We like to be in charge. Push forward. Win victories. Prove our strength. Save the day. I felt worthwhile, in charge of my life, and victorious as a journalist. Now I feel powerless. Totally helpless. The feeling gets stronger every day.

There’s no doubt why I drink so much and am so dependent on the drugs. I’m scared to death. And I know the reason I can’t face myself: I would abhor what I see. Sometimes friends come by and I watch myself start arguments with them. I want to stop myself in the middle of it, but I can’t because my emotions are so out of control. How did I become so pathetic? So angry? Such a coward? Always the victim? Where did this person come from? Where is the man I used to be? If my son were mature enough to see who I am, would he be proud or ashamed? The answer is so obvious to me that it makes me want to crawl into a dark hole and never come out again.

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 3, 1999

Your second birthday is two months away, but Morgan you are already getting so talkative and understanding so much. Your favorite word is “Da-eee,” and you are crawling all over me every chance you get. I’m amazed at how fast you are growing and even now realize a parent’s biggest challenge is just trying to keep up. I hope I can keep up with you forever.

This is my last entry in the journal. I never pulled it together to make a video. I no longer have the physical or emotional strength to continue. It’s a muddle anyway, with notes to Morgan and ramblings to myself. Still, I print everything on parchment paper, design a cover, and make a little book for him. I tiptoe into his room during his nap and place it on a high shelf in his closet.

Walking to his little bed, built to look like a convertible roadster, I gaze at him as long as I can before standing becomes too painful. Then I struggle to kneel down and manage to kiss his forehead. Morgan’s eyes softly open, so I hug him and remind him of our covenant, that I won’t let cancer take me from him. I mean it from the bottom of my heart, but I have no idea how to make it happen, and I really don’t believe it’s possible.

CHAPTER 20

Get Up, Daddy

IT IS AUGUST 27, 1999. Just less than one year ago, I was diagnosed with cancer. Today is my fiftieth birthday. People from near and far have arrived at our home in Coronado to celebrate. There are former colleagues from the news business, relatives, and both recent and longtime friends. I’ve been in another mute period with a bleeding throat and can barely talk. What little voice I have is, of course, raspy and harsh. I have to make do. I’m too embarrassed to wear the Chattervox and let anyone hear the Darth Vader croak.

The party begins at one o’clock in the afternoon. By two o’clock, I’m lying on my portable lounge chair in the backyard, drinking a creamy stout beer. Wine burns my tender throat these days, stout beer soothes it. It’s my latest medicine, so I can rationalize drinking it whenever I want. I greet everyone as I sip away, acting like my life is fantastic.

“You should try Yoga,” a distant cousin of Pamela’s kneels down and tells me as I have another taste of stout. It’s the first time we’ve met. He can’t be much more than twenty years old. Says he’s a Yoga teacher. Unlike me, he looks fit and strong, lean and supple.

“Oh, sure,” I rasp with a little laugh, like fingernails on the blackboard again. “I can barely walk and I’ve always been the stiffest person in the world. Plus, I weigh a ton. Then there’s this broken back of mine. No chance, but thanks.”

“Okay, maybe someday, when it’s right for you.” He doesn’t push it and simply offers a gentle smile. There’s something different about him. I feel drawn to his presence. He’s calmer, more centered, and more serene than most people, especially for his young age. Still, the idea of Yoga seems as absurd as deciding it’s time to take singing lessons or run a marathon. I excuse myself, roll off my lounge with a great effort, push myself up with my cane, head for the kitchen, and pop open another bottle of stout.

Dinner is served outdoors on tables we’ve borrowed for the party. After we eat, it’s time for me to thank everyone and endure a friendly birthday roast before the sun goes down. We move my lounge to the front porch, where we’ve set up a microphone stand. When everyone’s gathered, I stand up to thank them.

“Thaann…Kuh…You…All for Be…Being…Ahum…here.”

My voice is gone. I try to swallow the blood that’s trickling into my mouth, but my throat is so swollen it’s almost impossible. I can’t get any more words out. I’m unsteady, leaning hard on my cane. Adrian, an African-American cameraman I worked with for years, jumps up and takes the mike.

“Don’t you love it? He can’t talk! I’ve waited all my life for this!” Everyone roars with delight.

I haven’t seen Adrian in years. He’s charismatic, witty, and irreverent. We were best friends when we worked together in Sacramento more than twenty years ago.

“I could never get a word in edgewise with him! Always talking, saying Adrian shoot this, don’t miss that. How about this angle? You in focus?”

Everyone is continuing to have a good laugh as Adrian glares at me and says with his famous attitude, “Now, brother, you just lie down and listen for once in your life.”

There are roasts and toasts, laughter and love. Adrian then closes on a personal note.

“I’ve always fought prejudice and had trouble trusting white people.” He glances at me with a smile, “But you did something that blew my mind and taught me a lesson I’ll never forget.” This is too kind. I know where he’s going and think I might cry at any moment.

“We were working together in Jamaica,” Adrian turns toward the crowd, “and we had a driver named Vernal who was so black he looked blue, made me look almost white.” Everyone laughs again.

“On our first day, we stopped at a fancy restaurant in the countryside outside of Kingston. The owners were also black, but much lighter in color. They told Vernal he couldn’t eat with us. He was too dark. We had a Jamaican government official with us who was also a brother and he informed us this was the custom in his country. The super-black folk were lower class and not allowed to mix. I was hungry and said fine, asked Vernal to go wait in the car, and told him we would bring him something when we were finished.” Adrian glances back at me now.

“You said no. You gave everyone hell, shamed them into seeing their prejudice. You went out to the car and brought Vernal back inside for lunch, set him down at the head of the table, and told him to order the most expensive meal on the menu.”

This was more than twenty years ago, and Vernal still writes me once a year to say thank you for the only steak dinner he has ever had.

“I realized then that my people can be prejudiced, too, and that I was blind to it. So thank you, my brother, thank you.” Adrian and I are both crying now as he leans down for a hug. I’m incredibly touched by the story of Vernal, but it also reminds me that I was once a far better person than I am now. That I once had a life I will never recapture.

It’s an honor to see so many friends here. I want to walk around and thank every one of them, but when I try to stand up, I realize I’m stoned to the gills. I’ve had medications in my system for so many years that I wake up high. As I take my usual doses every few hours, I get higher throughout the day. With three or four stout beers during the party, I’m totally gone. In another universe.

The morphine has the strongest effect, especially with the alcohol. I still feel the pain in my back and throat, but there’s a sense of physical pleasure in all the places where I’m not hurting. It makes me understand how the villagers we filmed smoking opium in northern Thailand must have felt, and why they laid around all day with glazed eyes, doing nothing with their lives and having no concern for what the future might hold.

The party has ended and I’m in bed. Alone. Pamela often sleeps in her office guest bed these days, wisely avoiding me when I’m too stoned. Reviewing the party in my mind, I have more visions of the vibrant man I once was juxtaposed with the pitiful person I’ve become. They never seem to stop. I’m obese, bloated, swollen all over, and ghostly white with dark black circles under my eyes. I can’t sit up for a meal or walk without a cane. I have stage IV cancer. My throat is bleeding and I can barely speak. The obvious suddenly dawns on me. My friends came to celebrate my fiftieth birthday, but it wasn’t the main reason they were here. They were here to say good-bye.

It’s Friday evening, December 4, and only three short blocks to our favorite spot to watch Coronado’s annual Christmas Parade. This time it’s even more special because it’s the final parade of the twentieth century. Even though it’s a short distance, getting to our favorite spot takes almost everything I have. The last four months since my birthday have been a deeper descent into darkness and pain. My medications have deranged my mind. Add the endless stout beers and I’m fuzzy all the time. Sometimes I wake up and see seven or eight bottles in my bedside trash can. I swear I only remember drinking two or three. The only clarity I have is when I’m with Morgan. He remains the one thing in my life that makes it worth living.

Thousands of people are lining our main street for this kickoff to the holidays. Despite how early it is, I pop the cap off a bottle of stout to celebrate with them. Not because I want the alcohol, of course. It’s just to soothe my throat. The High School marching band is playing Christmas tunes. Colorful homemade floats roll by. Kids in karate uniforms kick at the sky. Cheerleaders shake their pom-poms. The Pop Warner baseball team struts along with bats on their shoulders. Little ones dressed like elves and angels wander back and forth as their parents guide them in the proper direction. Even our city garbage trucks are in the act, rolling down the parade route, their huge Dumpsters strewn with colored lights.

Morgan has climbed out of his stroller and is curled up on my lap. He’ll be two years old in a few days and is talking up a storm, giving me the full narrative on all the action. He goes crazy at the end of the parade when our city’s largest fire truck rolls past with sirens wailing and Santa Claus on the top chanting “Ho, Ho, Ho!” He wraps his arms around my neck, hugs me closely, and says, “Next year, Da-eee, let’s march in the parade together. Okay?”

I might as well promise to hike a mountain, but I hug him back and whisper, “Okay, sweetheart, we’ll do it.”

I read him the story of Pinocchio just this morning and now, as I make this promise, it feels like my nose is growing. It’s more than the discomfort of telling a white lie to a small child. I feel like I’m betraying him.

Morgan’s second birthday is on December 13. We throw him a party with all his little friends. Soon thereafter, we celebrate the first Christmas he’s been old enough to understand what’s going on. The living room is filled with gifts and, like all children, it makes him ecstatic. As I watch him tear open his presents with glee, tossing the ribbons and wrapping into the air with complete abandon, I’m filled with joy and grief. The sense that I’m slipping away from him is more palpable every day as I realize I have no control over my destiny.

With the new year coming soon, and with it, the dawning of 2000, my resolution is to spend what little energy I have each day with Morgan, but as we’ve grown ever closer, I’ve become more distant from the rest of the world. I can feel myself worsening daily. I’m always in pain, deeply depressed, combative and unkind to everyone but my boy. I’m tired of being the miserable, drugged, and often drunken person I’ve become and don’t think I can take a slow death with Morgan watching me waste away. So I’ve begun having serious thoughts of how to end it all.

I’ve stashed a large box of my heaviest drugs in the closet, thinking that when the time arrives I can make my exit on my own terms. It’s a dark vision, and a coward’s exit. I imagine leaving a letter for Pamela and flying off to some lavish hotel suite in San Francisco or Las Vegas, even if I need to be pushed everywhere in a wheelchair. I’ll check in, order the finest meal on the menu, request a bottle or two of the most expensive wines from their cellar, no matter how much the acidic taste burns my throat. I’ll have my “last supper” and then slip into a hot Jacuzzi bath, drink down all the medications I can, and drift off to sleep forever.

Suddenly, Morgan can say daddy instead of da-eee, and he’s growing more aware that his daddy is different. Always on the couch, the recliner, the portable lounge chair. Other daddies don’t need canes, body braces, or voice boxes. They can always talk. Sing little lullabies. Get on the swings at the park. Carry their children on their shoulders. Toss them in the air. Kick a soccer ball back and forth. Take walks on the beach.

The doorbell rings. A playmate is here with his father for a day in the park. Morgan scurries to answer the door, then scrambles back down the hallway to find me flat on my back on the couch. He desperately wants me to come with him, to be fully involved. I’m in such bad shape that I can’t even get up and walk him to the door.

“Daddy!” His voice is trembling, he’s wiggling all over, on the verge of tears. “Get up, Daddy!”

His three little words hit me in the center of my chest like a bomb. I wish so badly that I could get up, but it’s another ice pick episode and I’m stuck on the couch.

“You go have a good time, sweetheart,” I say, pulling him in for a kiss. “Daddy can’t get up right now.”

Morgan stands still for a moment and gazes at me, trying to process his emotions. He’s feeling something deeper than I think he’s ever felt before.

“Please, get up, Daddy!” He pleads again as he reaches out and tugs at my hand.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I whisper as my chest throbs. “Daddy just can’t get up right now, his back hurts too much.”

He starts to plead again but suddenly stops and stares at me. In this moment, he has come to a realization. Somewhere deep inside, he knows I’m breaking the covenant we made during the Christmas parade, that I’m not long for this world. Watching him disappear down the hall for his playdate, I free-fall into despair.

Get up, Daddy.

All night it plays in my head like a loop. Get up, Daddy.

But how? How can I get up from this nightmare? I have no idea. Get up, Daddy.

The next day, Morgan’s little voice continues to loop in my mind and pound in my heart. It’s still there the next day, and then the next, like an endless mantra. Get up, Daddy.

This morning I wonder why Morgan hasn’t come in to crawl on my lap in bed. When I finally get up, I check his room. It’s empty. Pamela’s office is also empty. I limp downstairs. There’s a note on the kitchen table. Pamela and Morgan have gone to spend the night at her mother’s home in San Diego. Pamela and I have been more estranged these days, and she’s received the brunt of my late-night tirades one too many times. I can understand how much she needs a break. We can talk about it tomorrow. But she and Morgan don’t come home. I only get the message machine at her mother’s home and can’t find out where my family is. Another day goes by. Then, in the late evening, Pamela finally calls.

“I just can’t come home right now,” she says in a trembling voice.

“Okay, I understand,” I answer, “just bring Morgan here, please.”

“I can’t do that, either,” she says, firmer now. “He is going to stay with me.”

I start to negotiate, bargain, bully, and rage, doing all the things that drove her away, but she is unyielding and I finally realize I’m powerless to impose my will on her. Morgan has been my lifeline, the limb I’ve been trying to cling to on the cliff above the abyss in my recurring dream. Now he’s gone. I’ll do anything to get him back, wage any battle, fight any foe. At least that’s what my ego says, but it’s empty hubris from a thoroughly broken man.

As I lie in bed, loaded with enough medications to knock out an elephant, I can’t sleep. My heart is pounding. My body is aching. My stomach is roiling. My mind is screaming:

Get up, Daddy.

CHAPTER 21

Intervention

IT’S QUIETER THAN USUAL THIS MORNING. I think it was New Year’s Eve last night. Or was it two nights ago? A week? I’ve finally started to come alive after another late night of terrible mental torment. Pamela’s leaving with Morgan has forced me to start facing myself a little. I’ve been doped up, drunk, angry, rude, and out of control for how long? Months? A year? Longer? Not only have I been this way with Pamela, I’ve done it to my family and even with the few remaining friends who have dared to stop by lately. I’ve felt like such a victim and been so absorbed in self-pity that I never saw it in its fullness. Until now. There it is. Clear as day. I’m a total mess. I would have left someone like me ages ago, no matter how sick and broken they were.

Even though I’m groggy and have the covers wrapped over my head, I can sense something in the air. It’s the feeling I used to get in a war zone when there was a moment of silence before an attack. As my head starts to clear, I hear soft murmurs downstairs in the family room. It must be Pamela and Morgan. I haven’t seen them or been able to make any contact for at least five days. It’s been driving me insane.

I roll out of bed and strap on the lighter, elastic back brace I use around the house. Slowly I head downstairs. Holding tightly to the staircase railing to steady myself. Trying to get my blurry eyes in focus. Being careful not to stumble and fall. The murmurs have hushed. They hear me coming. There’s no cry of “Daddy” from Morgan, no “We’re home” from his mother. It’s eerie. My skin begins to tingle with apprehension.

Halfway down the stairs, still decorated with holiday wreaths, bows, and tinsel, I glance at our Christmas tree in the living room. It’s brown. Shedding needles. Dead. Like me, I think as I make it to the last step.

I turn into the hallway and enter the family room. I see several people sitting there: Pamela. My two sisters. My mother. One of my nieces. A brother-in-law. Father David. A best friend of mine, who is also Morgan’s godfather. And a tall, gangly stranger in a coat and tie, looking confident and in charge of whatever is happening here. Morgan is nowhere to be seen. I’m sensing my son is deliberately being kept from me as a means of getting my attention. No one says a word as I lower myself into my reclining chair, lean back, and survey the room. The atmosphere is serious, solemn, like a funeral, with the taste of fear permeating the air.

“My name is Dale,” the stranger says as he stands up and takes the center of the room like a military commander. “I want you to know your family is here to support you.”

Dale speaks in well-rehearsed tones but sounds stiff and mechanical. “I lead interventions,” he continues. “Your family loves you, but they believe your life is out of control. You are taking too many medications and drinking too much alcohol. Everyone in this room is frightened for your future.”

I look around at the somber faces. I can feel their love and compassion, but I also sense their apprehension: They’re hoping I won’t blow up and throw them all out. Dale now yields the floor to each family member, who, with great courage, takes their turn, nervously telling me how much I’ve changed. Everyone has written their words out on a form that Dale provided them. The planning must have been in the works for the past several days. Each speaker shares with me many hurtful things I’ve said. Ugly things I’ve done. Unacceptable behaviors that have worsened with time. My sisters and mother point out that they are always fearful that I might explode over something trivial. My brother-in-law says he believes my mixture of drinking and drugs will kill me. Morgan’s godfather talks about my incessant anger and rage. Each of them says they can no longer be in my life if I continue like this, and they want me to get help now. Today. It’s tough love. A forced reckoning. Incredibly painful to hear.

Father David has never seen this side of me and chooses not to speak. It’s as if he knows I might need a source of spiritual strength during this. Then, Pamela takes her turn. Her hands are shaking as she holds her sheet of paper. Tears fall from her eyes. Her voice cracks as she says, “I love you and I miss you. I have lost my husband and my son’s father. I have lost the man I married. I don’t know who you will be on any given day. I’m afraid for you, and I’m afraid of you.”

I’m in shock when she ends. Multiple voices in my head compete for attention. My ego rages, yelling at me to throw everyone out the door. Another inner voice demands that I defend myself. Remind them of my broken back and terminal cancer. Seek pity. Blame it on the drugs. Guilt-trip them for doing this to me. Then there’s a deeper voice, the one Father Joe from Thailand urged me to listen to and the voice Father David represents as he sits facing me in silence. It’s a voice we all have but so often refuse to acknowledge or heed. It always knows right from wrong, even when we’re in a fit of rage or a drunken stupor. This voice says: Your family and friends are right. No matter how painful it is to accept, they are one hundred percent right.

I can see my reflection on the dark screen of the computer monitor that faces my recliner. Black circles under my eyes, greasy hair sticking out in all directions, a twisted scowl on my face. I look like a madman, and I realize I no longer know who this person is. As the voices in my head continue to compete for primacy, the Get up, Daddy mantra starts looping through my mind. There’s incredible tension in the room as everyone waits for me to say something. Finally, as if I’m outside of my body watching all this unfold, I hear myself say, “It’s about time.”

A collective sigh of relief permeates the room as Dale seizes the moment. “Good. We realize that you are in pain and have a serious disease, but we want you to check into a Betty Ford Clinic in Palms Springs. Quit the drinking and get off as many of the drugs as possible. No matter how long you have to live, things can’t go on like this any longer.”

“What about Morgan?” I ask, needing to see him, wanting to tell him I love him before being locked away in rehab.

“Not yet.” Dale is firm, speaking from a script that’s part of the intervention process. They don’t want me to change my mind, and Morgan is clearly the leverage. “You have to go right now, not later today, not tomorrow, but now. Everything is arranged. We have a car out front. Just get a few things together. Your sisters will help you pack. We’ll discuss a visit with Morgan somewhere down the road.”

My ego starts to seethe again. No one has the right to keep my son from me, especially this stranger in my home. Resentment boils over inside of me. I stare hard at Dale, wishing I had the strength to jump up and strangle him.

“I’ll make the drive with you,” Father David offers quickly, sensing my mood.

I glance at my reflection in the computer monitor again. I look deranged. Someone I would avoid at all costs. A vision of Morgan appears on the screen, like he’s in my lap. I can hear his voice again. Get up, Daddy.

All the other voices in my head subside as a sense of surrender envelops me. If nothing else, I tell myself, I can get off these drugs. I can find some level of clarity. Be present for Morgan. Try to honor my covenant with him. Get up, in whatever way possible, before I die. I take a huge inhalation and let it go like a floodtide. It must be the first time I’ve fully exhaled in these thirteen years of pain and it feels like a river flowing through me, washing away years of fear, anger, and grief. I breathe in deeply again and sigh out loud, “Okay. Thank you, everyone, for doing this. I’m so sorry. Let me get a few things together. I’m so, so sorry.”

Dale’s car is a small compact. It can barely fit four adults. His messy trunk is too full to handle my small suitcase. Anyway, it would be impossible for me to sit up for a three-hour trip to Palm Springs, much less squeeze myself into this car wearing my back brace. Pretending not to be flummoxed, Dale jumps into action and vows to return in thirty minutes with a van. Without saying a word, Pamela drives off with him. Father David stays with me, like a spiritual sentry. He comforts me. Says a few prayers. Tells me it will be okay. But I’m already starting to get steamed, because it’s a much longer wait than Dale promised. He and Pamela are not back until late afternoon.

The drive over the mountains from San Diego to Palm Springs is surreal. Dale and Pamela are up front talking logistics in hushed tones. I’m lying down on a thick pad in the back of the van with Father David sitting cross-legged and hunched over by my side. He whispers more prayers. Smiles. Affirms me the entire way. My mind is still fighting it, like a confused argument with a dozen different people screaming at the same time. My whole body aches from the bumpy ride and the emotional intensity of the intervention. When David isn’t looking, I unscrew the cap of the tiny silver vial that dangles from a chain around my neck. This is where I keep my morphine tablets. I shake one out and slip it under my tongue.

The van is slow and struggles over the mountains. The trip takes much longer than expected. It’s after 9 P.M. when we finally arrive at the clinic in Palm Springs. The lobby is empty. Dale said everything was arranged, I think to myself, noting that there’s not a staff person in sight. I lie down on the reception couch, dazed, and completely exhausted. As I wait and wait, anger surges through me as I realize this plan was not so well crafted after all. It’s at least another twenty minutes before a nurse appears.

As I continue to wait impatiently on the couch, longing for a stout beer, Dale and Pamela are down the hallway, in hushed conversation with the nurse. I can’t hear them, but I can see them. Their body language makes it clear. Something is wrong. They engage in a tense back-and-forth for at least ten minutes. Now the nurse breaks away and comes toward me with authority.

“I’m sorry. This clinic is for alcoholics, not for cancer or pain patients. We are not equipped to admit someone like you, and no one told us you were coming.”

The nurse is firm as a rock. Dale won’t make eye contact. Pamela is in silent desperation as we pile back into the van and leave Palm Springs for a long, miserable trip back to Coronado.

“We’ll find another place,” Dale says as he drops me at our house in the predawn darkness and Father David begins to help me inside. “Pamela will call you.”

I ignore this and turn to Pamela. “I’m still willing to do this,” I say. “I know I have to.” I gesture toward Dale, “But this guy has no idea what he’s doing. I never want to see him again. Ever.”

It’s far past midnight when I struggle up the stairs, pull off the body brace, and melt onto my bed. Even though it’s been one of the most grueling days of my life, I can’t sleep. I pop a stout and chug it as I click on the TV, which only blares at me with mindless nonsense. I click it off and stare into the darkness. I can hear large waves breaking a few blocks away at the beach, the heaviness of my breath, the pounding of my heart.

I close my eyes and see Morgan. He is standing in front of me, tears in his eyes, begging me to get off the couch. I can hear his little voice, pleading:

Get up, Daddy.

CHAPTER 22

Sailboats and Treasure

You have to demand to see Morgan before you check into any facility.

Don’t make any waves.

You have to do this thing.

There’s no way you can stop taking drugs, you’re in terrible pain. What right did they have to do that intervention?

You have to stop the booze and drugs.

He’s my son, no one can take him from me.

Don’t make any waves.

You have to do this thing.

MY MIND IS STILL RACING with so many competing voices I can’t make sense of anything. It’s been three days alone in the house. Mostly lying in bed, foraging in the refrigerator, watching the television. I haven’t heard from Pamela. Even though I continue to drink and hit the medications heavily, I still can’t sleep at night. The trash can next to my bed is overflowing with empty bottles of stout. What little self-esteem I might have had is long gone. I think about my “last supper” plan. Stare at the box of meds in my closet. Then the Get up, Daddy mantra comes back to me and I see Morgan in my mind’s eye. You can’t do this to your son. If nothing else, get off of everything and die like a man. Give him a chance to remember someone he can be a little bit proud of.

I feel the pain of Morgan’s absence most in the morning. He had been punctual and devoted, always running into the bedroom and crawling onto me when he woke up. Each time I would slowly lift my knees and he would straddle them, his back facing me as he whispered, “Please draw on my back, Daddy.”

I have a nail file we call the “magic drawing stick” on my nightstand just for this special moment. “What would you like?” I would always ask, knowing the answer.

“A sailboat, Daddy.”

“This is the mast,” I’d say each time, drawing a gentle line down his spine. “Here is the right sail. Here is the left sail. Here’s the body of the boat. The ocean is down here. What are these?” I’d ask as I drew squiggles in the ocean of his lower back. He’d giggle and answer, “Fishies, Daddy.”

“Here’s Morgan, the captain at the wheel. Daddy is on board, and our cat Max is right next to us.”

I’d draw little v’s in the sky above the sailboat and make bird whistles. Before I could ask he would say, “Those are the seagulls flying in the sky!”

Finally, I would draw a circle high on his right shoulder and stream an array of lines down his back. He’d beat me to the punch again. “That’s the sun, shining down on us!”

Then we’d take our boat on an adventure with the magic drawing stick, coursing over the high seas of his smooth little back. We would fire our cannons at pirates and make a daring escape. Then we would land on a remote island, hike across the beach, and slip into the tropical forest. We’d peek and poke in all the darkest places, avoiding tigers and snakes of course, and then, behind a thundering waterfall, we’d discover a huge treasure chest filled with gold doubloons.

Sometimes Morgan would ask for rocket ships after the sailboats and we’d blast through space, conquering the dark force. Other times our fire engine would rush to the scene and extinguish the blaze, rescuing all the children. But the sailboat was always his favorite. Before he was taken from me, I had been drawing one on his back every morning for almost a year.

Daydreaming, I can feel Morgan on my knees. I can smell his golden hair, see the soft skin of his gently sloping shoulders, hear his sweet requests for another adventure on the landscape of his back.

I also hear him whispering, Get up, Daddy.

Pamela is all business when she finally calls to say she’s found a place that will accept a patient with cancer and chronic pain. It’s called the McDonald Center, at Scripps Hospital in nearby La Jolla. She’ll be here in one hour to drive me to the facility. There will still be no visit with Morgan before I go. He remains the leverage to ensure I keep my promise. It’s almost impossible to swallow this, and I have no idea what the clinic offers. But I gather my things, limp into the closet, and begin to get dressed.

You should see the stash of medications I’ve been keeping on a shelf in here. It’s a plastic storage container filled with at least two dozen bottles. There are unopened bottles of Vicodin and Motrin, as large as the bottles on a pharmacist’s back shelf, each holding several hundred doses. I have bottles filled with Valium, morphine, and Prozac that are only slightly smaller. This is because my medical insurance contracts with a national prescription company that ships patients three to six months’ worth of medications at a time. Even though I’ve overmedicated myself for years, I still haven’t come close to taking the amount of drugs I’ve been prescribed. As I lift the heavy box down from the shelf, I realize someone could make a fortune selling all these pills on the street. My plan is to take the stash to Scripps, surrender it when I check in, be rid of it for good.

The doorbell rings. Pamela is here. Before I answer, there’s one final thing I have to do. Once I’m downstairs, I call out that I need a few more minutes. I slip into Morgan’s playroom, find his crayons, and a large sheet of paper. I draw a sailboat. He and I are on deck with Max the cat. Seagulls soar in the sky and fish jump over the waves. The sun is shining down on us. There is a small island in the distance, sure to have treasure hidden behind a waterfall, and the wind is in our sails.

I write on the bottom of the page, Daddy loves you Morgan, we’ll sail again soon, then pin it to his playroom wall. I take a few more minutes and glance at his toys, a teddy bear sitting on the window seat, one of his favorite blankets lying on the floor. “I love you, Morgan,” I call out softly as if he were here in the playroom with me. Then I trundle toward the front door.

CHAPTER 23

Dark Night of the Soul

IT’S A SILENT DRIVE to La Jolla. The type of silence so thick you can hardly breathe. There’s nothing for Pamela or me to say. No plans to make. No strategies to discuss. We sit about a foot apart in her car, but there might as well be a thousand miles between us. The noise of the highway is deafening. The sound of Pamela tapping her fingernails on the steering wheel is even louder. I’m numb by the time we arrive.

Scripps Hospital is a massive facility. It takes time to find the right entrance. The McDonald Center parking lot is packed. We drive in circles before finding a place to park. Pamela gets my suitcase from the backseat and drags the portable lounge out of the trunk. I have my cane in one hand and I tenuously carry the huge box of medications in the other. When we walk into the reception room of the McDonald Center to register, the staff members freeze and stare at me, wide-eyed.

“What are you doing? You can’t bring those in here!” A male staffer exclaims as he runs up and grabs the box out of my hands like it’s a drug bust.

“There are patients in recovery here!” He barks, “These need to be locked up immediately!”

Normally I would defend myself. Tell him to back off. Chill out. But I’m in surrender mode. I don’t say a word. All the other nurses freeze and watch the scene. I’ve just arrived and already feel foolish. Less than welcome. After the drama ends, we’re allowed to approach the reception counter. We complete the registration procedure Pamela initiated over the phone. Then she leaves as quickly as possible without seeming rude.

I’m directed to a chair next to the registration desk. I sit down and stare at my feet. My vitals are taken: blood pressure and temperature. Then the nurse has me step on a scale. 225 pounds. Good God, I’m huge. I feel so humiliated I can’t make eye contact and I answer simple questions with grunts. Finally, I’m escorted down the hall. A professional-looking strip with my name on it has already been put on the door of my room, like I’m an executive rather than a basket case.

The room is antiseptic. Spartan. Efficient. It has cream-colored cinderblock walls, nondescript linoleum floors, and two gray metal hospital beds covered with tan blankets sitting on either side of a narrow window. There’s a ceiling-to-floor closet and dresser combo made of dark brown fiberboard by the entry door. It faces a small sink next to a narrow bathroom, with a toilet and open shower so close together I could almost sit down and run water over my head.

As I arrange my things in the closet, I’m in denial about where I am. A drug and alcohol detox center. A place for people whose lives have fallen apart. Tossing some socks in a drawer, I glance up to see a small piece of paper posted neatly on the wall by my bed.

SERENITY PRAYER

God, grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

I wonder how many other lost souls have been in this room and read these words? How many made it back to health and reclaimed some semblance of a life? What were they recovering from? What was their fate? What is mine? A shudder of fear and insecurity ripples through my body.

I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling tiles, trying to get comfortable. After an hour or so, someone from the kitchen staff brings in a hospital lunch on a lap tray. It reminds me of airplane food. But I’m famished and devour every bite, wishing I had a stout beer to wash it down. Just as I finish, another nurse arrives. I’m so withdrawn I don’t even listen to her introduce herself or catch her name. Like the staffer who confiscated my drugs, she’s all business.

“Take these,” she says, handing me some pills in a tiny paper cup and thrusting a glass of water at me.

They look just like my pills. “What are these?” I ask with surprise, especially after the scene with the box of medications when I arrived.

“They’re your prescriptions,” she answers as if I must be brain-dead.

“But, I…”

She quickly cuts me off. “The doctor will be here in the morning to evaluate you. You have to take your medications now. We cannot take you off them without the doctor’s permission. You can ask him any questions you have when he sees you.” Here I am finally ready to face this addiction and I’m ordered to take more drugs. I feel empty and powerless as I reach for the paper cup and toss the pills into my mouth.

“There is no wandering in the hallway at night,” she says firmly, arms folded across her chest. “You are required to stay in your room. Good night.”

She reminds me of sadistic Nurse Ratched, who, in the Academy Award–winning movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, eventually forces Jack Nicholson to have a lobotomy for making trouble in her psych ward. I almost say, “Good night, Nurse Ratched,” but think better of it as she waits impatiently to ensure I’ve swallowed all the pills. Then she departs with efficiency, clicking off the overhead fluorescent lights and closing the door with exaggerated authority. I’m left in the dark, alone. Ratched has nothing to worry about. I have no thoughts of escaping my room, especially not into the hallway. I don’t want to be seen here, nor do I want to mix with the others in recovery. I just want to crawl in a hole and hide from the whole world.

I fumble through the dark, click on my bedside lamp, and try to read a new book by Scott Turow that’s topping the bestseller list. A legal thriller about the shady spaces between ethics and the law. It’s a diversion I would usually enjoy, but I can’t stay with it. The vicarious adventure no longer provides the escape I need. I slam the book shut, drop it on the floor, and close my eyes.

I was thirty-six years old—just entering the prime of my life—when I fell from a ledge in the Bahamas during a tropical storm. Now I’m fifty and feel like I’m eighty. I’ve gone from the life of my dreams, living freely and traveling the world, to the life of a drug junkie in a detox ward, imprisoned by choice within these four cinderblock walls. I’ve missed what should have been my best years and I’m ashamed to be alive. As I glance over to the wall and reread the “Serenity Prayer,” I can’t imagine accepting the things I can’t change, much less finding serenity. All my strength and courage have drained away over the years. Whatever insight or wisdom I once might have possessed vanished long ago.

It’s pitch black in my room once I turn off the reading lamp. As I stare toward the ceiling, little patterns of electric light dance in the darkness. I can hear my labored breath and feel the tightness in my throat. My heart continues to pound hard. My whole body aches. I’m not sure I can do this. I’m not sure at all.

“Time to get up!” The harsh overhead lights go on and the glare blinds me. I can’t remember where I am.

“Please come into the hallway right now!”

Suddenly I remember, and it makes me shudder. The McDonald Center. Scripps Hospital. Cinderblock room. Detox.

What time is it? Who’s dragging me out of bed? I don’t know who’s rushing me into the hall, or why. I’m less than half awake and barely manage to grab my cane.

Onto a chair now, almost falling as I plop down. Someone barking orders at me. I gaze bleary-eyed at the floor. I see the feet of other people in the hallway. I can feel their stares, but I’m ashamed to be here and don’t look up. Something wrapped around my arm. Pumping. Something else stuck into my mouth. I’m ordered to say Ahhh. The lights, the prodding, the crisp commands all assaulting my senses. I’m finally coming to. It’s very early in the morning and I’m being integrated into the routine. Vital signs taken. Another cup of pills thrust into my face. Then suddenly being dismissed to make space for the next patient.

I limp back into my room like a sullen ogre, making eye contact with no one, still pretending not to be here. I turn on the shower. Get the water almost scalding. Curl up on the shower floor in a very stiff and partial fetal position, my feet pressed against the base of the toilet as the steamy water runs all over me. I can hear myself moaning out loud like a crazed beast.

Breakfast arrives shortly after I crawl back onto my bed. Just as I finish the last bite, there’s a gentle knock on the door and my rehab doctor slips in to introduce himself. He looks like a young Sigmund Freud, with jet-black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and dark-rimmed glasses.

“Good morning, I’m Doctor Gasparo. Are you doing all right?” I’m surprised he isn’t wearing the typical white scrubs with a stethoscope around his neck. Instead, he has on neatly pressed black slacks and a well-starched white dress shirt with no tie. He’s the first person whose presence has made me feel comfortable since I checked in, and something about his manner makes me like him immediately.

“I’m doing as well as I can,” I answer with a heavy sigh.

We go through my whole story, which I’ve condensed and explained so many times to countless medical specialists that it could be a sixty-second report on NBC Nightly News. Dr. Gasparo tells me he’s the head psychiatrist for the detox ward and explains that every patient here is struggling with addiction. Most are alcoholics. Some are addicted to street drugs or pharmaceutical medications. Many are struggling with all three. My case is highly unusual, Dr. Gasparo says, given the complexities of cancer and a broken back.

“You’ve been on heavy medications for almost fourteen years,” he says. “Getting off them won’t be easy and, given your condition, you have a right to keep taking them and we can taper you off slowly over several months. This is a decision you need to make for yourself.”

“I want off them now. They’ve deranged my mind and stolen my Soul. I don’t care what happens. I’m done.” I say this with conviction. Ask for his support.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go slowly,” he says, “reduce the dosages gradually, at least over a few weeks’ time?”

“I want to stop now,” I answer firmly.

“It’s going to be tough,” he gently replies. “Cold-turkey withdrawal is a nightmare and it can be dangerous. Are you sure you want to go this way?”

“I’m sure.”

Dr. Gasparo agrees to support my decision, but warns that I’ll be monitored closely, and if I have serious reactions I’ll have to switch to tapering off. Then he writes a note in my file to have the medications stopped immediately. I expected to be scared to death to give up my pills, but it comes as a huge relief. “I’ll be checking in on you every day I possibly can,” he says, wrapping up our first meeting. “Otherwise, please let the nurses know if you have any problems.”

He has a good bedside manner, but as he walks away, I hope it’s something more than that. I feel like I might have an ally. That the doctor might really understand me. Be a source of support. I need it.

Detox—Day One: Groggy. Weak. Fingers trembling. More unsteady on my feet than usual. The ward routine takes over. Early morning vitals (I continue to stare at the floor). Meals into the room like clockwork. Dr. Gasparo checks in. Lights out. For the first time since I can remember, heavy sleep.

Detox—Day Two: Morning vitals. Back to bed. Sleep until lunch arrives. Cafeteria staffer takes my untouched breakfast tray. Comes and leaves without saying a word. I fidget. Reorganize the closet. Try to shave. Too much trouble. Can’t read. Feel hollow inside. Shaky. Asleep long before dinner.

Detox—Day Three: I feel like I have the flu. Nauseous. Feverish. Aching all over. All lights are piercing and painful. It sounds like the nurses outside my door are yelling. It kills my ears. I refuse to go out for vital signs. Lie in bed with a pillow over my head. Nurse Ratched comes in. Takes my temperature and checks my blood pressure. Lets me know what an inconvenience I am. I reciprocate, and then some. Meals arrive, their smells nauseating me. I leave them untouched.

Detox—Day Four: My mind and body feel disconnected. The back pain is scorching. My throat is on fire. Everything is hazy. I think Doctor Gasparo has been in the room. Can’t be sure. Something about cold turkey and seven days. A warning that withdrawal might be tough. Sweating profusely. Too dizzy to walk. I tear off my pajamas. Crawl into the bathroom. Vomit uncontrollably for an eternity. Turn on a cold shower and curl up on the tile floor again. Like I’m a homeless drunk lying in the gutter of an empty street during a rainstorm.

Detox—Day Five: Stomach cramps. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Hot flashes. Cold flashes. My head is throbbing. Every noise in the hall sounds like a bomb exploding. I hate it when Ratched comes in to take my vitals. Stop bringing these foul-smelling meals. Turn out the damn lights. Go away. Let me sleep. God, grant me serenity. Some courage. The pain is completely consuming. Get out of my room!

Detox—Day Six: Deeper nausea. Cramps. Sweats. Chills. Anger. Fear. Delusion. I’ve lost all sense of time. And I’ve lost hope. I crawl on the floor in the darkness. Need to get to the bathroom to be sick again. I can’t take this anymore. I bump up against my suitcase. Then I remember. I turn the suitcase on its side. Unzip it. Fumbling in the dark now for the full bottle of morphine pills I stashed in a side pocket. My backup plan.

To hell with this detox.

To hell with this whole place.

To hell with my life.

I stagger to the sink. Click on the nightlight. It sears into my eyes. I fill a glass of water. Pour the entire jar into my palm. Fifty tiny morphine pills. Enough to kill a horse. I glance at the mirror. There’s the madman staring back at me again. To hell with my life. I lift my hand to stuff the pills into my mouth. Then stop as I hear a different voice in my head: Get up, Daddy.

I can’t get up. To hell with my life…What about Morgan?…Get up, Daddy.

My hand shakes uncontrollably as I clutch the pills. The debate rages in my head. I stare at the monster in the mirror again. Suddenly my deepest inner voice stops me in my tracks: What will life be like for Morgan, knowing his father was so weak and pathetic that he committed suicide?

Staggering to the toilet now. Tossing all the pills in and flushing them down. Throwing up again. Turning on the shower. Curling up on the bathroom floor in convulsions.

Detox—Day Seven: No food for days. More diarrhea and dry heaves. Flashes of pain everywhere. My skin, my organs, my bones ache like hell. I’m sweating buckets. Cramps. More dry heaves. Uncontrollable. I start to crawl to the bathroom but collapse naked on the floor at the foot of my bed.

It’s pitch black. Something moves in the corner of the ceiling. A swirl of electric energy. More swirls in the other ceiling corners. One morphs into a demon. Like a gargoyle. It flies at me. Claws at my throat. Other demons surge in from nowhere and join the attack. Screeching. Eyes blazing red. Teeth bared. Ripping at my flesh. Like Dante’s Inferno.

My chest is pounding. A heart attack? Hot and cold flashes together again. Intense muscles spasms. Arms and legs writhing. I try to fight back. I want to scream for help but can’t find my voice. I get sick. Vomit and diarrhea all over myself. The demons pierce my flesh. Rip at my organs. I try to fight back. Fend them off. It lasts for hours. I’m either dying or going completely mad.

Suddenly, just when I can’t take it any longer, the demons dissolve. Everything goes black. I collapse into a coma-sleep on the cold linoleum floor in the middle of my cinderblock room.

CHAPTER 24

Lifeline

WARM COVERS. Soft sheets. A pillow under my head. It feels luxurious. I can see the morning light behind the lids of my closed eyes. I can hear someone breathing next to my bed. There’s a hand gently touching mine. “Hello,” I say to whoever is by my side.

“Hello, my friend.” I recognize Father David’s voice in an instant. “They tell me you’ve been sleeping for almost two days. I’m sure it was a rough time.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I whisper as I crack my eyes open. “Demons tearing at my flesh.”

“Well, you got through it,” he says with a glowing smile. “I’m proud of you.”

I can barely move. It takes all my energy to sit up in bed. Father David lets me know I’m going to be okay. I recount as much of the detox experience as I can recall. Even the moment I wanted to swallow the morphine stash and end it all.

“You had a dark night of the Soul,” Father David observes.

“I think it was six or seven dark nights,” I say with a heavy sigh.

During a pause in our conversation, Father David glances at the prayer taped on the wall and says, “That’s beautiful, the ‘Serenity Prayer.’ ”

“What’s its origin?” I ask.

“It’s the main prayer for members of Alcoholics Anonymous,” he replies softly. “But it’s for anyone who needs help from God when they’re facing great life challenges.”

We repeat it out loud a few times. It feels good. But I’m bothered by the AA thing. There’s no doubt I drank like a champion over the past two decades, but I’ve never felt like an alcoholic. After what I’ve just been through, I have no craving for medications, beer, or wine. I can’t imagine falling back into that hell. But the prayer is inspiring and makes even more sense to me than the day I checked in. I have to change what I can in my life. Accept what is beyond my control. Find serenity. Somehow.

My contemplation is broken when a server from the cafeteria knocks on the door and steps in with a lunch tray. “Would you like lunch today?” he asks shyly. I probably threw him out of the room a few times while I was curled up on the floor in convulsions. I can’t imagine how I looked…or smelled. This time, I’m famished and the aroma of the food is heavenly. “Yes! Please! I’ll take it right here on my lap!” I say all this with the first smile I think I’ve had for anyone who works here.

Father David watches while I attack the tray like a wild animal. As I swallow the final morsel of potato salad, Nurse Ratched comes in to lay down the law. “You’ll have to come out of your room tomorrow morning. We will no longer take your vitals in here. There will be no more meals in bed. You will have to attend all meetings.” She says all this without even a glance at Father David, like he doesn’t exist.

“What are the meetings?” I ask as kindly as I can.

“They’ll explain it all to you,” she answers curtly and walks out, clicking the overhead light off out of habit.

She frustrates me. But it’s clearly more about me than her. I’m sure everyone who works here has to find a balance between compassion and a firm hand. Nurse Ratched is probably the one who found me after my night with the demons, cleaned me up, and got me into bed. And the truth is, I need someone like her right now. Without her toughness I’d lie in bed for a month. I’m ready to accept a firm hand now, but I’d like it to be my own. Detoxing is only the beginning. I’ve got to get stabilized. Complete this program, whatever it is. Get back home to Morgan.

After offering me a prayer of his own, Father David says good-bye. I set my watch alarm and lie down to read. I don’t even make it through a chapter before I’m sound asleep. I wake up briefly when the last dinner I’ll be served in my room arrives. I’m starving again, but I take a pass. I’m too tired to sit up. Too tired to eat. I just want more sleep.

When my watch alarm goes off at 6 A.M. I’m tempted to pull the covers over my head and fight it out with the staff for another day of rest. Get up, Daddy. I can hear Morgan’s sweet voice in my head. I miss him beyond belief. Yes, time to start getting up. I crawl out of bed, take a hot shower, and put on a clean pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. As I finish dressing, I feel a small jolt of pain in my back. I remember I need my back brace. I pull the smaller elastic one from a drawer and strap it on tightly, grab my cane for support, open the door, and step out of my room.

I feel like I’ve been hibernating in a cave. It’s a whole new world in the hallway. Nurses are scurrying about. People are lined up for vitals. The lights are scorching bright. Maybe half a dozen patients. This time I look at everyone and smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen their faces. One or two return my smile. The others stare at the floor like I used to. I take my place in line. They’re efficient here. I’m soon on the chair with a blood pressure monitor wrapped around my arm.

When the nurse finishes with me, she directs me down the hall to the cafeteria. As I amble toward breakfast, I pass five other rooms like mine, each with a nameplate on the door. Every plate has two names. I’m the only one with a room of my own. What a stroke of luck. At the cafeteria door, another jolt of pain stops me in my tracks. I forgot. I can’t sit up to eat. I need my portable lounge.

“Excuse me,” I say to a male staffer striding down the hall who looks vaguely familiar, “I have a broken back. I brought a portable lounge chair with me. I need it. I can’t sit up to eat.”

“I remember,” he says. “It was too big and bulky, we had to put it in storage. Sorry.” He walks off. Then I realize it. He’s the one who confiscated my box of drugs the day I arrived.

I peek into the lunchroom. There are nine or ten patients sitting at tables with their breakfasts. A buffet on the right has an assortment of cereals, fruit, coffee, and juices. I glance to my left. A big, red couch. A godsend. I step over and roll myself onto it, still trying to figure out how I’m going to manage this.

“You look like you’re in pain,” says a young woman in pink flannel pajamas with thick, short cut blond hair and a perky smile. She gets up from her chair and kneels down by me. “Hi, my name is Sherry. I’m a nurse. Well, I was until I lost my job and ended up here. Anyway, can I bring you something to eat?”

I can’t believe my luck. “Thanks, Sherry. My name is Brad. I have a bad back. It would be great if you brought me something. Anything. Just a lot of it, please. I haven’t eaten much lately.”

A few others stop by the couch to say hello as they finish their meals. Everyone seems soft. Humble. I feel the same way. We’re all in the process of facing ourselves. It’s painful, facing ourselves and putting our egos in their place.

“I’ll take your tray,” Sherry says just as I finish. “I don’t mind doing this for you every meal. It makes me feel like I’m still a nurse.”

“Thanks, Sherry,” I say as I struggle up from the couch. “You’re a gem.”

Sherry is the only one here bubbling over with hope and enthusiasm. She’s pregnant with her first child. Her boyfriend, the father, comes to visit her every day. She was hooked on Vicodin, but now she’s over it. “I’m leaving detox in a few days to spend a month in the residential unit,” she says with a wide smile. “Then I go back home and have my baby. I can’t wait!”

“What residential unit?” I ask.

Sherry explains that we’re all required to leave detox when the staff determines we’re ready. They move us to a complex in a three-story brick building next door. We’ll be assigned rooms that are like small efficiency apartments where we prepare our own meals, do our own laundry, become more self-sufficient. In another wing, there’s a full schedule of counseling sessions and classes designed to help us build new lives. We’ll be required to attend daily Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous meetings in the grand meeting room just across the courtyard from the detox ward. It’s a minimum thirty-day stay.

I’ve been so out of it, I never knew any of this. No one ever explained the program to me. Or if they did, I have no recollection. I assumed I’d go through detox, rest for a few days, attend a few meetings with staff specialists to make sure I’m stabilized, and then head home. I never really thought it through.

“It’s time for your first meeting,” Sherry says brightly. “Sort of a taste of what’s in store once you move to residential. It’s right next door. The room has a couch you can lie on. Come on, I’ll help you get there.”

Sherry takes my free arm and guides me into the meeting room and over to the couch. I flop myself down on the brown cushions and drop my cane on the tan carpet. There are six or seven other patients already in the room as the counselor walks in. He sees me on the couch and says, “You’re here for the first time, right?” He strides over, leans down, and shakes my hand. “Welcome. It’s good to have you with us.” Then he takes his place at the front of the room.

“My name is Don and I’m an alcoholic,” he says with authority. “Hi Don,” everyone but me chimes in. I’ll soon learn this is the formal greeting in AA. “I was a successful businessman,” Don continues with a smile, tugging at the lapels of his tan sport coat. “I had a beautiful wife and two great kids. But there was so much stress in my job that I started drinking at noon and didn’t stop until I passed out in bed at midnight.”

Don’s smile disappears as he continues. “My family intervened many times. I’d sober up for a week, then get right back on the booze. Finally, my wife threatened to leave me, so I hid my drinking from everyone. I had bottles stashed everywhere: at work, at home, in the garage, in the trunk of my car. I’d sneak out, knock down a pint of vodka in a few gulps, fill my mouth with breath mints, and keep on going. Finally, I crashed. Literally. I crashed my car in the middle of the day, drunk as a skunk. It was my third DUI, and when I got out of jail my family was gone. The McDonald Center saved my life. It can save yours, too.”

On this note, Don asks each of us to share our story. Sherry leans over and whispers to me, “We have to do this every time. It’s part of the program.”

The first person to speak up says, “Hi, I’m Tony and I’m a drug addict.” Tony is a building contractor who started on painkillers after an injury on the job and got hooked. Next, a businessman named Michael tells us he’s an alcoholic who needed a quart of scotch every day just to keep going. Steve is a sometime student in his twenties, addicted to cocaine and methamphetamine. He shares details of his suicide attempts. Sherry tells us she’s thirty, pregnant, and was hooked on Vicodin. Judith is a forty-something housewife who mixed wine with Valium for too many years.

Each of their stories touches me to the core of my being. I can feel their pain, their anguish, and their fear of returning to addiction and empty lives. As much as I would like to think otherwise, I realize my story is no different from theirs, except for one thing: I don’t miss the drugs or feel any compulsions. I’m never going back. When it’s my turn to share, I say, “Hi, I’m Brad. I’ve got a broken back and cancer. I’ve taken too many medications and drank too much wine and beer. But I don’t think I’m an alcoholic or drug addict.” I’m met with glances of disbelief and guffaws of dismissal as a wave of embarrassment floods through me. After the meeting, I ask Don for a moment of his time and try to explain myself. He stops me mid-sentence.

“You’re an addict, just like everyone else here,” he says resolutely. “I’ve heard what you’re saying too many times before from too many different people in denial. They always go out those doors and straight back to booze and drugs. You need to join AA, go to meetings every day for the rest of your life. Get with the program and stay with it, or you’ll fall right back on your face.” Before I can respond, Don pats me gently on the shoulder and heads down the hall.

There was great kindness in his firmness, but Don’s words hit me like a punch in the stomach. Am I an addict for life? Incapable of going forward without daily meetings? Always on the brink of relapse? It’s hard for me to believe. My whole body rejects the idea. I’m sure the residential program is wonderful and has a lot to offer, but I know it’s not for me. It’s more than believing I don’t have lingering addictions. It doesn’t fit my circumstances. I’m in great pain and barely mobile, can’t sit for meetings, do laundry, or cook meals, much less hike up and down the stairs for the rest of the required activities. The problem is, it looks like I don’t have any choice, and I know I’m nowhere near ready to try to go home.

“I just spoke with Don,” a woman from the front desk walks up as I turn to leave the lounge and head for my room. “He told me how you’re feeling. The residential program is a requirement of your stay here. We’ve been in touch with your wife, and she is adamant that you follow the program.”

“Thank you,” I answer, feeling powerless and realizing the futility of attempting a discussion. I’m sure they’ve all heard it innumerable times from too many people like me. I trudge back into my room with pain in my back, legs, and throat as stress grips my body. Lying on my bed, I ask myself if I’m in denial. If I shouldn’t just give in and go with the program. I get the same answer. I know I’m off drugs for good and I’m not addicted to alcohol. I can’t tell you how I know with such certainty, but I do. I also know I’m not going to move into the residential unit. It doesn’t fit, and I’m not physically capable of handling the routine. I have no idea what to do next. It feels like I’m free-falling, and it grips me with fear.

When I return to the cafeteria for lunch, Sherry has everything ready on my tray. I can’t figure out why she’s so upbeat and bubbly. Everyone else here has their tail between their legs, including me. I thank her and lie on the couch again to eat, trying not to spill anything on my only clean T-shirt. I’m still famished, but the food doesn’t taste as good and my stomach feels acidic. I know it’s because I’m stressing about the residential thing.

Dr. Gasparo is waiting at my door when I head back down the hall. I lie on the bed as he pulls up a chair. Then I give him the whole story. Tell him I can’t do the residential thing. Beg for an option.

“I’ve never had a case like yours,” he says when I’m done. “I’m aware of the pressure for you to go into the residential program, but this is the first time I’ve felt it’s not right for someone. Give me a few days and let me see what I can come up with.”

“Thanks for listening,” I say with a huge sigh of exasperation. When he leaves, I stare at the ceiling, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.

It goes on like this for two more days. Vitals, meals, and meetings. Waiting for news from Dr. Gasparo. Wondering where I fit in. If anywhere. I’m obedient and avoid making waves. But it’s frustrating. The pain is getting overwhelming without the drugs. And I still feel the residual effects of all that dope. I’m dazed. Blurry. Fuzzy. Like I’m wrapped in invisible gauze.

On the third morning, Sherry isn’t there with my breakfast tray. I get myself a bowl of cereal. It’s not so hard. I can handle this at least once or twice a day. As I’m finishing my meal on the couch, Judith comes over. She’s the one with the Valium problem.

“We just heard about Sherry,” she says with a teary face. “Her boyfriend was bringing her Vicodin every time he came here. The staff caught him slipping it to her in the parking lot. Sherry got angry and drove off with the guy, shouting that she’s never coming back.”

Now it makes sense. I remember how Vicodin gave me a false sense of optimism and joy. Sherry’s upbeat demeanor was only the drugs talking. It’s just like Don predicted. And now it’s going to be even harder to argue my case. As I slog back into my room after the morning meeting, I feel like a hostage.

Every day I’ve been pressured by the staff to prepare for the residential program. Pamela remains adamant about it as well. She insists that a phone call with Morgan still isn’t possible. It makes me furious. I’m starting to suspect there’s more to all this than I understand, maybe a plan to keep me from returning home. But even though no one but me has legal power over my decisions, I lack the strength to argue and feel helpless. I’m weak. I’m humiliated. I’m stuck.

A knock at the door. Dr. Gasparo steps in and whispers with a grin, “I have good news.”

I want to jump up and scream with joy before I even know what it is.

“A few months ago, the hospital opened what it calls the Pain Center across the way, in the McDonald complex, right next to the residential facility. I wanted to be sure they would take you before I mentioned it. It’s not related at all to the detox program and it’s very experimental. They use a blend of ancient Eastern healing modalities and modern holistic Western medicine to help patients cope with pain without using narcotic painkillers. They can’t help you with cancer, but they think you are a perfect candidate for help with back pain, and so do I. Are you interested in trying it?”

I’m not sure I understand a thing he’s saying, but I’m in scorching pain and need to do something, anything. “Yes. Immediately. Today. When can I start?”

“Not quite yet,” he answers. “It might be a few more days. We still need to work some things out.”

Dr. Gasparo explains that when a patient is in recovery, the center always seeks to consult closely with the family in determining any course of action. He’ll need to convince the detox staff and work with Pamela, let her know he feels it’s in my best interest. I sense it will be a power struggle, but I haven’t signed away total control over my destiny, and there’s no law to prevent me from doing this. This is a lifeline being handed to me. I’ve surrendered enough. It’s time to take a stand.

“I’ve got to do this,” I say to Dr. Gasparo. “I’ve got to. Get me in that program. Please. It’s my only hope.”

“I’ll do everything I can,” he promises as he pats my shoulder. “Everything I can.”

I feel like a caged animal. I’ve packed all my belongings and no longer attend the mandatory meetings. I take my meals from the cafeteria to my room and eat on my bed in silence. I’ve removed my nameplate from the door and thrown it away. I read my novel and wait, wondering what the Pain Center might be like. Three days go by before I hear from Dr. Gasparo again. I almost bolt up in bed when he comes into my room. He tells me everyone has finally agreed, albeit grudgingly so. I can check into the Pain Center on Monday morning after the coming weekend.

“I can’t spend another night here,” I tell the doctor with desperation in my voice. “I’ll go completely crazy. You’ll have to put me in a straightjacket, admit me to a psycho ward, and give me a lobotomy.”

He laughs and says, “We don’t want that. Just a few more days, okay? We have to make sure the transition is smooth. Don’t worry. There’s a long waiting list for people to get into detox. They’ll be glad to move you along. There’s no residential unit for the Pain Center, however, so you’re going to need to find a place to stay.”

“Thank you for everything, doctor,” I say, knowing there are no words for how much gratitude I feel toward this man. “Can you stay with me for a minute longer?”

He agrees. We walk to the front desk and I ask for my box of medications. The same staffer who confiscated the drugs is at the desk. When I ask for the meds I brought in with me, he glances at Dr. Gasparo and gets a nod of permission. Then he walks to the vault and retrieves the box of drugs. Still wary of me. Surveying the hall for danger. Like a horde of crazed patients might launch an attack. As I carry the drugs to my room, he follows me like a security guard even though Dr. Gasparo is by my side. I go into the tiny bathroom, open all the bottles, and dump the pills into the toilet. It takes a dozen flushes before the last handful swirls down the pipe and disappears.

CHAPTER 25

The Pain Center

AS I WALK OUT the entry doors of the detox ward, through the courtyard, and past the residential facility, I still look like a robot, hobbling along in my body brace and gripping my cane for support. Only, my gait is worse than ever. The pain in my back and legs is growing more intense as the residual effects of the drugs continue to wear off. I’m exhausted by the time I limp across the large foyer of the building housing the Pain Center and reach the elevator. My mind is as unsteady as my body. I’m nervous and unsure of myself. There are a few others waiting at the elevator bank. I realize I’m staring at the floor again. Hiding. Wondering if they’re thinking here’s another addict who destroyed his life. The ride to the third floor takes forever.

When I step out of the elevator into the entryway, it feels like a boutique university. The lobby is carpeted green with two long, padded sitting benches, upholstered with burgundy fabric, neatly secured against one wall. There’s a wide reception counter with class schedules posted on a large corkboard. I’m filled with hope and scared to death at the same time. I don’t know if I have the strength to do this. But I can’t fail. I just can’t. It’s my only shot.

“Please have a seat,” the receptionist says politely, standing behind the counter and looking very busy. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

I lurch over stiffly and use my cane to support myself as I lie down on the padded bench.

“You cannot lie down in this area,” the receptionist says firmly. “Please sit up.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I answer. “I’ve had a failed back surgery and it hurts too much.” I’ve barely stepped in the door and I’m already breaking the rules. Not fitting in. Like the first day I entered the McDonald Center with my box of drugs.

“You still need to sit up, sir.” She’s adamant, but there’s no way I can do it and get through the day.

“I’m sorry,” I say again with a pleading tone this time. “I hurt too much, and if I sit up for a few minutes you might have to carry me out of here on a stretcher.” I give her my best smile, but my attempt to be witty and charming falls flat.

“Then you can lie there and fill out these forms,” she says with pique as she comes from behind the counter and hands me a clipboard. It’s the typical paperwork. Medical history. An explanation of my current pain situation. Financial status. A release of my right to take legal action if I’m injured. There’s also a form requiring me to promise not to touch any alcohol or drugs and consent to random blood and urine tests. If you fail a test, it warns, you will be suspended from the program.

It’s not a suspension I’m worried about. I’m physically and emotionally weaker than I’ve ever been in my life. It’s hard to pay attention or be enthusiastic with my nerve endings on fire. A bright light, harsh noise, or stern word continues to make my skin hurt. My emotions remain sensitive and easily wounded. It’s still all too easy to get fed up or angry in an instant over trivial things. I have to contain myself or I’ll say something sarcastic about the way the clipboard was delivered. I also feel confused and disoriented, which Dr. Gasparo warned me often happens after detox, especially with so many years of heavy medications. Their deranging effects tend to wear off in layers over weeks and months. Sometimes it takes years.

Pamela arrives in the lobby. This was part of the arrangement. She has to sign some of the papers and take care of the payments because I left her my checkbook and credit cards when I checked into detox. I can feel how much she still opposes this course of action, but we don’t debate it. Once everything is arranged she wishes me luck and departs. It’s like she’s a thousand miles away. Who could blame her?

I try to sit up for a while in hopes of making the receptionist happy, but after a few minutes my back flares up and I have to lie down again. I don’t remember ever feeling this frail, vulnerable, or frightened in my entire life, not even in a war zone. Closing my eyes now. Trembling all over with this uncertainty and self-doubt. Get up, Daddy. My son is all I have. I miss him with every breath I take. Get up, Daddy.

“Okay, Morgan,” I hear myself saying out loud. I open my eyes to see the receptionist glancing at me as if I might do better in a mental ward. I close my eyes again and wait while my case is being reviewed.

Finally, a staff person arrives to present me with my schedule. It’s going to be a big day.

9:00 A.M.

Counseling with Ms. Mason, room 306

10:00 A.M.

Assessment with Dr. Kozin, room 300

11:00 A.M.

Physical therapy, room 301

12:00 P.M.

Lunch break

1:00 P.M.

Biofeedback, room 312

2:00 P.M.

Jin Shin Jyutsu, room 309

9:00 A.M.

Clinic counselor Ms. Mason is short and thin, neatly dressed in a gray woolen business suit and burgundy silk blouse buttoned up to her neck. Her manner is formal. Distant. There’s no couch in her office, so I slide into an overstuffed chair and spread my legs out, leaning back as far as I can to take the pressure off my back.

“Sit up, please,” is the first thing Ms. Mason says, tapping one of her perfectly polished, black high heels against the leg of her chair. As I start to explain why this is difficult, she cuts me off and lets me know that she’s the case manager for each patient. It’s her job to make sure everyone knows what is expected of them and that proper procedures are observed. This includes sitting up and paying attention. Ms. Mason personifies “tough love” even more than Nurse Ratched.

“You need to follow the program and do what you are told. Be on time, wait in the patient lounge between your classes, and always be quiet and respectful.”

I have never been good with authority figures, even when I was in perfect health. I’m starting to grit my teeth.

“We can test you for drugs and alcohol any time we choose,” Ms. Mason reminds me dryly. “If you refuse these tests, you will be dismissed from the program.”

Just as she starts to get under my skin, I remember that tough love is good for me right now. I have to find a way to shift my attitude. Not be so sensitive, judgmental, or easily irritated. I smile and nod yes to everything. Pay full attention. Do my best to sit up like a good boy. It’s not easy. I’m lucky it’s a short session. The second it’s over I stumble to the patient lounge, cane in one hand, holding the wall with the other. There’s a couch. I splay myself out on it, rules be damned.

A few minutes before my next meeting, two more patients come into the lounge. James is in his early twenties. He broke a hip and knee in a bad car accident. I can feel his pain as I watch him try to get comfortable on a metal chair, so I sit up to make room for him on the couch. Maria is middle-aged and has fibromyalgia, a condition associated with stress and anxiety. She suffers constant pain in her muscles and connective tissues. She has trouble holding still and can’t bring herself to sit down. Her whole body trembles as she paces back and forth. They both tell me that they began treatments here when the center first opened three months ago.

“There are very few patients in the program,” Maria says softly as she finally sits on the chair and nervously shakes one of her knees back and forth. “I don’t understand why. It’s been very helpful to me. I think maybe it’s because the insurance companies don’t want to pay for these treatments since this is not considered mainstream medicine.”

James quickly agrees, saying his family has been paying his bills for the time he’s been here. They’ve been appealing to his insurance carrier, but the claims have been denied and the family money is running out. Both James and Maria fear they might have to leave the program. It’s clearly a lifeline for them, like it is for me. We understand each other without much explanation. Brothers and sisters in the tribe of the wounded.

10:00 A.M.

Dr. Kozin is casually dressed in dark slacks, a powder-blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a loose, paisley necktie. He’s in his mid sixties, with a full head of soft brown hair and a few too many pounds around the middle, like me. He’s reviewing my file when I enter his office, and without glancing up says, “Why don’t you lie down on the couch. I imagine sitting up is painful as hell.”

What a relief to hear. “You’re right, it’s painful as hell,” I tell him as I melt onto the sofa. “I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this.”

“Let’s just go slowly. First things first. Given your condition, with a damaged back and coming off narcotic medications, there are some new drugs you need to take. They are called Neurontin and Celebrex.” I cringe as he says this. “Don’t worry,” he continues, “they are nonnarcotic and nonaddictive. They should help ease your pain and inflammation.”

Dr. Kozin explains that Neurontin is an epilepsy drug. Celebrex an anti-inflammatory medication developed for arthritis. The combination is being experimented with as a treatment for severe pain and muscle spasms. “I feel like it’s a step backwards, but if it helps manage this pain, I’ll try it,” I say as Dr. Kozin calls a nurse to bring a dosage. I swallow the pills and stuff the prescription in my shirt pocket.

“And one more thing,” Dr. Kozin says as he leans toward me with an expression of compassion and kindness. “This is a pain center, and we believe we have a lot to offer in that regard, but we have no expertise in cancer and we don’t treat cancer patients. You’ll need to stay in touch with your oncologist about that.”

“I understand. Thank you, doctor,” I say as I reach out and shake his hand. Cancer. The odds are overwhelming that it’s going to end my life. Maybe it’s still in remission for now, after the surgery and radiation. Maybe not. If I develop new tumors or more black spots on my throat, it’s game over. I’m not going to keep getting tubes stuck down my nostrils to find out.

Get up, Daddy, I think to myself. Change those things that are within your power to change. Find some dignity and be an example to Morgan no matter what happens. I grab my cane and amble back to the patient lounge to collapse onto the couch again.

11:00 A.M.

The Physical Therapy room is the largest facility in the center. There are a few treadmills, stationary bikes, and sets of weights, none of which I can possibly use. I already failed with gentler physical therapy machines long ago. This doesn’t look promising. Against one wall is a large wooden frame holding a thick, firm pad. It looks like a giant bed, and as I roll myself onto it, it’s the only thing here that doesn’t intimidate me.

“Hello, I’m PJ, your physical therapist. You look like we need to start at the very beginning.” PJ is in her early thirties, tall, lean, and fit as a professional athlete, with a strong jawbone and thick, shoulderlength blond hair. “Let’s check your alignment. But first you need to take off your back brace.”

PJ has me get up, remove my brace, and sit on a large, inflated rubber ball, stabilizing myself with my feet splayed wide on the floor. It’s almost impossible for me to do this. I shake, flail side to side, and have to grab for the frame of the bed or I’ll fall off the ball. When I finally get steady, she holds a plumb line behind my back. It’s a small metal weight with a pointed tip that hangs down from a long string, creating a perfect vertical line that reveals how out of alignment my spine is.

“This isn’t good,” PJ says. “Your mid-spine, the thoracic, is curving far to the right, probably from your efforts to stay off your left leg since it was the left side of your vertebra that was broken.”

PJ explains we have to work on my posture, plus strengthen my back, stomach, and leg muscles, all of which are soft as jelly from so many years of inactivity.

“Instead of using this plastic brace, which only makes your muscles atrophy more,” she explains, “we want to build a brace of muscles around your lower back.”

Sitting on the ball, PJ asks me to lift one foot from the floor, then the other. I can’t manage this simple movement even while holding the bed frame, and PJ needs to steady and support me. As I struggle to do something so basic, it hits me again: I have to take charge of my weak, broken body. Somehow get stronger than the pain. There’s no other way I’m going to make it through this program, much less reclaim my life.

Next, we go for a walk down the hall, leaving my brace and cane behind. I feel like a child surrendering his security blanket when I lean my cane against the wall. It’s terrifying. The end of the hall is less than thirty yards away, but it looks like a mile to me. PJ has to assist me. She puts an arm around my waist. I reach around her back and hold her shoulder. I’m still dopey from detox and every step hurts, but I try to envision it as a journey of empowerment. Get up, Daddy. Take charge of your body. Get up.

At the halfway point, there’s a stairwell on my right leading up to the next floor. It can’t be more than a dozen stairs, but it looms like a mountain I’ll never climb without my brace and cane. At this point, I’m panting and sweating. I can’t make it any farther down the hall. We turn around and slowly head back to the therapy room. I lie down on the big padded bed, and PJ slips an ice pack beneath my sacrum. In a few days, I tell myself, I’ll walk past those stairs. Eventually I’ll make it to the end of that hall without an assist from PJ. I have to keep going. One step at a time.

1:00 P.M.

Lacking the energy to make it to the hospital cafeteria for food, I stay lying down in Physical Therapy with the ice pack through the lunch hour. Then it’s time for Biofeedback. I have no idea what Biofeedback is, but it sounds scientific and intriguing. I leave the back brace off, per PJ’s orders, but grab my cane. There’s no way I could navigate without it. Fortunately, the room is right next door. God, I’m sore. The treatment room is dark, with just enough light to navigate my way to a large recliner that sits facing two computer screens. There are a few other machines next to the computers, with tubes and wires hanging down, like in the surgical theaters where I had my spine and neck operations. As I lean back in the recliner to get comfortable, a technician steps in, introducing himself as Arthur.

“These will monitor your brain waves, body temperature, and heart rate,” Arthur says as he gently places adhesive electrodes on my head, chest, back, and fingers. “You’ll see the results as they happen on the computer screens, just like live television, only not quite as exciting.”

Once I’m hooked up, Arthur shows me my baseline. The screens are black, with colored lines coursing across them in real time. A green line pulses up and down with my heartbeat. A blue line tracks my body temperature and flows fairly steadily. A white line on the second screen tracks my brain waves as they spike up and down like a seismograph, illustrating the busy pace of my thoughts.

Arthur places headphones over my ears, then he has me close my eyes and lean back even farther in the recliner as he leaves the room. A tape begins to play with soft music as a deep, pleasing male voice says, You are relaxing in a plush and comforting elevator, slowly ascending past thick, puffy white clouds. The sky is brilliant blue. It’s warm and clear.

The soothing voice guides me on a journey in my plush elevator, floating above the Earth and into the heavens. I feel resistance at first, but soon notice my body relaxing to a level I’ve never experienced, not even when I was on drugs. It feels like physical tension is flooding out of me as my emotional anxiety starts melting away. I peek at the computer screens a few times as the instruments feed my responses back to me, illustrating this relaxation. I begin to realize something that never occurred to me before: It’s not just my physical body I have to heal, it’s my thoughts and emotions as well.

The biofeedback journey lasts half an hour, but seems like it’s over in a flash as my elevator returns to Earth and Arthur reenters the room to say, “Okay, we’re done for now.”

“That was amazing,” I say softly.

“Your response was amazing,” Arthur replies. “Your blood pressure went down, your heart rate lowered, and your mind relaxed. It usually takes longer than this to get such a good response.”

Whether he really means it or is just encouraging me, I grab hold of this rare praise. I need affirmation that I can do something right, that I have some power within me that I was unaware of, that I’m slowly heading toward some control over my life.

“Whose voice was that?” I ask Arthur. “It was mesmerizing.”

“Dr. Emmett Miller. A founder of mind-body medicine in America,” Arthur answers.

“Can you write that down for me?” My mind is as shaky as my body these days. My emotions are shipwrecked, and something was so healing about Dr. Miller’s tape that I know I need more. Much more. I fold the slip of paper Arthur gives me and slip it into my pocket. Dr. Emmett Miller. I have to find out about this man and his work. Explore mind-body medicine. Get fully involved with this process.

2:00 P.M.

After Biofeedback I go to Jin Shin Jyutsu, which I can’t come close to pronouncing. I’m so relaxed after listening to the guided visualization that it feels a little easier to walk, and I notice my breath is deeper and smoother as I enter the treatment room. Dawn is the practitioner. She’s centered and serene, peaceful yet powerful, reminding me of the young man I met at my fiftieth birthday party who suggested I try Yoga.

“Jin Shin Jyutsu is an ancient healing science from before the time of Buddha,” Dawn says softly. “It all but disappeared long ago, until a man named Master Jiro Murai rediscovered it in the early twentieth century.”

Dawn explains that Master Murai healed himself of terminal illness through this science and subsequently became a great healer for others. Jin Shin Jyutsu is something like acupuncture, she continues, but without the needles. In the treatment, Dawn will hold certain points on my body where there are “energy locks” and, through the power of intention, send her own energy through these points. The more I’m able to relax and receive her energy, she adds, the more a natural balance is restored, allowing me to experience physical, mental, and spiritual harmony.

“We are shifting the attitudes that lie beneath your symptoms,” Dawn says as she has me lie down on a massage table. “The very heart of this practice involves creating a life of simplicity, calmness, patience, and self-containment, plus connecting with your higher power.”

The cynical foreign correspondent I used to be would have scoffed at this, but somehow it strikes a chord deep within me, especially after experiencing Dr. Miller’s meditation. After so many years of pain, medications, and imbalance, the concept of seeking inner harmony suddenly seems logical and obvious, like something I should have realized long ago.

As Dawn places her hands on my head now, I feel a surge of energy enter my body. She asks me to breathe deeply and whispers that we will both be silent, no talking. After several minutes, she holds my right foot and gently presses her thumb into the arch. At the same time, she holds my left hand and presses her other thumb into my palm. Energy swirls within me. After twenty minutes she reverses the holds and I feel the energy flow in a new direction as I continue to breathe deeply, inwardly chanting to myself, Get up, Daddy the entire time. By the time we finish the session, I feel like I’m floating in an ocean of bliss. It astonishes me. All I’ve really done today is listen to a guided visualization and have someone lay hands on me to move energy around, and it seems like it’s done more for me than fourteen years of Western medicine.

With Jin Shin Jyutsu and Biofeedback, I feel like I’m embarking on an inner journey as vast, mysterious, and exciting as the world I used to cover as a journalist. Maybe somewhere deep inside me there’s something waiting to be discovered. I’m not sure what it is, but I sense this might be the most important journey of my life and, even though this is my first day at the Pain Center, I have a surprising degree of faith in this process. Despite the odds, I think, I just might have a chance to beat some of the back pain, find a level of dignity, and reclaim a semblance of my life. The cancer is something else, and I can’t even think about it right now. One thing at a time, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter how much time you have left. Just let go of all your cynicism and embrace what’s happening. Relax, take it slowly, let it all unfold.

CHAPTER 26

Body, Mind, and Soul

I AM STRONG, healthy, calm, and relaxed.

It’s mid-February 2000, and I’m living at a Marriott Hotel in La Jolla, less than a mile from the Pain Center. I moved here three weeks ago after checking out of detox and am attending classes at the Pain Center full-time.

I consciously choose to let everything else go at this moment in time, and I give myself permission to relax.

The Marriott is twelve stories tall and, because I’ll be here for a prolonged stay, the hotel has given me a discounted rate on a spacious suite on the penultimate floor with panoramic views of La Jolla.

There’s no place I have to go right now, nothing I have to do, no problem I have to solve…therefore, this is a safe place and I can relax.

I have a dining room that opens onto a living room, a separate bedroom and bath, plus a small kitchenette and office area. It’s an incredible luxury, especially after the tough days in my detox room, and reminds me how fortunate I was during my career with NBC to have most of my expenses covered so I could deposit my paychecks into a savings account.

I am allowing relaxation to heal me at every level.

Shortly after my first Biofeedback session, I asked Sandra, the evening concierge here at the Marriott, to order Dr. Emmett Miller’s book Deep Healing: The Essence of Mind/Body Medicine. It arrived the next day, and I’ve already read through it twice. I’m lying on the living room floor right now, my eyes closed, silently repeating affirmations from the book.

As I reawaken, I come back feeling relaxed, refreshed, and alert. My body feels invigorated, my mind is clear, and my emotions are calm.

The introduction to the book tells me that Dr. Miller is an African-American who grew up in Harlem in the 1950s. He dealt with the pain of racism through academic achievement. He became a mathematician, scientist, and, ultimately, a surgeon, graduating from the Albert Einstein College of Medicine. But he soon became disillusioned with Western medicine, feeling it lacked compassion and was too quick to implement invasive procedures, especially surgery. Instead, Dr. Miller began to focus on the power of the mind to facilitate healing. As a result, he put down his scalpel and developed Deep Healing, which proved to be a revolutionary, holistic program of mind-body medicine. It’s a synthesis of East and West, a journey into self-discovery, and a pathway toward self-healing.

The book explains that Western medicine views the human body as composed of systems and parts, such as our various muscles and organs, the skeletal structure, the cardiovascular, neurological, and endocrine systems. Specialists come to great understandings about these parts and systems, but rarely see them as a whole. Eastern medicine takes an opposite view, focusing on the interrelationship between all aspects of a human being, including the body, mind, and Soul, which is why it’s called holistic medicine.

While reading Deep Healing I’ve jotted down pages of notes on affirmations, awakening the inner healer, true relaxation, opening the heart, self-acceptance, and faith. This is a complete shift from who I’ve been. I never thought mental attitude could impact physical feeling, and probably would have rejected the idea had I not experienced it in Biofeedback. Now I’m starting to understand that my fear, anger, and negative thoughts have been like a poison inside of me, making me worse while also alienating everyone around me. As Dr. Miller explains it, our thoughts create an inner chemistry, and dramatic biochemical changes can be achieved based on the thoughts and images we hold in our minds. In other words, we are creating our own experiences of the world, not just in our heads but in our neurochemistry as well.

Chapter Three of Deep Healing hit me right between the eyes. The title is “Taking Responsibility for Your Own Health.” It delves into the healing powers of profound relaxation, reducing stress by letting go, getting in touch with the deeper Self, and taking charge of my own healing. In a section subtitled “The Holy State of Victimhood,” Dr. Miller explains how easy it is to hide behind being the victim, blame others for our plight, and avoid all responsibility. This describes me perfectly, and I flush with embarrassment every time I read it. This is what I’ve been doing for years: hiding behind the tragedy of my story, lashing out and blaming others, blaming the world, cursing my fate. Dr. Miller writes, “The victim role is one of the greatest weapons we have against real healing.” He’s right. It’s what Morgan felt without really understanding it. Get up, Daddy was a plea for me to take charge of my life.

During the Internet research I did on cancer, I discovered an article that maintains almost everyone has cancer cells inside of them, but most are recognized and dealt with by our immune systems. It’s when we’re stressed, imbalanced, and making poor lifestyle choices that they have a greater chance of taking hold. It’s the same with chronic pain. The more you stress over it, the worse it gets. Again, I can’t think of a better example than myself. It’s clear that if I’m going to deal with my physical pain, and if I have the slightest chance of beating cancer, I have to radically rearrange my mind. I have to let go of self-centeredness, get past my ego, no longer play the victim. Ever since I lost my career I’ve been waging an inner war. Now I have to figure out how to wage inner peace.

I’ve also ordered some of Dr. Miller’s audiotapes and take guided journeys into healing as I listen to his intelligent and soothing voice. It’s an amazing new world to me. Not the vicarious living of the cheap novels I used to read for escape. I’m now on my own adventure. It’s an authentic journey of the body, mind, and Soul—one I’m taking myself. I’ve never been able to relax and let go like this, and I already feel like I’m starting to live again, or, maybe, beginning to live for the first time on a very new level. I’m totally committed. I have to give this everything I can muster. This is my only chance to get up and be a worthwhile human being.

The new drugs from Dr. Kozin help ease my back pain a bit, but they make my eyes blurry. Things go out of focus. Spatial relationships shift, with objects appearing closer than they really are and then suddenly appearing to be farther away. As a result, I feel unsteady and look a little drunk when I walk. Given this reaction, I couldn’t drive my car even if I had it here with me, so I’ve hired a service to shuttle me to and from the Pain Center. The black sedan looks like the one that picked me up at the airport years ago and took me to Manhattan for my interview with NBC. It’s another reminder of how far I’ve fallen.

Snap out of it, I tell myself. Okay, you’ve fallen, but you’re “getting up” like Morgan begged you to. Cut the self-pity. Don’t worry about the past. It’s over. Move forward. Be strong. Wage inner peace. When I give myself pep talks like this I realize that, even though three weeks is a short time, I’m getting somewhere. It’s working. I can even feel a different inner chemistry that is soothing, the complete opposite to my usual state of agitation. It’s a challenge, but I no longer take my brace or cane to the center. Even with an aching back, I can now walk the full length of the hallway without any assistance from my physical therapist, although I still feel intimidated every time I pass the stairwell and glance at the incline.

PJ has worked me hard in our Physical Therapy sessions, and I’ve mastered balancing on the ball and can hold alternate arm-leg balances for twenty seconds. This requires being on my hands and knees while maintaining a straight spine, then reaching one arm forward and the opposite leg backward, sort of like a hunting dog pointing at a bird hiding in the brush. It’s an extremely challenging balancing posture designed to strengthen the core muscles around my lower back. The first few times I tried it I immediately collapsed. It still takes all the strength I have, and I’m sweating profusely within a few breaths, but I get through it by silently chanting, I am strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed, and I feel more empowered every time I hold it a little bit longer. It’s a mental game as well as physical, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I couldn’t do any of this without the body and mind relaxation and centering I’m learning through Deep Healing.

This morning at Physical Therapy, as I gaze up while icing my tender back after a rigorous session, I glance at a large poster I’ve never noticed before on the wall. It’s a photo of a lean, strong, and vibrant woman on a jetty of large boulders at the beach. She’s on top of the highest rock, balancing on her tailbone with her arms and legs extended into the air, making her body resemble a perfect V. The poster simply says, “YOGA.” I’m incredulous. How can she do that?

“Is that a cruel joke?” I ask PJ with a friendly grimace. “Something to remind me of my inadequacies?”

“It’s to inspire you,” she replies with a chuckle.

“It’ll never happen!” I laugh aloud.

When our session is over, I look at the Yoga poster again. How could anyone have that much strength and balance? Then I walk over to the window and gaze two floors below me to the courtyard between the Pain Center building and the McDonald detox center. I recognize a few of the people who are waiting for the evening Alcoholics and Narcotics Anonymous meeting. I know these meetings are powerful and have helped many lost souls reclaim their lives. I slipped into one last week while waiting for my driver to arrive and take me back to the hotel. A young man on the podium was sharing his challenges with the audience, exclaiming, “My mind is a dangerous neighborhood none of you ever want to be caught in.”

My mind was that way not too long ago, even more like a war zone than a bad neighborhood, and I can feel the anguish in the minds of my friends down in the courtyard as they light cigarettes, sip coffee from Styrofoam cups, and stare at the ground. I lift my gaze up to the majestic maple trees surrounding them. A few thrushes, starlings, and sparrows are dancing through the blue sky. I want to call down to my friends and have them open their eyes and look up to see the beauty of life all around them, but I know we’re in different worlds. I take a deep breath and whisper to myself, “I am getting up…I am.”

Each evening after dinner in my hotel suite, I practice deep breathing, a few alternate arm-leg balances, then lie on the living room floor, reading Deep Healing and listening to Dr. Miller’s audiotapes. When I’m completely relaxed, I contemplate my higher power. Exactly what is it? How do I connect at a deeper level? Harmonize body, mind, and Soul like Dr. Miller advocates and Dawn teaches me in Jin Shin Jyutsu?

But tonight, after a long day, I feel the full force of back pain returning. It’s the first time since checking into the detox ward that this prelude to a major episode has gripped me. I know it too well. It begins with the ice pick sensation, like I’m being stabbed in the tailbone. Then a fire rages in my back. My muscles fill with tension and begin to spasm. Sciatica runs down the backs of my arms and legs. These episodes always shut me down for at least two or three days, sometimes a week or more. I’m gripped with fear. Is all my progress just a farce? Is this going to knock me out of the Pain Center? I have just crawled out of the abyss, and now I wonder, Am I going to fall back in?

Instinct and habit kick in. I need some pills. Must gobble morphine, Vicodin, and Valium. Oh God, I flushed those! I remember the Celebrex and Neurontin by my bedside and start to go for them. Then I pause. Deep inside of me I hear Dawn talking about physical, mental, and spiritual harmony. And Dr. Miller’s words are bubbling into my mind as well, urging me to be strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed. As I stare at the prescription bottles, contemplating swallowing a double or triple dose, an inner voice says Don’t do it. Take responsibility for your own health. Allow relaxation to heal you at every level.

The flare-up continues to grip me all over, but I don’t resist. “I have you,” I tell the pain out loud. “You don’t have me.” I lie down on the living room floor and try to relax into it. Oh, Higher Power, Dear God, whoever, whatever you are, guide me through this. Holding my hands together in a Jin Shin Jyutsu position designed to move energy in the lower back, I breathe as deeply as I can, consciously accepting the torment, surrendering to it, even thanking it for all it has taught me. I am strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed. There are moments I want to scream and writhe in pain, but I keep completely still. Breathing, relaxing, accepting, releasing, surrendering. Wage inner peace. It’s now or never, this is the test.

Thirty minutes later, a slow shift. The sciatica and muscle spasms start to subside. I have you, you don’t have me. I breathe deeper. Focus more intently. Surrender further. Another thirty minutes. I can feel pain leaving my arms and legs. Thank you for the lesson, pain. Thirty more minutes and it leaves my hips. I’m strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed. My back is still on fire. I stay with it. My body, emotions, mind, and Soul are all at peace. Visualizing the ice pick slowly being removed from my tailbone. And then I picture Morgan. Get up, Daddy. Another thirty minutes. Breathe, accept, release. Maybe an hour goes by. Get up, Daddy. Suddenly, I feel deeply relieved. Light. Airy. Still, it takes a while to realize it: All the pain is gone.

I can hardly believe it. In less than three hours, I’ve ended a pain episode that in the past would have immobilized me for days. The best news is that I haven’t had to rely on any drugs. Maybe I don’t have to look inside of a pill jar any more to find relief. I can look inside myself instead. I stay on the floor a while longer, just to make sure this is real, then get up carefully, find the Celebrex and Neurontin, and toss them in the trash.

CHAPTER 27

The Visits

HI MORGAN, it’s Daddy.”

“Hi, Daddy.” “Daddy loves you, honey.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

I call Morgan a few times a week to remind him how much I love and miss him. My heart aches like crazy, and hot tears stream down my cheeks every time I hear his precious little voice. He’s only two-and-a-half years old, so I’m not sure he understands why I’m not home drawing sailboats on his back, playing little games, and holding him on my lap.

“I miss you. I’ll be home as soon as I can. You take care of Mommy, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

I’d call every morning and night, but it would probably just confuse him and surely drive his mother crazy.

Each time Morgan hands the phone back to Pamela, I ask for a visit. Just me and Morgan. I need to spend a day with him now and then, get reconnected, and let him know how much his daddy cares about him. Pamela always answers, “Maybe next week. We’ll see.” I sense that she’s retaining control because she still opposes my choice of the Pain Center and wants me in the rehab unit. Part of me wants to lash out at her, recount the demons in the detox ward, the continued episodes of pain, how I’ve been working so hard to heal myself. I have to remind myself to stay calm and relaxed, to wage inner peace, change the things I can, just accept the rest.

Then it dawns on me one evening after we hang up and my frustration begins to subside: What about her years of suffering? The thrilling promise of a global life replaced with becoming the caretaker of an invalid? My energy, bravado, and boundless curiosity replaced by darkness, depression, and bitter outbursts? If I had been in her position, would I have stayed, or would I have cut and run long ago? I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

Finally, after a lot of begging and a little badgering, Pamela agrees to a visit, but it won’t be time alone with Morgan. My other family members will be there, too, and it will be only an hour or two. No one will come to my room. Instead, we’ll meet down the hall in a reception area. I grit my teeth at all this but quietly acquiesce.

It’s wonderful to see my family when they arrive on a Sunday afternoon. I hug my mother and sisters, apologizing again for the hurt I’ve caused, and softly kiss Pamela on the cheek. She’s tense, and I sense that the kiss makes her uncomfortable. Then my whole being comes alive when I turn to Morgan. I lift him up and hug him closely, fighting tears as I whisper, “I love you so much,” over and over into his ear. But because I have to give my attention to everyone, Morgan and I just can’t connect on the level I need.

The reunion soon starts to feel stiff and formal. I’m embarrassed about having been in detox. Visions of the intervention flash in my mind and I start to feel nervous and unsure of myself. We are all uncertain and nervous, staying on the outer edges and keeping the conversation very light. Worse, it seems like it’s over before it’s begun. It isn’t nearly enough. I need time with my son. Real time. Just the two of us. Bonding. Reconnecting. Affirming the fact that his father is completely devoted to him and always will be.

During my calls home, I continue to negotiate with Pamela for a visit from Morgan that we can have all to ourselves. It feels outrageous that I have to beg to see my child, but I swallow the anger. Wage inner peace. I don’t want to blow it. Being with him is worth the wound to my pride. Two more weeks go by like this, and it’s making me crazy. It’s all I can do to stay focused on making progress at the Pain Center. Finally, just when I’m about to crack, a breakthrough: Pamela agrees to bring him to my hotel for a half day this Saturday.

When Saturday finally arrives, I’m up early and doing my new morning routine of deep breathing, relaxation, and visualization that I’ve designed from practices in the Deep Healing book that Dr. Miller calls “Experiential Workouts.” This time, instead of I am strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed, my chant all through my morning practice is Morgan, Morgan, Morgan. I’m waiting at the door when I hear the knock. Pulling the door open, I see a boy who seems even bigger now, standing beside his mother with a huge smile on his face as he clutches a little stuffed animal under one arm. I lift Morgan up and hold him tightly to my heart. He wraps his free arm around my neck and nuzzles his cheek into mine.

“Hello, big boy!”

“Daddy!”

“I love you so much, Morgan!”

“I love you, Daddy!”

Pamela is polite and kind, but a wall is clearly there, and it feels to me like it’s getting thicker. She lets me know I have three hours with Morgan and tells me the precise time she’ll return to take him home. I’ll need to have him ready and waiting in the lobby. These are her conditions, which she made clear when we arranged this, and that is that. I have to suppress the urge to remind her that he’s my son, too, as I smile and say, “Sure, of course. Thank you.” This is hard work for me, always trying to choose humility and kindness.

It’s a relief to close the door. Morgan and I hug some more. Roll around on the floor. Catch up on his life. He gives me the latest news on the status of his favorite toys, including a Thomas the Train engine and the new stuffed bear from his grandma, named Fuzzy, that he’s still clutching. Our cat, Max, is doing great, Morgan says, but he meows for me now and then. There was a butterfly in the front yard yesterday. It almost landed on his finger. Now they’re friends for life. Whenever we’re alone together he opens up like this. I could talk and play with him for days on end.

As he continues sharing, Morgan is staring softly at me, touching my face and hair, getting reacquainted. I find myself doing the same thing to him. We have so much to discuss, but it’s in the silent moments between our words that we find the deepest connection. When it’s my turn to be the reporter, I take him on a tour of all the nooks and crannies of my suite, show him the view from the balcony, and how I can almost see Coronado in the distance.

“When the sun rises, its golden light streams right through this window,” I tell him. “Your name means great shining light by the sea, and ‘Morgan’ also means morning. So the sunrise makes me feel like you’re shining down on me with lots of love. When you see the sun tomorrow morning, I’ll be sending my love to you in that light, too, okay?”

Morgan likes this idea. He smiles, hugs me, and says, “Okay, Daddy, we’ll send love through the sun.” I’m amazed at how much he’s talking and it feels like I’ve missed ten years of his life.

Then we embark on an adventure throughout the hotel, ending up at the downstairs spa. I put on swim trunks I bought in the hotel gift shop. He wears his little pull-ups. We quickly immerse ourselves into a large Jacuzzi. With the support of the warm water, I can swing him around, ride him on my back like I’m a sea monster, and lift him into the air. It’s pure joy. We play until the last minute possible then hurry back upstairs to change and meet Pamela at the appointed time.

“Daddy, will you draw on my back?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” I’ve been dreaming of this moment. I even packed the magic drawing stick when I went to the detox ward and have kept it by my bedside like a talisman. “What should we draw?” I ask, although I know the answer.

“A sailboat, Daddy. Please draw a sailboat.”

Tears fill my eyes as we take our adventure on the high seas with our sails full and the sun shining down. The way Morgan hugs my knees, I sense he could stay on my lap forever, but soon the front desk rings to say Pamela is waiting in the lobby. I savor every final moment: Gathering his things. Holding his hand in the elevator. Lifting him into my arms to walk through the lobby.

Morgan seems to make the transition with ease. But for me, saying good-bye is almost impossible. “When can I see him again?” I whisper to Pamela after I set him down. “We’ll talk,” is all she says in reply. My heart aches as I watch my son exit the hotel with Fuzzy tucked under one of his chubby little arms.

It must be three in the morning when a coughing fit wakes me. The skin has split open in my throat. Blood is trickling into my mouth. I instinctively reach for my neck and feel around for lumps, scared to death I’ll find a new one. I’d almost forgotten about the cancer. As I get up and spit the blood into the bathroom sink, a jolt of panic hits me. How am I going to pull this off? Even if I stabilize my back, am I doomed to succumbing to this disease? Am I still in remission or is it spreading? Will I ever get back home, even for a short time?

A few deep breaths now. Relaxing. Letting it pass. Okay. This, too, I realize, must be given up to the unknown. It’s a conundrum: As I seek to take charge of my life, I have to simultaneously let go of trying to control the outcome. I’ll do everything I can to get up, change the things I can, but my fate is in the hands of some higher power. I open my mouth wide and stare into the bathroom mirror. My throat is red, raw, and bloody. God, grant me serenity.

Before going back to sleep, I find hotel stationery and write a letter.

Dear Morgan,

If you are reading this, it means I didn’t make it. I tried to get up, just like you asked me to. Really, I tried as hard as I could. Sometimes things just don’t work out the way we plan.

Please never forget how much I love you. I loved you from the moment you were born and I have loved you every moment since.

Always do your best. Believe in yourself. I know you’ll do great things.

One more thing. Every time you see a ray of morning sunshine, remember me, okay?

Love, Daddy

I fold the note into a hotel envelope, label it with Morgan’s name, and write on the bottom: Do not open until Daddy is gone. I slip it in the side pouch of my suitcase and zip it closed.

CHAPTER 28

Stretching the Limits

EACH TREATMENT ROOM at the Pain Center has its own personality. Physical Therapy is high energy, bubbling with friendly talk and pop music playing in the background. Bio-feedback is the exact opposite: quiet, clinical, and dignified, like a scientific laboratory of mind-body exploration. Jin Shin Jyutsu reminds me of a meditation room, with peace, stillness, and healing energy permeating the atmosphere. The counselor’s office makes me feel the way I felt as a child when I walked past the vice principal’s office at school a few minutes late for class, terrified of being caught.

But there’s another room, one I haven’t even been inside, that intrigues me. It’s the Yoga room. Right now, standing outside its closed door, I hear soft, exotic music playing. There’s a faint aroma wafting into the hallway that reminds me of scented candles. A female voice is murmuring so softly I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but it sounds soothing. In the more than six weeks I’ve been at the Pain Center, I’ve only had a few glimpses of the room, whenever the door is ajar during my exercise walks down the hallway. It’s mysterious, even a little foreboding. Normally, I’m hard to intrigue. Suspicious. Jaded. Cynical. Yet for some unknown reason, I want to know what goes on in this room, and why I haven’t been given the chance to experience it.

Yoga was making a wave through America when I was coming of age in the 1960s. It sounded silly to me and seemed like a waste of time, so I took a pass whenever someone invited me to try it. I wanted to climb mountains and canoe down wild rivers, not sit down and try to hold still or twist myself into a pretzel. But I can’t climb mountains or canoe down wild rivers anymore. Yoga might even require too much exertion for me now. After seeing the poster in the Physical Therapy room of the woman doing the impossible V pose on the rocks, I’m not sure I belong in a Yoga room at all. Still, I can’t get it out of my mind and want to ask if Yoga can be added to my schedule, just to see what it’s all about.

“I see you’re curious.” Counselor Mason startles me as she walks up behind me in the hallway. “Well, today’s your big chance. The staff thinks you’re ready for Yoga.” I’m beginning to wonder if everyone here can read my mind. “You start this afternoon at three o’clock,” she continues dryly, then adds with her usual sarcasm, “but Yoga is not for everyone, and it’s certainly not the greatest thing in the whole world, like some people around here think it is.”

This isn’t the first time Ms. Mason has tried to dampen my enthusiasm. Her negativity must be a burden. I feel sorry for her, but it dawns on me that I just can’t be around her any longer. I don’t want to absorb her pessimism. Dr. Miller talks about this at length in his book. Negative thoughts lead to negative results; positive thoughts lead to positive results. I excuse myself by telling Ms. Mason I don’t need a counseling session this morning and am going to do a few exercises in Physical Therapy. After that, I go through the paces in my other classes, but the afternoon Yoga session is all I can think about. I have a strange sense I’ll be entering more uncharted territory where something momentous might unfold. There’s no logic or reason for this. It even sounds absurd to me. But there it is.

A few minutes before 3:00, I return to the door of the Yoga room, lean toward it, and listen. It’s silent inside. No one answers my timid knock. I softly turn the door handle. It’s unlocked. As I open the door, I see a pile of thick, wool blankets on the floor near a low, wooden table with a few candles on it. There is a small stack of light-blue rubber blocks near the wall, and some straps like the ones I’ve seen in the Physical Therapy room. The harsh fluorescent lights are off and the room is bathed in soft, natural sunlight. The windows are open, and a warm, gentle breeze carrying the scent of spring blossoms is flowing through the air. There’s nothing remarkable about it, but the atmosphere of the room envelops me. I feel a palpable sense of healing energy surrounding me. This is it, my heart says with conviction. As usual, the rational mind of my inner journalist resists, but my heart calls out again, This is it!

The instructor floats in from nowhere and offers me a wide smile. “Welcome to Yoga,” she says with a thick eastern European accent. “My name is Savita.” Like Dawn in Jin Shin Jyutsu, Savita is earthy, relaxed, centered. I immediately feel a deep sense of trust and kinship, like our distant ancestors were once in the same tribe.

“I’ve reviewed your chart, and I’m sorry you have had to live with so much pain,” Savita says softly, still smiling as she gently lays a few blankets out near a wall. “We will begin very slowly and stick to basics. Have you ever done Yoga before?”

“No, never,” I say slowly, feeling calm and grounded in her presence. “But I’ll give it my best try.”

“Wonderful. But the less you try, the further you’ll get,” Savita says cryptically.

“That’s good to know,” I answer. “I’ve always been stiff, inflexible, and tight. More than ever since I injured my back fourteen years ago. And I’m weak and sore, especially since the drugs are still wearing off.”

I feel out of body now, watching myself confess to her: “Savita, I have to tell you that the minute I stepped inside the door something happened to me. I felt like I was right where I am meant to be. I don’t know what Yoga involves, Savita, but somehow I believe it’s exactly what I need.”

“It may well be,” Savita says with another smile, as if to confirm I’m not crazy. “We’ll start by having you lie down and put your legs up the wall.”

The old me would immediately want to know why we are doing this so I could analyze and judge its value. Now, I’m surprised how eager I am to do whatever I’m told without question. As always, it takes me time to get myself onto the floor, and it’s a chore to maneuver myself where Savita wants me to be. Once I’ve accomplished this, she has me sit down with my outstretched legs parallel to the wall and scoot my hips about eight inches away from the baseboard. Demonstrating as she speaks, she asks if I can bend my knees, hold onto them, slowly roll onto my back, pivot my hips around, and swing my legs up against the wall. I give it my best effort, but my stiffness and soreness freeze me in my tracks.

“Impossible,” I grunt, looking at her with an apologetic smile. “It’s okay,” Savita says serenely, the indelible smile still on her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” She brings her legs down and floats up to standing. Then she gently grasps my ankles, deftly swings me around, and lifts my legs up against the wall. Her gentle authority is impressive and, to my surprise, it’s completely painless.

“Relax your arms down by your sides with your palms turned face up,” she says as I lie here on my back with my legs up the wall. My hamstrings are so tight my knees stay bent and feel locked up. My body is trembling with nervousness, afraid of triggering pain. “Now your legs, relax them…your belly and chest, relaxed…your back…your neck, your head, relaxed…all the muscles on your face, relaxed.” As Savita leads me into relaxing my body, much like a Dr. Miller visualization, I realize I’m tensing everywhere and can’t seem to let it go.

“This tension you have is the face of pain,” Savita whispers. “Just do your best to release it wherever you find it.”

Once I relax as much as I can into the posture, Savita teaches me three-part Yogic breathing. First, she has me place my hands over my abdomen and breathe into my belly, filling it like a balloon. After several rounds of this, she urges me to deepen the practice and inhale into my belly and then into my ribs, feeling my side-body expanding. Finally, she has me do the full technique, lifting the third part of my inhalation up into my chest so I feel my collarbone and shoulders opening.

“This is a very healing breath,” Savita says. “It is a form of what is called Pranayama in Yoga. This means enhancing and balancing your inner energy, or life force, through certain breathing practices. This three-part breath enhances relaxation, oxygenates your blood, and promotes tissue repair.” This is just what I need to hear. It’s a science. Even though I was intrigued about Yoga, my rational mind needs this kind of information.

Still, it’s a challenge. My stomach muscles remain weak despite Physical Therapy and it takes a surprising amount of effort and abdominal strength to breathe this way. But as I continue, a feeling of euphoria slowly engulfs me and the deep breathing becomes easier. There’s a sense of expansion and spaciousness with every inhalation. Every exhalation is an emotional release, like I’m unlocking a file deep in my subconscious where I’ve been stuffing all my hurts. Soon, I begin to notice a pleasant tingling throughout my body that I’ve never experienced, except when I was taking drugs.

“Keep breathing deeply,” Savita encourages me. “Always through your nose. Listen to its whisper, be aware of its texture and temperature.” Whenever my mind wanders, my breath gets short again. When Savita brings my attention back to my breath, my mind becomes calmer and more focused and my breath expands even deeper.

“Relax your jaw.” I had no idea it was clenched until Savita softly touches my jawbone. She guides me through relaxing my entire body again, and I find more tension hiding everywhere. There are muscles in my arms, legs, back, neck, and face that I’m gripping without knowing it. Slowly, a deeper relaxation begins to set in as I let go, and let go, and then let go again. I can feel myself letting go of more emotional stuff as well, especially when I exhale, but my “hurt file” is so huge I think it will take a lifetime to delete it all.

As I continue to lie on my back with my legs up the wall, Savita turns on soft, ethereal music and gently presses my shoulders down with her palms. Within minutes, I melt into a euphoria of deep peace. It’s more profound than Biofeedback and Jin Shin Jyutsu combined. For the first time since I left my home two months ago, I know for certain that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. My vision that Yoga is the answer has been confirmed.

“Gently roll your head side to side and hug your knees into your chest.” Savita is softly bringing me back into the world now. “We have one or two more poses to try before we are finished for the day.”

Hugging my stiff knees isn’t easy, and I begin to default into tension. Then I remember to breathe deeply and take it slowly. This makes hugging my knees much easier. Finally, I’m able to roll over on my side and press up to a seated position on the floor with my back against the wall for support. I try to cross my legs like Savita, but my knees are up to my armpits and it feels like my groin is about to rip wide open.

“Don’t force it,” Savita reminds me. “Keep your back against the wall, and place your right hand on your left knee. Now, gently twist to your left.” There is a string of subtle, painless little pops in my spine as I do this. I have the same experience when I twist in the opposite direction. It feels like I’m making space between each vertebra and a healing force is rushing into every subtle opening. It consumes my attention and a voice inside my mind says There’s hope for you.

“Keep breathing deep and full,” Savita prompts me again. “You have to stay aware because it’s easy to forget and default back to shallow sips of air.” She’s right. I forget every fifteen or twenty seconds, my breath gets shallow, and my mind starts to race again.

“Straighten both of your legs out in front of you now,” Savita demonstrates by uncrossing her legs and sliding them straight out on the floor. This isn’t easy, either. My knees stay bent due to my tight hamstrings. My back is rounding forward like a hook. I can’t keep my torso anywhere near straight without the wall behind me for support. Just don’t tense up. Stay with it …Get up, Daddy.

“Now, reach your arms up high, keep breathing deeply, fold forward, and reach toward your toes. Keep me fully informed. If anything causes you pain, tell me immediately and we will modify the posture.”

As she says this, Savita folds all the way forward and effortlessly wraps her palms around the balls of her feet. I can fold only a few inches forward, but the good news is that it doesn’t cause a hint of pain. Still, my feet look as far away as China. Savita places a strap around the balls of my feet and gives me each end to hold in my hands. As I pull on the strap and try to strain farther into the pose, Savita softly tells me to ease off. “The straps are just to give you some support and alignment. It’s not how far you get right now. Don’t pull or strain. Just experience it, even if you only fold a few inches.” She’s smiling the entire time she says this, and it feels so nurturing and affirming that I trust her completely.

I hold the position where I am, my fingertips not even reaching my knees, and breathe as deeply as I ever have in my life. Suddenly, on an exhalation, the lower lumbar vertebrae in my back pull apart with a loud, baritone popping sound. But instead of agonizing pain, an energetic sense of relief washes through me, like a dam has broken and years of heaviness and tightness have suddenly been washed away. A huge smile covers my face as my inner voice returns and says with even greater authority, This is it!

When the session is over, I feel a lightness and openness beyond description, like I’m stoned on some magic elixir. Just before I leave, I ask Savita what her favorite book on Yoga is and commit the title to memory. The minute I get back to the hotel I rush to find Sandra, the concierge.

“Hi, Sandra. Please find this book for me and have it shipped overnight express. It’s urgent. I need it right away. Please!”

CHAPTER 29

Fanatical

I’M LIKE A CHILD on Christmas morning as my driver drops me at the Marriott Hotel after another day at the Pain Center and my second Yoga session with Savita. I slide out of the backseat and do my limited version of a power walk into the hotel, limping as I go. I’m panting by the time I get to the concierge desk.

“Is there a package for me?” I ask Sandra with the greatest urgency and a huge smile.

“Yes, it’s right here,” she says as she reaches under her desk to retrieve it, noticing I’m much more animated than usual and a little out of breath. “Are you okay?”

“Just exercising a lot today,” I say as I take the package. “Thanks, Sandra!”

I would run to the elevator if I could. The moment I reach my room, I sit on the bed and call room service to order my usual gourmet dinner of filet mignon and garlic mashed potatoes, little realizing my understanding of what constitutes a healthy diet will soon be turned upside down, right along with my fairly mainstream view of the meaning of life. Then I roll onto my back, prop a few pillows under my head, and reach for my new book. I’m giddy as I rip open the FedEx package, feeling like I’ve found the buried treasure Morgan and I always “discover” on our imaginary sailing adventures.

The book is titled Awakening the Spine by an Italian Yoga teacher named Vanda Scaravelli. The cover has an illustration of a female figure in an amazing back bend with one leg extended straight into the air. Her alignment is defined with geometric circles and triangles, like a takeoff on Leonardo Da Vinci’s famous illustration entitled Vitruvian Man. It’s mesmerizing. I hold the book in my hands as if it’s made of gold, feel its weight, study the front and back covers, thumb the pages, and gaze at the pictures. Although Scaravelli is in her eighties, there are photos of her in breathtaking poses, including one where she’s lying on her back with both feet behind her head. Even in these impossible contortions, she looks serene and completely at peace. I’m awestruck.

My limited understanding is that Yoga is all about these poses. I’m surprised when I read the foreword and find it’s something much deeper. The focus of the book is the artful design of the human body, honoring the spine and moving it in its natural directions, listening for inner wisdom, and approaching life as a spiritual experience. Scaravelli names her internationally renowned Yoga teachers: Tirumalai Krishnamacharya, T.K.V. Desikachar, and B.K.S. Iyengar. They’re names I’ve never heard before and couldn’t begin to pronounce, but I’m intrigued and want to know more about this world and these people who are so accomplished.

The book also has a brief summary of the history of Yoga, how it arose thousands of years ago in India as a complete spiritual science and formula for balanced living. Even though I’ve only had two sessions with Savita, and they focused on body, breath, and mental relaxation, I’m immediately sold on the idea of a spiritual science. It’s the perfect complement to Dr. Miller’s insights about harmonizing body, mind, and Soul in his Deep Healing book, and it convinces me beyond any doubt that Yoga is the next step of my journey.

It doesn’t even bother me that Awakening the Spine contains no instructions for Yoga postures as I had hoped and anticipated. I’m so transfixed that I read almost half the book before dinner arrives. Yoga has it all: healing exercise, breath work, meditation, nutrition, philosophy, and spiritual practice. I continue reading as I gobble my steak, underlining important passages and jotting down references to other Yoga books as I go. After dinner, I ring Sandra at the concierge desk. “I need more books sent overnight again, please. Oh, and is there any way to find a few scented candles, a box of incense, and a CD of some soft Yoga music?”

“I know just what you need,” she answers cheerily. “There’s a shop near my home that carries those sorts of things. I’ll pick them up before I come to work tomorrow and bring you a receipt.”

“Thank you so much, Sandra,” I say as I feel another spontaneous smile break out on my face. I think I’ve smiled more in the past two days than I have in a year.

After finishing the Scaravelli book and digesting my dinner, I place a towel down on the carpet in the living room and get into my stilted version of a cross-legged seated posture with the couch supporting my rounded back. I close my eyes and concentrate on my spine, especially the fulcrum point above my sacrum. I begin deep three-part Yogic breathing now, and, like Dr. Miller suggests in his audiotapes, visualize that I’m sending healing light to every vertebra and disc. As I move slowly into the beginning twists Savita taught me, then the forward fold, I pay much more attention to my physical alignment and mental awareness. The deep pop in my spine comes again, softer this time, yet just as soothing and healing.

I don’t think I can get my legs up the wall without assistance, so I modify the posture by lying down on the carpet and swinging my legs onto the couch with my knees bent. Breathing deeply now while silently chanting I am calm, healthy, strong, and relaxed, I ponder Scaravelli’s words about listening to my inner wisdom and approaching life as a spiritual experience. I’m not sure how to go about this, but I’m certain the epiphany I experienced when I first stepped into the Yoga room at the Pain Center was a message from that inner wisdom. As I relax more deeply, my stress melts away. My body feels like warm honey. A palpable sense of peace surrounds me. This is when I slip into a deep sleep.

Southern California’s spring is in full blossom. It’s been three weeks since my first Yoga class with Savita and I’ve become a complete fanatic. The coffee table in my hotel suite is now a Yoga altar, with scented candles, incense, and Yoga books surrounding the magic drawing stick like it’s a sacred talisman. I’ve bought my first Yoga mat and given it a permanent place on the floor in front of the altar. I’m up earlier every morning now, making it a point to see the sunrise and send Morgan my love through its golden light. I practice gentle poses, deep breathing, meditation, and relaxation for a full hour, then study my books before having breakfast and going to the Pain Center.

My latest Yoga book has dozens of beginning poses with details on their therapeutic values and specific instructions on proper alignment for each posture. I’m surprised to learn that the poses—called Asanas in Sanskrit, the ancient Indian language traditionally used in Yoga—are not exercises. Exercise happens as a result of performing them, but they are more like a natural form of medicine. Some poses stimulate and energize the cardiovascular and neurological systems. Other poses calm them down. Different Asanas compress and detoxify the organs, open and align the spine, ignite an inner fire of energy and power, or soothe and heal painful emotions.

I attempt to do every one of the poses in the book, but most remain far beyond my capacity. Still, I continue to feel subtle shifts and openings throughout my body with the poses I am able to get into. I breathe deeply and fully almost every waking moment now, sending healing energy into my spine and lower back muscles. My mantras, Get up, Daddy and I am calm, healthy, strong, and relaxed, flow on almost every breath cycle, like Yoga poses for my normally agitated mind. This keeps me in the present moment. Really here. Not constantly thinking about the past or the future, my thoughts galloping in all directions like wild horses in a frenzy. This is it.

It’s only been a month of Yoga, yet as I walk briskly from the parking lot toward the Pain Center on a Monday morning in late March, I feel like I’m becoming a new person. I am smiling. Feeling vibrant and energized. My cane and back brace are long gone, my gait is lighter and more confident, there’s color in my face. I’m getting stronger and more mobile, and feeling a sense of hope and optimism for the first time in years. As I pass the detox center, I hear a shout from some of my old colleagues sitting on the courtyard benches waiting for their meetings. “Hey, what happened to you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if I’ve done something wrong.

“You were walking dead a month ago,” one of them says with wide-eyed surprise. “But now no body brace, no cane. You really look healthy. What’s your secret?”

“Yoga,” I answer with a smile. “I’m up in the Pain Center on the third floor over there,” I say, pointing to the wing of the building beyond the residential area. “Stay with the residential program, but find a way to get into the center and do Yoga, too. It can change your life. I really mean it. It’s not just helping my back, it’s helping my mind, and it’s connecting me with something deeper inside.”

“Yoga!” They say it unison with a few laughs, thinking I must be stoned on morphine again.

“No thanks,” one says as he takes a deep drag on his cigarette, “I don’t want any part of what’s deep inside of me.”

“I can barely get out of bed in the morning,” another says with a dismissive grunt followed by a gulp of black coffee.

If only I could get through to them, convince them that Yoga could help them achieve greater balance, relieve their mental torment, and find some inner peace. I sense it isn’t possible, just as it wasn’t for me when I met the young Yoga teacher at my fiftieth birthday party whose wise advice seemed so foreign and irrelevant to my circumstances. Plus, I’m no Yoga expert. I’m as green as they come. Who am I to advise anyone?

“It’s good to see you,” I say, moving along. “I have to go now. Have a great day.”

As I walk across the wide lobby toward the elevators, the inner voice I’ve been hearing more from lately whispers Take the stairs. The Pain Center is two flights up, and I still feel intimidated every time I see the stairwell during my Physical Therapy walks down the hallway. I ignore the voice and head for the elevator, then stop in my tracks and remember: This is exactly the voice I need to heed. “Okay, let’s do it,” I say, talking out loud to myself again as I head toward the stairs. I pause at the bottom and gaze up the stairwell. It looks like a mountain. I take a few deep breaths to release the fear, close my eyes, and visualize myself floating effortlessly up, like I’m ascending into Heaven.

Okay.

Here we go.

Breathing deeply.

Chanting “Get up, Daddy,” with each step.

Moving slowly and rhythmically.

Staying focused.

Keeping my spine aligned.

Finding little bits of new muscle in my legs and back.

Being strong, healthy, calm, and relaxed.

I’m hyperventilating by the time I reach the top of the first flight. My heart is pounding, I’m dripping with sweat, and my thighs are on fire. I want to give up and crawl to the elevator. Wait. Relax. Stay focused. I pause. Deepen my breath. Release tension wherever I can find it. Get up, Daddy. Now, even more slowly and mindfully, I breathe and chant my way up the final flight. As I step into the hallway of the Pain Center, I imagine how exhilarated Sir Edmund Hillary must have been when he climbed Mount Everest. I feel so empowered I want to scream to the whole world, I am alive!

“I just walked up the stairs from the ground floor!” I announce to PJ like it’s a news bulletin as I turn the corner into Physical Therapy, so proud of myself I’m bursting at the seams.

“That’s wonderful!” PJ exclaims with maternal affirmation. “How about lying down for a few minutes with an ice pack before we get started?” She’s a saint. It’s the greatest suggestion I’ve ever heard.

The medications I took for so many years not only clouded my mind, they slowed and clogged my digestive system. Given all the physical pain, I no longer exercised. Rarely walked. Often, rarely moved. Yet I kept eating and drinking like a foreign correspondent, slowly gaining a ton of weight. Several of the Yoga poses I’m now doing, especially the twists, feel like they are detoxifying, energizing, and toning my organs and digestive system. At the same time, I find I’m satisfied with smaller portions of food. And there are no more nightly glasses of wine or bottles of beer. As a result, even though I’m still far too heavy, the excess weight is now pouring off. I can even see the veins in my puffy arms for the first time in years.

I’ve been wearing sweatpants and T-shirts ever since I entered detox, and they’re getting baggier by the day. Just for fun this morning, I tried on the size forty-two khaki trousers I brought to the hotel with me. They slipped off my hips and fell to my knees. Hurrying down to the spa, I stepped on the scale. I’m down to 205 pounds. Twenty pounds less than the day I checked into the McDonald Center a little more than three months ago. This afternoon, I navigated the walkways behind the hotel and found my way to a fashion mall to buy a new pair of slacks and smaller sweatpants: waist size thirty-eight!

Despite my attempts not to think about cancer, there are daily reminders. I barely produce any saliva as a result of the radiation toasting my salivary glands, and my mouth is usually so dry I have to drink water in order to swallow my food. My throat gets sore now and then. Sometimes it bleeds. When these conditions arise, I whisper the Serenity Prayer, asking myself to accept those things I cannot change. Then I do everything possible to block it out before it overwhelms me.

The prayer also asks for the courage to change the things we can. This is where Yoga comes in. Maybe I can’t change the outcome of stage IV cancer, but I’ve already made a major shift in my level of physical pain, and it feels like a new beginning. I keep devouring Yoga books and ordering more. I take notes, earmark pages, highlight passages, try every practice and technique I can handle. I no longer lie on the couch during my breaks at the Pain Center. I get on the floor and do little twists, forward folds, gentle backbends, and lateral extensions. It’s a complete obsession.

The twists and forward folds are the ones Savita taught me our first day. For the back bends, I simply hold onto my knees while I’m cross-legged, lift my chest forward and up, and then open my shoulders as I extend my head up and back. The lateral extensions involve placing my right hand on the ground out to my right side, then reaching my left arm overhead and extending it diagonally to the right. This lets me breathe deeply into my left ribs as my spine arcs sideways. Then I repeat the pose on the other side. With these simple postures, I’m moving my spine in all directions. Massaging the discs. Enhancing blood flow. Breathing into the spaces. Releasing years of tightness and tenderness.

It’s still painful for me to sit cross-legged without back support, but my knees have come down a little from my armpits. I can swing my legs up the wall now with ease, no longer a bend in my knees from tight hamstrings. I’m able to hold an alternate arm-leg balance for a full minute on each side now without collapsing. In forward folds, my lower back keeps extending slightly farther, creating more spaciousness. In every pose, I can feel energy moving in long-dormant areas, my spine realigning and slowly healing. It’s like I finally have a grip on life and am climbing out of the abyss, moving from darkness into the daylight. It feels incredibly empowering, even though I know there’s still such a long way to go.

There’s a network of beautifully landscaped walkways and bridges behind the Marriott Hotel that wind through several city blocks. I’ve started exploring them in the mornings and evenings. Watching the trees and shrubbery bud and blossom as spring approaches. Listening to the birds. Pausing to feel the sun on my face and gentle breezes on my cheeks. Nature, I’m reminded by Dr. Miller’s teachings, is incredibly healing. I knew this intuitively when I escaped Southern California as a teenager and moved into the woods. Then, caught up in my career, I forgot. Now it’s coming back to me more deeply than ever. The more I align myself with nature’s rhythms, the better I feel.

After so many years of stagnation, I’m also being called to rhythms of creative expression. During college I lived for a year in a large home with several folk musicians. They would gather in our living room almost every evening, playing guitars and sharing songs. I wanted to play, too, but being left-handed I couldn’t use their instruments. Finally, I found an old left-handed guitar, and my friends taught me to strum a few chords so I could play along. I never had a lesson or became very proficient, but it always soothed me. Especially when I played alone late at night in my room. I could feel the vibration of the strings inside my body. See the energy of the sounds dancing through the candlelight. Sense a river of peace flowing through my veins.

Left-handed guitars, which are built upside down and backwards, are hard to find. But Sandra, my intrepid concierge, has come through again and found me a beautiful left-handed acoustic guitar with deep and rich tones. At night, after sunset and my evening Yoga practice, I light a candle in the darkness of my hotel room and gently strum chords and fingerpick simple notes I’ve learned from listening to my new Yoga CDs. Most of the melodies and progressions are droning and repetitive, creating an ethereal sense of meditation.

It’s more than music to me. Each sound is a soothing prayer that harmonizes every cell in my body, especially when I chant “OM” while I strum. My books teach me that om, which is drawn out when chanted and sounds like aaaa-uuuu-mmmm, is the primary mantra of Yoga and the eternal sound of the cosmos—some say OM is the sound the universe made when it came into existence. The Bible says, “In the beginning was the word.” Yoga says the first word, or sound, was OM. Chanting it creates an inner vibration that connects me with my Soul.

CHAPTER 30

Closure

A HAND REACHES OUT and touches my shoulder as I’m walking through the hospital courtyard one afternoon. “Excuse me, my name is Richard. I think you’re the person some friends have told me about who is healing a broken back with Yoga?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I answer with a smile, feeling a sudden sense of worth, like I have something to offer someone in need. “It’s really helping me. You should check it out.”

Richard looks like an avant-garde European movie star, with dark eyebrows, piercing green eyes, and a thick shock of blond hair falling across one side of his face. But his lean, athletic body is twisted in pain. He limps on a badly damaged ankle and holds his head tilted unnaturally to one side. Richard shares with me that he was chief executive of a hi-tech company, with a wife, two children, and a beautiful home in one of San Diego’s most exclusive neighborhoods. He was also under great stress and dealt with his demons by drinking himself into a stupor every night.

He had endless drunken outbursts in front of his family, and numerous drunk-driving arrests. Then one morning, Richard woke up in a roadside ditch with a broken ankle, fractured shin, and wrenched neck. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been there. When he finally got to a hospital, where his wounds were treated and he sobered up, Richard discovered his drinking had cost him everything. His beloved Mercedes sports car was in the wrecking yard.

His company’s board of directors had fired him. A restraining order forbid him from returning home.

Having had plenty of psychological turmoil myself, I can see that Richard harbors deep insecurities and emotional wounds. It’s etched in his face and even more evident when he speaks. His words are fraught with fear and anger. He vacillates between hope and despondency. But his intelligence and charisma manage to shine through his suffering and darkness. Despite his desperation and vulnerability, there’s something inside of him that makes me think he has a real chance to pull it together.

“I want to get back to where I was,” Richard tells me. “Be with my kids again, fix things up with my wife, get my career back.”

Richard is now in the residential program, but he tells me he doesn’t like AA. He’s heard about the changes I’ve made, and he wants to do Yoga, too. In fact, it’s all he wants to do. I support and encourage him in every way possible, but make it clear to him that I strongly oppose his desire to drop out of the residential program and join the Pain Center full time. Even though he disdains the AA program for reasons I can’t understand, he doesn’t seem anywhere near ready to walk the path of sobriety on his own. So we make a plan. We’ll ask the Pain Center to allow him to take Yoga as long as he promises to be fully committed to the requirements of the residential program.

I meet with Dr. Kozin and give him a strong pitch for Richard. He agrees with the idea and it only takes a few days before Richard learns that he is approved for Yoga, with the caveat that he remains fully committed to the residential program. When he gets the news, he’s ecstatic. “I’m going to do Yoga!” Richard gleefully tells me one morning as my driver drops me off at the curb of the McDonald complex. “I’ve been waiting here to tell you. The Pain Center has agreed to let me enroll in a few Yoga classes. I’ve been able to sort out a schedule and I start tomorrow!”

“That’s great news, Richard!” I say, putting an arm around his shoulder as he limps along beside me. “Go slowly. Don’t push it. Breathe deeply all the time. And if you run into Ms. Mason, don’t let her get you down.”

As we enter the complex, Richard turns left toward his first morning meeting. I turn right toward the stairs to the Pain Center. I’ve liked this man since the moment we met, and as I watch him limp away I whisper a prayer of hope that he’ll find healing and eventually create a new life for himself. No more stress. No more painkillers. No more booze. A life of health, happiness, and wholeness. May it be so for Richard, and may it be so for me.

My own fourteen years of alcohol and medications were a terrible tradeoff. In return for reduction of my pain, I surrendered my physical and emotional health. Now, with Yoga, the heavy veils I placed over my Soul are slowly lifting, one by one, revealing something inside me that disappeared long ago. My emotions are shifting from anger and fear to acceptance, confidence, and even a little bit of humility. I’m moving away from being a self-pitying victim and starting to take responsibility for my life. A feeling I had forgotten existed now visits me daily. The word that comes closest to describing it is hope.

Every move I make, from climbing the stairs to sitting for dinner, getting in and out of a car, standing before the concierge to order more books, or slipping into a hot bath, is now an act of Yoga. I pay close attention to where my balance is, which parts of my body are twisting, flexing, or engaging, and how good it feels to harmonize the rhythm of my breath with the movement of my body. I’m also taking greater charge of my life. I no longer need Biofeedback. I listen to Dr. Miller’s audiotapes in my hotel room almost every night and know visualization works without having electrodes and monitors proving it to me. I’ve pared down my schedule at the Pain Center to Yoga, Physical Therapy, and an occasional Jin Shin Jyutsu session. I find ways to cancel every meeting with Ms. Mason, and vow I’ll only see her if I’m threatened with expulsion. Luckily, it’s yet to become an issue.

With a shorter schedule, I can get back to my hotel room earlier to study and practice more of the deeper, mind-body aspects of Yoga. There’s a great complexity to this science, yet also an elegant simplicity—a pureness of logic that resonates with my analytical mind. Pranayama, the mastery of our life force, known as Prana, is the science of controlled breathing. It purifies, balances, energizes, and oxygenates the body. My books say it also boosts the immune system, enhances circulation of the blood, and massages the heart muscle. Meditation lowers blood pressure, reduces stress, and calms the emotions. I lived most of my life being judgmental and combative. This seemed normal to me and always helped me advance my career. Now I understand how it also stressed me out. Breathing deeply and meditating on calmness and acceptance feels so much better than always being on guard.

I’m also learning that all the Asanas (poses) have profound physiological, neurological, and even psychological benefits. Twists promote digestion and elimination, tone the abdominal organs, and quiet the nervous system. Forward bends relieve anxiety, stress, and depression; stimulate the liver and kidneys; and calm the mind. Backbends energize, open the area of the heart center, promote courage, and counter fatigue. The more I study, the more I also realize that this barely touches the surface of what Yoga offers. I see it as the ultimate science of how to be a human being in body, mind, and Soul. It’s self-healing at the highest level, powerful medicine with no side effects, a completely natural way to heal and thrive. I’m totally hooked.

My usual bacon and egg breakfasts, meat sandwich lunches, and steak dinners always seemed sumptuous and hearty. The science of Yoga recommends a vegetarian diet. Even though I’m not ready for this, red meat and pork now taste greasy and heavy to me, no longer appetizing. It must be the power of suggestion. Or maybe I only liked these foods because I associated them with the “good life.” Either way, red meat and pork are gone. I’ve substituted granola and fruit for breakfast, salads and soups for lunch, and fish or poultry for dinner. I eat more slowly, chew more thoroughly, and really taste the food. This makes me satisfied with smaller portions at every meal. As a result, the new pants I just bought are already too loose, and my extra-large T-shirts now droop over me like sacks.

Pain episodes still strike when least expected. Sometimes I go into my old mode and start to despair. I want to down some painkillers, curl up into a ball, and scream out loud. Then I catch myself and remember all my new tools. The first step is to stop myself from reacting and getting tense. Instead, I breathe deeply, visualizing the pain as a wave that will come and go. Then I do restorative poses, chant my mantras, and relax myself as much as possible. It’s worked every time so far.

With less of the stress that pain creates, my energy is increasing. Every morning I feel a little more vibrant and alive. Where I used to be really shut down and completely opposed to making an effort or trying new things, I now feel adventurous. So I try to take the stairs up to the Pain Center every day and even climb the stairs for a few floors at the hotel every morning and evening before surrendering to the elevator. It would be impossible for me to make all twelve stories, but I’ve made it from the lobby to the fourth floor. My sights are now on the fifth.

I’m also growing more flexible by the day. A few months ago, I could barely touch my knees while trying to do a seated forward fold. Now I can almost reach my toes. I can sit cross-legged on the floor without back support for a few minutes at a time. My spine is coming into a more natural alignment. I’m exploring basic hip openers, more advanced backbends, deeper twists, and more powerful lateral extensions. This physical progress might not be the ultimate goal of Yoga, but it’s profoundly inspiring and empowering. Every time I take a pose the slightest bit farther, the light of hope shines more brightly within me.

While I remain heavily focused on Yoga postures, breath work, and meditation, the core of my being continues to be drawn to the spiritual aspects of this ancient practice. The more I study it, the more I’m convinced that it transcends religion and dogma. Yoga urges us to see the unity in all things rather than focus on our differences. I witnessed as a foreign correspondent that when religious, social, and/ or political systems see themselves as the only legitimate way, others can become adversaries and enemies. This has promoted intolerance and fanaticism throughout the ages, leading to misunderstandings, condemnations, conflicts, and wars. Yoga offers something different, and I find myself drawn to it like I’ve been lost in a desert and suddenly an oasis has come into view.

Yoga also holds that self-indulgence and materialism never bring happiness. The more we look externally for a sense of satisfaction in our lives, the more we are destined to suffer. It reminds me of all the stories I’ve read about people who attained great wealth or fame in their lives yet were miserable and often killed themselves with drugs and alcohol. I remember, too, how as a journalist I was happiest when I was in a third world country or a war zone, like the time in the mountains of northern Iraq when my little bottle of Tabasco, Swiss Army Knife, and a piece of twine were all I needed.

Yoga also teaches me that there is a Divine Being within each of us, and that merging back with this inner essence is the journey of transformation and spiritual unity. It advises me to be still and quiet, really connect with the present moment, and—perhaps most importantly—release my ego and concentrate on my sense of higher power. It also advises me to continually contemplate who I really am at the deepest level, and to seek to be the very best person that I can be. This means even more humility, more compassion, and more gratitude for what I have in my life rather than worrying about what’s lacking.

Stillness and silence used to be disconcerting. Now they’re rich and delicious. I no longer turn on the TV and allow myself to be seduced by its nonsensical cacophony. My interest in the bestseller novels I used to crave has been replaced by Yoga studies. Stepping onto my balcony at night and gazing at the vast phantasmagoria of the heavens is bedazzling. All this gives me a sense that I’m being reborn. Brad Willis the global journalist died long ago. Brad Willis the permanently disabled man with a broken back is passing away. I even wonder if one day, just maybe, Brad Willis the cancer victim might be gone as well. The authentic person within me has been suppressed for years. Now that person is coming alive as a fledgling Yogi.

I have no illusions that Yoga will make me a sage of any sort, but the more I tune out the noise around me and listen to the silence within, I’m able to access an inner wisdom I’ve been unaware of most of my life. I now realize there’s a natural and intuitive knowing within me, an inner guidance arising like a whisper from my Soul. I repeatedly commit to listening even more closely to this voice, which always seems to be saying Take it further, commit ever more deeply, and never look back. My intellectual mind, of course, offers me a million ways to judge or dismiss all this esoteric spirituality, but I’ve decided not to listen to that mental voice any longer. This is life or death for me. My only chance. I’m all in. One hundred percent.

CHAPTER 31

Homecoming

RICHARD IS WAITING for me in the downstairs lobby as I arrive at the Pain Center this morning. I’m surprised to smell tobacco on his breath. He quit smoking last week when he started Yoga, and has been exuding a real sense of hope lately. Now he’s gripped with anguish as he grabs my arm with force and almost yells, “Did you hear the news?”

I wonder if there’s been a cataclysmic world event I’ve missed since I no longer watch TV, or maybe someone we know has had a relapse.

“No, Richard, what is it?” I ask softly, trying to calm him down.

“I just found out that the Pain Center is shutting down!” He exclaims with tears welling up in his eyes as he trembles with anger. “They’re out of money. The insurance companies say there’s no proof any of this works and it’s out of the mainstream, so they won’t reimburse the hospital for our treatments. There aren’t enough patients who can pay the full price and there aren’t sufficient funds to continue.”

He says all this so fast I have to ask him to take a few deep breaths and slow it down. “One of the nurses told me in confidence,” he says, on the verge of breaking down. “I can’t believe it. Why would they enroll me and give me this hope when they knew they were closing?”

I remember my first day at the center when two other patients said their insurance company had rejected all their reimbursement requests. Mine have been rejected as well. It’s been a source of frustration for all of us. Although I’m fortunate to have enough saved to afford the program, it’s been a major financial burden. I hold Richard in a bear-hug and whisper that it will be all right, everything will work out as it’s meant to be. Then I go investigate. PJ is always the one who’s most dialed into what’s going on, so I hurry up the stairs and find her as she’s coming out of a staff meeting with a worried look on her face.

“PJ, is it true, about closing down?” I ask, a little breathless.

“Shhhh,” she says secretively. “I was going to tell you this morning. Come into my office and we can talk about it, but you can’t tell anyone else right now.”

When we sit down, PJ is on the verge of tears. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her down. “The staff has been in meetings trying to find some way to salvage the program, or at least persuade the hospital to run it at a loss while they attempt to locate funding, but it’s not going to happen,” she tells me as she wipes a tear away. “They just can’t attract enough patients to sustain the center without insurance company reimbursements. The closure date is uncertain, but the end of the Pain Center is inevitable, and it’s coming soon.”

Like Richard, I feel a sense of betrayal and anger at a system that so often puts profits above patients. Is this a business or a place for healing? And there’s this irony: Most of the expensive procedures and medications my insurance has paid for only made me worse. The Pain Center has been an oasis and has the capacity to help people find true healing and wholeness. Now, it’s going to close its doors. It feels like the rug is being pulled out from beneath my feet just as I’m finally able to stand firmly on the ground. It’s outrageous. They can’t do this to us. I won’t stand for it.

Wait. I stop myself in the middle of this psychological drama I’m creating, take a deep breath, and let it go with a loud “AHHHH.” Instead of giving in to anger or reacting with fear, Yoga would advise me to meet this challenge with confidence and faith in myself. I close my eyes and focus on the situation.

Yes, my healing has just begun. I’ve risen from the bottom of the abyss, but I’m still clawing my way up the side of the cliff and my grip remains tenuous . But I can do this. I have to deepen my resolve if I’m going to pull myself all the way up. I have to reclaim the courage that I lost long ago. I must begin believing in myself again. I can do this.

Just by repeating this to myself, my resolve begins to deepen. I can do this. Even if I have to do it all on my own, I can do this. Stand in Yoga. Get up, Daddy. Get up and stay up. Then I give PJ a hug and ask that she give me an extra rigorous session. She smiles and says she’s happy to oblige.

This morning toward the end of my practice as I’m doing some more self-reflection, it dawns on me that my first step into Yoga wasn’t at the Pain Center. It wasn’t the epiphany when I walked into the Yoga room. It wasn’t when Savita helped me get my legs up the wall or taught me how to breathe. It was nearly four months earlier, on the morning I discovered my family downstairs and the intervention began. That was when I began to face myself, realized I had lost control of my life, chose to let go of all resistance, heard my inner voice telling me the truth about what I had become, and said, “It’s about time.” I had no idea this was Yoga. But it was.

Yoga teaches the immutable law of Karma. Karma says we are the architects of our happiness and our misery. We can hope for new outcomes from old behaviors, or realize that only new behaviors will change our circumstances. It’s our choice. We can continue to suffer, or we can take responsibility for our lives. We can live in our illusions, feeling frustrated and victimized, or we can surrender our egos and see the bigger picture. This means we learn to listen to our hearts, reclaim our power, step up, and take skillful action.

I surrendered a truckload of ego when I entered detox. It was an experience of humility that wasn’t easy for me but ultimately proved invaluable. I began to reclaim some of my power when I listened to my heart and chose the Pain Center over the residential program. Now that the center is closing, Pamela is still insisting that I’m not ready to come home and that the residential program is my only option. I think she’s afraid life will quickly go back to what it was.

Who can blame her? I think she also wants her way right now, which I can understand. But I’ve been away from Morgan far too long and my inner voice has been telling me there may be other agendas in play of which I’m unaware. Every cell in my body is almost screaming: If you don’t go home now, you might lose your son. As I end my morning practice I commit to following this inner guidance. If I can repair and renew my marriage, I’ll do so with humility, energy, and effort. The likelihood of this seems uncertain right now, and I’m unsure how many mountains I can climb at once. Either way, my mind is made up: I’m going home.

The final days at the Pain Center are difficult for all of us. Staff members have hushed conversations in the hallways. They’re angry, sad, and fearful of the challenge of finding work somewhere else. The small number of patients at the center are in despair. Enrolling in this program was a huge step for them, a final effort that offered a glimmer of hope after years of suffering. When I see them now, their physical and emotional pain is palpable. I’m deeply disappointed as well but do everything in my power to accept it and remind myself that I have to move forward as skillfully and courageously as possible.

“I don’t know what to do.” Richard is dark and despondent in his rage. “I’m not going to stay in the residential program without the Pain Center.”

“Richard,” I plead, “don’t walk out. You know what will happen. You can make it here. I’ll give you some of my Yoga books. You can study. Practice. Believe in yourself. Stay strong. We can talk on the phone. I’ll come see you when I can.”

“I don’t have it in me,” he answers sharply. “Everyone has betrayed me. I’m done with it all. I’m out of here.”

“Richard,” I say again, looking for words to break through his agony and shift him out of his darkness. He puts up a hand with his palm facing me, indicating a wall, letting me know he just can’t listen right now. As I watch my friend walk away, limping painfully toward great uncertainty, my heart begins to sink. I know that without my newfound Yoga philosophy I’d probably have the same reaction. I’d get furious and feel like a victim. I’d judge and condemn everyone involved. Then I’d take meds again. Drink beer and wine. Blame the whole world. Fall back into the abyss.

Instead, I go back to the hotel and deepen my commitment to my studies and practices. As my final week at the Pain Center comes to a close, I get up an hour earlier, at four in the morning, and practice poses, controlled breathing, and visualization until sunrise. After breakfast, I take longer walks along the pathways behind the hotel, go to the spa, and soak in the hot pool, then meditate in the steam room before going to the Pain Center, always asking myself, What is the next step? The answer is always the same. Go Home. Be with your boy. Stand in Yoga.

At the Pain Center, I take as many sessions with Savita as she has available, paying close attention to her every instruction. At night, I practice with even greater commitment. I pore through my books, ponder how to integrate the moral and philosophical principles more into my life, explore new poses and breathing techniques, then do a little meditation. After that, I strum my guitar and chant a few simple mantras, surrendering in every breath to whatever the future might hold. Take it deeper. Don’t stop now. Get up and stay up. One hundred percent in.

It’s a Friday morning in late March 2000, and I’m ready to return home even though Pamela still hasn’t agreed and doesn’t know I’m coming today. The hotel staff has been like family to me over the past several months. We hug during our good-byes, share some tears, and make promises to be in touch. I tell Sandra that I’m not sure what I would have done without her as I give her a bouquet of flowers from the gift shop. The head bellhop, Rick, has come in on his day off to help me pack and drive me home. He loads my suitcase in his car and we head for Scripps so I can say final good-byes at the hospital.

It’s the first time I’ve set foot in the McDonald Center since the day I checked out of the detox ward. The staff stares with disbelief. No Clamshell brace, no cane, no dark circles under my eyes, and I’m more than twenty-five pounds lighter.

“Whatever you’ve done, keep doing it,” says Don, the counselor who once told me I would fall flat on my face.

“Thanks, Don. I will.”

Nurse Ratched smiles and gives me a warm hug. I don’t even know her real name and now realize what a wonderful person she was, giving me the firm hand I needed. It was just my ego and resistance to being told what to do that made me so defensive with her. She was never the problem. I was.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, “especially for putting up with me.”

“I’ve had worse!” she answers with a laugh. “Good luck to you. Stay healthy.”

The good-byes are longer at the Pain Center, with a few more hugs and tears. “You are our greatest success story,” PJ tells me with a warm smile. “Stay with it.”

Beth, in her usual soft, often cryptic and insightful way, says lovingly, “One day you will help others to heal.” As so often happens with Beth, her words strike a chord within me, but I can’t really imagine such a thing. With so much healing still left to be done on myself, the idea that I will one day help others heal seems like something for another lifetime.

Savita and I share few words, communicating with a smile, a hug, and a glance of mutual knowing.

“I’ll never forget my first Yoga teacher,” I whisper to her.

“I won’t forget you, either,” she answers with her palms together in Anjali Mudra at her heart center. This gesture, which Savita taught me early on, is also known as Namaste, a common Yogic greeting that means “I acknowledge that the light in my heart and the light in your heart are the same.” I flash back to almost a decade ago in Hanoi when I was guided to a hidden temple in the old quarter of the city and given the golden Buddha. This is the same gesture used by the Vietnamese man who gave me the gift; only I had no idea at the time what it meant. I bring my palms together at my heart, gently bow toward Savita, and whisper back, “Namaste.”

I take my last walk down the two flights of stairs from the Pain Center into the lobby that connects to the residential program. I pause at the bottom, turn around, and jog all the way back up the stairs, then turn around and head back down again as fast as I can. As my feet hit each stair, I sing out at the top of my lungs, “I am alive!”

Once I’m back in the lobby, a friend of Richard’s rushes toward me. She looks like she’s in shock. “Did you hear about Richard?” she asks with such alarm that my soaring heart immediately sinks.

“He told me he was leaving a few days ago,” I say. “That’s all I know. Is he all right?” I’m thinking he’s had a nervous breakdown and been hospitalized.

“He left the program. Disappeared. They just found him last night. He overdosed on pills and booze. He passed away.”

The news stops my breath. I remember the anguish on Richard’s face during our final conversation. His wounded walk as he departed. Dear Richard, why? You could have found a way to stay with it. Lived in residence and studied Yoga on your own. We could have been in touch. Guided one another along the way. Figured it out together. Oh, my brother, I’m so sorry. I’ll never forget you.

I realize, too, that this easily could have been me. There were so many times I just wanted to check out of the world before I found Yoga. There but for the grace of God go I.

As Rick the bellhop drives us south from La Jolla, downtown San Diego comes into view. I feel like I’m seeing the city for the first time, with its burgeoning skyline, glistening bay waters, sailboats, yachts, and cruise ships in the harbor. It’s been more than seven years since I left Hong Kong and moved to Coronado, but I was so often bedridden, always drugged up, and never really had clarity. I missed it all. Now, everything appears new and filled with possibility and potential. I whisper an old adage that I always liked, but now can actually feel in every cell of my being: “This is the first day of the rest of my life.”

“What’s that?” Rick says.

“Nothing,” I say with a laugh. “Just talking to myself.”

The drive over the sloping, blue Coronado Bridge is a thrill. All my senses come alive as we reach the top of its arc. The blue waters of San Diego Bay are sparkling on the east side of the island. The vast Pacific Ocean is glistening on the west. Point Loma peninsula juts into the ocean like a giant finger pointing south toward Mexico. On the horizon are the Islas Coronados, a group of four remote, uninhabited islands that look exotic and alluring, like someplace Morgan and I might take our imaginary sailboat in search of buried treasure as we sit on the “story bench.” Then I gaze down toward the village. It holds the greatest treasure on Earth: my little boy, in our home, not even knowing Daddy is about to hold him ever so tightly and never let him go again.

Finally, we’re on my street, pulling up to the curb. The moment we park, I thank Rick, quickly slide out of the passenger seat, pull my bags and the bulky portable lounge out of his trunk, and hug him good-bye. Then I stop on the sidewalk and stare at my home. It’s two stories tall, with natural redwood shingles that have turned a rich, deep brown with age. The windows and doorway are framed in white wood. I chose it because it felt earthy and inviting, like an old friend. Never so much as it does in this moment. Yet I also feel like a stranger. It’s been so long since I was last here. As I find my keys, unlock the front door, and step inside, the home’s warmth immediately envelops me.

“Morgan!” I cry out so loud it reaches every corner of the house.

“Daddy!” His tiny voice comes from upstairs, filled with surprise. I hear the precious patter of his little feet as he runs to the stairwell and hurries down to meet me in the living room. We rush into each other’s arms and I sweep him up, hold him high above my head, then hug him to my chest. I can hardly believe my little boy is two-and-a-half years old. I never want to miss another moment of his life.

As Morgan nestles his face into my neck, he says over and over again, “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home.”

“That’s right, Morgan. Daddy’s home. Daddy’s home forever.”

Pamela comes down the stairs, polite but distant, and offers a more formal welcome as she conceals the surprise of my return. “Hi,” she says with a subdued and guarded tone as I reach out tentatively to hug her. It’s a brief embrace and feels stiff. Inauthentic on both our behalves. I would love for her to mention how much weight I’ve lost, that I look healthier and stronger, but she doesn’t. I can understand, especially given that this is an unexpected homecoming. As she pulls back from the hug, I smile and say, “It’s so good to be home.”

I know there is still love lurking somewhere deep within each of us, but we both feel an unspoken pain, the silent recognition that there is a chasm between us that might be too late to bridge. I know we also feel a commitment and responsibility toward our child. It’s far too early to make any decisions. We need to have some deep and honest discussions about healing old wounds and starting anew. But now is not the time.

Morgan quickly brings me back to the present moment by crying out with glee, “Upstairs, upstairs, Daddy.” I know what’s in store and it’s joyous. I’m going to get all the news, see his latest toys, visit his favorite teddy bear, and, of course, be asked to draw on his back. I’ve slipped the magic drawing stick into my pocket to be ready for this special moment. I scoop him into my arms and carry him all the way upstairs, hugging him to my chest like a papoose. The whole time he continues to snuggle in closer, murmuring, “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home.”

CHAPTER 32

Himalayan Cave

MORNING COMES SOFTLY. I squint my eyes open and see a vaulted ceiling above me with a wide crossbeam at its apex. A hint of light flows through the white plantation shutters covering the windows. An abstract Matisse print on the wall portrays a blue figure lost in ecstatic dance. I’ve slept past my normal time and feel completely refreshed, but my mind is a little fuzzy and I’m not sure where I am.

“Daddy!” Morgan whispers as he sneaks into the room. It all comes back in a flash. I’m home in my bed and have just enjoyed the best night of sleep I’ve had all year. “Daddy, pick me up!”

I lean over, reach out, and lift Morgan into my arms and hold him high over my head.

“What a big boy you’ve become,” I say, wiggling him gently in the air. Even though it’s only been a few months, and we had a few visits when I was at the Pain Center, Morgan has entered a new stage, getting bigger by the day and speaking with even greater fluency and ease.

“You stay home, Daddy?” I feel like the euphoric Matisse dancer on the wall when he seeks this reassurance.

I bring him down, hug him closely, and say, “Yes, Morgan. I’m never, ever leaving you again.”

Then I roll him over onto my knees and grab the magic drawing stick, which I placed by the bedside last night, right where we always used to keep it. “Did you see the sailboat I drew for you and pinned on your playroom wall?” I whisper. “Yes, Daddy,” he coos. “I love it.” I draw the sailboat on his back and we launch our adventure on the high seas as the fullness of dawn bathes the room with soft light. When I trace a sun with rays streaming down his back I ask, “Did you think about me when you saw the morning light?” “Yes, Daddy,” he says, and it makes me ecstatic. This time we share together is the greatest medicine of all, and I savor every moment.

After half an hour, Pamela enters the room and takes Morgan for a bath. She chose the guest bedroom last night and, given my abrupt return, I imagine this might be her choice for some time to come. Don’t push it. Give her space. Remember what a burden you’ve been. As I roll out of bed, I’m reminded that my back is still unstable. I get down on the floor and do a Yoga practice at the foot of the bed. Must keep at this. Every day. Deeper and deeper. Only just beginning. Give it everything you have.

When Morgan goes down for a nap, I get on the computer and search for Yoga in Coronado. Nothing. No studios. No teachers. There are a few in San Diego, but I don’t feel ready to drive a car yet, and commuting over the bridge is out of the question. Even if I was ready, I’m not strong enough for the energetic styles of Yoga that seem to be the norm from what I can see on the studio websites, which show people doing powerful standing postures, even headstands and handstands. I can’t imagine such things. I still need more deep healing, profound relaxation, and rejuvenation. I doubt I’ll ever even try a headstand. And a handstand? Forget about it.

Also, the Yoga studios seem to focus solely on Asanas, and while these are an essential part of my practice, I’m drawn to transforming my life in body, mind, and Soul. I know this is essential for me. I want to heal my back, but at the same time I need to face my emotional imbalances and continue learning to view the world from a new, richer, and deeper perspective. I already feel this happening in subtle ways. I have no idea who it is that I’m becoming, and I still have so much to face on every level, but the process is well underway and I don’t want to lose it. The key is to find a way to be self-reliant, to step up and look at myself squarely in the eyes, to dig down even deeper and summon every ounce of courage, energy, and power within me to chart a course and give it all that I have. Otherwise, I fear I’ll be lost. Then, as I close my eyes and contemplate this, the inner voice speaks up again. Do it yourself for now. Study more. Practice nonstop. Get stronger. Go deeper.

As I ponder this, a shot of adrenalin rushes through me, as it does every time I remember that my stage IV cancer diagnosis was in mid-1998 and I’m toward the end of the two years my oncologists predicted I had left. I close my eyes once again and repeat the Serenity Prayer to myself: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. I have to focus on my Yoga practice for now, find a space at home where I have solitude, create a new daily ritual, take it further, and change the things I can. Remember, I tell myself, You’re all in, one hundred percent, no matter what. This is your path… Get up, Daddy.

When I bought our Coronado home in 1994, it was a new, two-story remodel of a much smaller, historic Craftsman house built in the 1920s. In designing the expansion, the contractor kept a portion of the original footprint to satisfy historical requirements and fasttrack the building permit process. This created a little leftover space downstairs, a tiny room that was turned into a business office. It’s only nine by nine feet, with wall-to-wall built-in desktops and file cabinets, leaving barely enough room in the center for a small swivel chair. There are two narrow, horizontal windows high up one wall, and a large framed bank of harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling. It always has felt like a stuffy, cramped little cave, and so I’ve never used it.

This space is right across the hall from Morgan’s playroom, and as I pass it this morning, it hits me. This is my “Himalayan cave,” like a plush version of the caves my books say ancient Yogis took residence in as they sought enlightenment. This is where my healing journey will continue, my place of solitude, contemplation, and Sadhana, the Yogic ritual of devoted daily practice. I have no desire to renounce the world and am light-years away from enlightenment, but I need a cave, a private space for healing, and this is perfect. It’s as if the little room has been waiting ever since I bought my home for just this moment to arrive. I call a friend who does carpentry and beg him to come over immediately. We decide to tear everything out of the office and install ceiling-to-floor mirrors on three of the walls. This will create endless reflections, an infinity effect, that will give the room a sense of spaciousness while also allowing me to view my alignment in various Yoga poses.

When Morgan was born I could barely participate in putting together his nursery. Now I’m able to climb up a ladder to the container box and tack some silk tapestries over the fluorescent light panels. I was given the tapestries when I was in Thailand, and as I drape them so they dip and billow, it creates an exotic, soothing effect, like I’m in a temple. Then I climb down the ladder and roll out my Yoga mat beneath the “temple lights,” making sure it’s perfectly aligned in the center of the room.

One angled corner of the room, by the entry, has a small diagonal shelf built into the wall. This becomes my new altar. The golden Buddha I brought out of North Vietnam is the centerpiece. A friend from Boston sent me a white silk scarf blessed by the Dalai Lama for my fiftieth birthday. I wrap this around the lotus blossom carved at the base of the Buddha statue. I’m not studying or practicing Buddhism, but to me it symbolizes a spiritual quest and holds personal meaning as well. Finally, I add candles, incense, and a few gemstones I picked up during my travels as a journalist, and my new altar is complete.

My comfy Himalayan cave feels like I’m in an ancient temple and is exactly what I need. I’m up again at four every morning, immersing myself in my practice. I begin by lighting candles and incense at the altar, then whispering a soft prayer for healing. Gazing at the golden Buddha, I touch the silk cloth blessed by the Dalai Lama. For the first few weeks, I ponder the significance of the statue’s left index finger pointing upwards and his right pointing down. Then I finally get it. The Buddha is pointing toward Heaven and Earth. The gesture signifies “as above, so below.” It’s a concept found in Yoga as well as most religions, a reminder that each of us is connected to all that is.

I’m up at four again, this time without any alarm clock. The sages of Yoga named this pre-dawn time the “Time of the Divine.” I can see why. There’s something naturally meditative about this dark and silent time before sunrise. The moment I sit on my mat I can feel stillness surround me. I can also sense the world preparing to come alive for a new day. Breathing deeply, I see myself becoming part of this eternal rhythm, which helps to make my practice seem effortless. My body feels fluid. The air tastes like nectar. I am connected and fully alive.

It also feels healing. We live in a stressed-out world and spend most of our days hurried, anxious, agitated, and feeling completely separated from any sense of unity or oneness. Our minds are spinning like crazy with endless streams of disparate and disjointed thoughts. Mass media, TV, and video culture spin us further with an overload of fast-paced images and intense sounds. As a result, like Dr. Miller says in his Deep Healing book, we’re usually in a low level of “fight or flight” response, adrenalin constantly pumping through our veins. I felt this every day as a journalist, especially in war zones and in the pressure to meet deadlines for filing my news reports, but even in less-trying times the stress was omnipresent.

In this “fight or flight” state, Dr. Miller says, our sympathetic nervous system takes precedence in order to meet the perceived emergency we feel we’re facing. It’s one of the major aspects of our autonomic nervous system, which subconsciously and automatically controls our responses to stimuli, including our heart rate, digestion, breath, salivation, and perspiration. When the sympathetic nervous system is activated, our hearts beat faster and we perspire as energy courses through us to prepare us for an emergency. This shuts down much of our digestive and immune systems so that our energy can be used to fight or take flight. It’s a good state to be in when there’s a serious threat to our lives or we have important tasks to accomplish, but being in “fight or flight” all the time burns us out and damages our health—don’t I know it!

Practicing deep relaxation, Dr. Miller notes, allows the parasympathetic nervous system to take over. This is a state of “rest and digest” as opposed to “fight or flight.” In this state, adrenalin stops flowing through our veins and our brains produce soothing neuropeptides that promote healing. Our digestive and immune functions are rekindled and our heart rates slow down. Our nerves relax and our organs recalibrate themselves. Body and mind begin to harmonize and heal. This is why animals crawl into caves when they’re wounded, instinctually knowing that deep relaxation is essential for their survival.

I experience this state of deep relaxation and inner peace every time I slip into my cave. Sitting cross-legged on my mat, I can feel stress melt away and healing taking place in all aspects of my being, especially when I bring full attention to my breath. Deep breathing continues to help me release old psychological wounds and cleanse my emotions. Focusing on my breath is not only healing, it’s a passageway to merging with something mystical and eternal, connecting me to my growing sense of higher power, a silent conversation with the very essence of life.

Chanting Get up, Daddy with the flow of my breath, I sequence myself through a series of gentle Yoga postures, slowly and mindfully, harmonizing every movement with sustained deep and rhythmic breaths. Each time I breathe in, I see myself drinking in golden healing light that permeates my entire body while soothing and cleansing my mind. As I exhale deeper into each twist, extension, forward fold, and backbend, I visualize that I’m squeezing out years of pain and toxins. I also try to find something in every pose that’s called “the edge.” It’s the place where I’m moving my body into new territory and going beyond my comfort zone. At the same time, I have to be careful not to go too far and enter the realm of pain or risk an injury. It’s a delicate balance, like walking a tightrope.

At the end of my practice, I often place a candle in front of me and sit gazing at the flame. This is a Yoga technique that crystallizes the mind, brings me further into the present moment, and promotes single-pointed concentration. As my mind stills further and becomes more focused, I see deeper into the essence of the flame and the element of fire itself. I notice flames within flames. Colors within colors. The miracle of fire. A tiny piece of our sun. I close my eyes and gaze at the image of the flame as it floats behind my eyelids, changing hue and form. All stress melts away now. My mind is as still and calm as a placid lake. I am fully here in this eternal moment.

Although I’ve come a long way physically, it’s still impossible to sit cross-legged on my mat staring at the candle for more than a few minutes without having spasms in my lower back. Each time this happens, instead of reacting with fear like in the past, I breathe, stretch, and relax myself out of it, then support my back against one of the mirrored walls and continue my meditation on the flame.

By sunrise, I’m in the zone. Totally present, serene yet vitalized, feeling balanced in body, mind, and Soul. I gather my consciousness to my heart center, a space right behind the breastbone next to the organ of the heart. Yoga teaches us this is where the light of the Soul dwells. I listen for the whisper of my inner wisdom, open myself to its guidance, and then, toward the end of my practice, ask this Divine wisdom within me to help me heal. The messages I receive from this ritual are consistent.

Practice every day.

Breathe deeply all the time.

Take it further and further.

Purify yourself in body and mind.

Move beyond your perceived limitations.

Release the past.

Open your heart.

Live from your Soul.

In the “Time of the Divine,” I listen. I learn. I deepen my devotion. I feel like I am being slowly transformed.

CHAPTER 33

The Story Bench

IF YOU HAVE A FRAYED ELECTRICAL WIRE, there’s no light when you flick on the switch. Touch the wire and you’ll be shocked. Ignore it and it smolders. It can start a fire. Burn your house down. This is what’s it’s often like between Pamela and me. And we can’t seem to find a way to fix it.

We have some really good times together, and they make both of us hopeful that things are going to work out just fine. When I find out that the creator of the therapeutic Yoga that Savita taught me at the Pain Center is leading a weeklong retreat in the mountains of Costa Rica, Pamela agrees to make it a family trip. She and Morgan join me, relaxing together while I’m in the retreat sessions. I’m amazed that I can even make this trip without much pain, and thankful that the Yoga is gentle and therapeutic, which helps me recover from sitting on the airplane and riding in third world taxis. Secretly, I’m hoping Pamela will get interested in doing Yoga with me and attend a session or two, but I soon see that it’s not meant to be and choose not to push it.

After the retreat, we visit some of Costa Rica’s remote beaches and national parks, even taking a small tour boat into jungle swamps where dozens of small, black monkeys crawl aboard from the mangrove trees to snatch bananas out of our hands. The tour guide ensures us the monkeys are harmless, and Morgan is completely enraptured when a baby monkey climbs onto his head and chatters like crazy. Pamela bursts into laughter and snaps a million pictures. The whole experience renews my hope that things might work out for us as a family. Maybe we really can put the past behind us, forgive and forget, move forward together, and build a new life.

Once we’re home again, however, old wounds arise and we both feel alienated. I know that it was my darkness, depression, and anger that created the distance and distrust for years. I do my best to take full responsibility for this, and each day have a little more clarity into how difficult it must have been for Pamela. But now, even though I’m off medications, have forsaken alcohol, and am devoting myself to a healing practice, it’s just not working between us. I think about it in my morning meditations and realize how overwhelming it must be for her to deal with all the rapid, unexpected changes. Pamela fell in love with a journalist who was filled with boundless enthusiasm, married a disabled person who careened into an abyss of darkness, and now she’s facing something completely new with a burgeoning Yogi. How does anyone accept or trust that?

It makes me feel empty and lost, especially when we get into the blame game that seems to be such a trap for couples. I get stuck between feeling terrible about who I was during my darkest days and the need to stand my ground as I build a new life. Pamela can’t connect with the person I’m becoming, and I can’t turn back to the person I was when we first fell in love. We continue to sleep in separate bedrooms off and on. Resigned to being civil. Especially when Morgan is near. It’s as if we’re already separated but still living in the same home. Tiptoeing around the truth of our circumstance. Denying the pain and hoping for the best.

Pamela’s circle of friends solidified in my absence: four or five couples with children Morgan’s age, the husbands with successful careers in money management, banking, and real estate, and the wives stay-at-home moms with nannies so they can enjoy luncheons, spa days, and shopping sprees. While I was in detox and at the Pain Center, they became Pamela’s primary source of companionship and support. They’re intelligent, good-natured, and fun-loving people, and they’ve been supportive and interested in learning about my healing experiences. Still, I feel like a complete outsider when we’re all together. Pamela senses this and it’s another source of tension. This is her world now. It’s important to her that I fit in. But I don’t.

I try attending a few of the weekly parties, always held at the nearby home of the most social couple, but it’s painfully clear to everyone that I now live in a very different world. The evenings focus on lavish food and drink. I’ve become vegetarian and don’t drink. The casual banter usually drifts toward television shows or the latest social and fashion trends of which I’m completely unaware. Part of me wants desperately to fit in, so I attempt to contribute something light and funny. My words always feel inauthentic and contrived as they come out of my mouth, and they inevitably land with a thud. Each time this happens, I realize I don’t belong to this tribe, and it hurts.

As everyone gets a little tipsy and the laughter gets louder, I can’t help but withdraw, and it’s painfully obvious to everyone that I’m uncomfortable. This in turn makes them feel like I don’t approve. It’s not the case, but honestly, if I was drinking and having fun and there was someone like me at the party, I wouldn’t want them around either. Eventually, I go silent and slip out to relieve Morgan’s babysitter, occasionally hearing jokes about Yoga and self-realization on my way out the door. Yoga postures as a form of exercise are fine for Pamela’s friends, but my taking on Yoga as a complete lifestyle is just too much. Again, if I were them, I’d feel the same way, and although I know Pamela is happy that I’m no longer drinking or taking meds, this is her tribe. I can feel that she shares their sentiments about who I’ve become. Who could blame her?

After leaving these parties and getting Morgan to bed, I crawl back into my cave to do practice poses and study my texts. It never feels good to slip away like that, so I need the poses and deep breathing all the more. I usually become so absorbed that I never hear Pamela come home.

I finish my Sadhana toward midnight, then tiptoe upstairs to catch a few hours of deep sleep. When I wake up the next morning before dawn, I tiptoe back downstairs to the cave again. As the sun rises, despite being focused on my practices, I always sense when Morgan begins to wake up. I hurry upstairs, cuddle him in my arms, then draw on his back. Once we’ve finished with the magic drawing stick, I get him dressed and make him breakfast. This is when he always does the funniest thing.

His blond hair has dark, golden streaks, matching his goldenbrown eyes. He has lost most of his baby fat, but he still has the big, plump cheeks of his infancy. For some mysterious reason, he likes to fill them with as much food as he can before swallowing, looking like a chipmunk about to explode. When I ask him why, he just smiles like a Cheshire cat. I don’t want to encourage him, but it’s so hilarious I can’t restrain my laughter.

Using grown-up logic in an attempt to persuade Morgan to swallow only makes him smile wider and stuff in another bite, so for weeks I play games to cajole him into it—to no avail. Pretending my hand is a talking puppet that begs him to swallow fails to do the trick. Having our cat, Max, sit on my lap and playing feline ventriloquist is also a bust. But finally, I hide a shiny penny in my hand and “discover” it in his ear, telling him he can have the penny when he swallows all his food. Bingo. It works every time.

After breakfast, his meal safely in his belly, Morgan climbs into his three-wheeled stroller and we head for the beach. We make each journey an adventure: stopping to explore flower gardens, staying on the lookout for hummingbirds and butterflies, saying good morning to the sun and inviting it to kiss our faces. Our trip to the ocean is about one mile. It’s a glorious meditation, as rich as any experience in my cave. But I doubt I could make it without holding the stroller to support my weak legs.

Our journey always ends at a park bench in a quiet place on the boardwalk overlooking Coronado’s wide, sandy beach. We call this the “story bench.” The moment I sit down, Morgan crawls onto my lap and I ad-lib a story about some exciting drama at sea in which he is always the hero. This morning we see a small school of silver-gray dolphins coursing south toward Mexico, their fins arching above the shimmering ocean surface then disappearing below. Lines of pelicans, always in perfect formation, glide across the smooth faces of blue waves, swooping just above the dolphins.

“There was a special sea,” I begin, hoping the story will come together of its own accord, “where children rode the pelicans through the morning sky, dipping their toes in the warm waves just before those waves curled and crashed.” Morgan snuggles in closer, a signal that he’s already enthralled with the tale.

“Every now and then, just for fun, a little boy or girl would jump off their pelican right as a dolphin came up to take a breath. They gently landed on the dolphin’s back, holding its fin in their hands. The dolphins loved this and took the children on amazing rides, streaming down the faces of great waves, jumping into the air and twisting in the sky, then landing softly back in the water.”

“Does anyone ever fall off?” Morgan asks, just to make sure the children are safe.

“Never. The dolphins know just what to do. But one day everything changed.”

“What happened, Daddy?” He knows big danger is coming and I can feel his excitement.

“A giant sea monster came sneaking along. He was very unhappy because he thought everyone hated monsters, and watching the children having so much fun hurt his feelings. So when no one was looking, he grabbed a child off a dolphin and took it to his secret cave and kept the child captive.”

“Bad monster,” Morgan whispers with a blend of compassion and concern.

“Every day the sea monster snuck off with another child, until almost half were missing. The others gathered one evening, crying and wondering what to do. That’s when a special little boy showed up in their midst. Do you know what his name was?”

“Morgan!” he exclaims, knowing full well how the story is about to unfold.

“That’s right. Morgan. He arrived on the biggest dolphin anyone had ever seen and told the children he would help them. The next day, Morgan went and rode a pelican over the waves, all alone. When he glimpsed the sea monster, he jumped into the water and let it capture him. He was that brave!” As I say this, Morgan reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze of glee.

“When they got to the cave, Morgan said, ‘I don’t think you’re a monster at all. You are just sad that nobody likes you. But I like you. Why not let all these kids go and come play with us? I’m sure they will like you, too. We can ride on your back and swim with the dolphins and laugh all day!’”

“‘You’d all really be my friends?’ the monster asked. ‘Yes, of course,’ Morgan answered, patting him gently on his big, horrible wet nose.”

“The monster smiled his very first smile, gathered all the captured kids onto his gigantic back, and swam out of the cave. The other children met them and took rides on the monster as well, hugging him and telling him how much they loved him. Everyone was happy from that day forward, and they all said, ‘Thank you, Morgan!’”

As his joy with the happy ending sinks in, I ask Morgan to tell me what the story is about. “Love, Daddy. It’s always better to love everybody, even if they aren’t nice to you. Love always makes everything work out right.”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” I tell him with a big hug, “and I love you more than anything in the world.”

I could sit with Morgan on our story bench for hours, thrilled at his enjoyment of my tall tales, but, sadly, I have to tell to him that it’s time to go. Morgan will have none of this, nestling further into my lap and pleading, “Tell me another story, Daddy. Please, please, please.” I always give in at least once, often twice, taxing my mind for more stories of dangers and rescues on the high seas. As I hold him in my arms and whisper a new story into his ear, I’m touched by what an amazing person he is. He has never had a tantrum or a crying fit. He always seems serene and grounded, perfectly at peace with himself and the world around him, like a little Buddha.

Pamela takes over when we get home, making Morgan lunch and getting him down for his nap. I slip back into my cave to relax after the big adventure, study my texts, and practice more Yoga poses. Pamela and I switch off preparing dinner, which is now one of our few family meals together. After dinner, I read to Morgan, give him a bath, and, of course, we still have the sacred ritual of drawing on his back before bedtime.

After we put Morgan to sleep, I slip back into my cave for several more hours. Toward the end of my practice, I play some soft chords on my guitar, hum, and chant “OM.” My throat still bleeds periodically, and I occasionally lose my voice and can’t speak very well, much less sing. But when I can chant, it tunes up a body and mind that have been in deep disharmony for years and, in the process, creates a new song of life.

After two months of devotion in my cave, I instinctually awaken even earlier, usually at 3 A.M. Some mornings, however, I want nothing more than to linger under the warm covers. When this happens, Get up, Daddy floods into my mind and I drag myself into the shower. This morning my ego is especially resistant. Urging me to jump back into bed and pull the covers over my head. Offering great justifications for doing so. How devoted I’ve been and how much I deserve the break. So I run the shower on pure cold, just to expand my comfort zone, and teach my ego a lesson. “Ahhhh!” I scream when I step in, jumping up and down under the freezing spray like a wild baboon. It works. Soon enough, I’m downstairs in my cave again, immersed in the “Time of the Divine.”

I’m now practicing and studying an average of twelve hours every day. I devour every book I can find and explore various restorative Yoga poses, endlessly sequencing them together in different ways while bringing all my awareness to how they impact my physical body, emotional body, and energy body. I notice where I am weak, imbalanced, or inflexible and seek to stabilize, strengthen, and expand. I also notice where I am emotional or feel energetically knotted up and seek to release past hurts, angers, and fears. When my mind gets agitated, I focus on my breath, beckon myself back to the present moment, and reconnect with my inner Spirit.

Every moment of practice feels rich and nourishing, but the most sublime moments always come during the hours before dawn. I experience the whole world in a state of stillness and silence, yet filled with power and potential. The Prana of life seems to dance in the atmosphere, and I can taste it in every cell of my body. Being fully in the present moment gives me a sense of clarity and connection. It reminds me of the times I arose before sunrise in a Saudi desert, the mountains of Bolivia, or in the jungles of Africa. It didn’t matter that there was chaos and conflict in the world. Everything seemed perfect, just as it should be. It was a deeply meditative state that, at that time in my life, I sensed but barely understood. Now I understand it in all its richness and fullness.

Outside my cave, my time is devoted to Morgan, except for four to five hours of sleep. With the relaxation and balancing practices of Yoga, this is usually more than enough rest and I feel more energized than ever before in my life. Rather than aging, it’s as if I’ve found the fountain of youth and am growing younger by the day. I continue to get leaner, stronger, and more confident and optimistic about life. I feel completely in charge of my back pain now. It rarely comes up, and I’m able to handle it better every time it does.

But the cancer is something else. Whenever my throat feels sore or my energy plummets, a bolt of fear strikes me. God grant me serenity. Accept what I cannot change. Change the things I can. This is all I can do. Let it go. Accept what happens. Stay with Yoga. Maybe what some of my books say is true. Maybe I can whip this, too. Maybe, just maybe, I can also salvage my marriage. Like cancer, though, the thought of it weighs me down and fills me with fear. I can’t figure out how to fix it and it’s frustrating. The thought of facing it headon, maybe separating for a while or ending it altogether, completely overwhelms me. God grant me serenity.

On Sunday mornings, I break my routine and walk three blocks down the street to hear Father David’s sermons. He continues to inspire me, and my love, gratitude, and respect for him run deep. The teachings of his church are in synch with the spiritual teachings of Yoga, which is devoted to peace, compassion, and unity, but I realize I’ll eventually stop attending services. Yoga is my path, my cave is my house of worship, and my Sadhana is my silent sermon. It provides me with a tangible experience of being connected to my sense of a higher power. Every movement, every breath, every mantra, and every meditation is ultimately a homage to the Divine. I’m in all the way—body, mind, and Soul.

CHAPTER 34

Bayside Healing

IT NO LONGER HURTS to sit cross-legged on my mat without back support. I can touch my toes in forward folds. Arm-leg balances are a breeze. My range of motion in twists has doubled. The more powerful standing poses in my books are still far beyond my reach, but I feel like I’m always in the “edge” now, stretching my limits and mastering many poses that were once impossible for me to even consider. These include Bujanghasana, Anjaneyasana, and Janu Sirsanana.

These Sanskrit names always challenge me. It’s hard to read or remember them, much less say them. But the books have some pronunciation tips, and the more I practice saying these names in Sanskrit, the more I feel connected to this ancient wisdom. When I whisper the name of a pose while deep in my practice, it’s like the ancient sages are in the room with me. I think sometimes I can even feel them in my bones.

Bujanghasana (Boo-jan-gah-suh-nuh) translates as Cobra Pose. In this posture, I lie on my stomach with my legs straight out behind me. Then I place my palms firmly by the sides of my chest and lift my head, chest, and shoulders up from my mat for five or six full breaths. This creates a backbend that strengthens the major muscles along my spine and makes me feel radiant and energized. A month ago I couldn’t come close to performing this pose. Now it feels natural and nourishing.

Anjaneyasana (Aan-jaahn-eee-ahhh-suh-nuh) is a Low Lunge Pose that demands strength, flexibility, and balance. To do this pose, I step my right foot on the mat between my hands, with my knee deeply bent. The left leg is straight out behind me, with that knee, shin, and foot down on the mat. Then I lift my torso up and raise both arms into the air. Now I am lunging into the ground, opening my hips while rising up through my torso, and expanding my ribs and spine in an arc. As I do this, I visualize that I’m reaching up to embrace the Divine while sinking into Mother Earth as I become that place where Heaven meets Earth. As above, so below. This pose is done on both sides, so I switch the positions of my legs after three or four breaths, which is all I have the strength for.

In Janu Sirsanana (Jaah-noo-sear-shah-suh-nuh), which simply means Head to Knee Pose, I sit with my right leg straight out in front of me on my mat. I bend my left knee and bring the sole of my left foot to my inner right thigh, pressing my left knee out and down toward the floor. I take a deep inhale and raise my arms high in the air, then exhale and fold forward at my hips, reaching for my right toes. I can’t quite get there yet but have become flexible enough to hold my shin close to the ankle. This pose is also done on both sides, and I can hold it for ten breaths. It feels relaxing, nourishing, and comforting, like I’m folding into my heart.

From the Yogic viewpoint, all my Asanas, Pranayama, and meditation practices have acted synergistically to build something within me called Agni. Yoga teaches me that Agni is an energetic radiance—an inner fire—that burns away the dross. At its basic level, Agni is the digestive and metabolic fire that allows us to absorb nutrients from our food. It is also the inner heat of effort that promotes purification through perspiration, destroying harmful organisms and toxins while repairing and maintaining organs, muscles, bones, and blood. Agni is an inner elixir that enhances the immune system and creates resistance to disease. On more subtle levels, Agni helps us process, digest, and release mental and emotional imbalances, thus building self- discipline, confidence, and optimism. Ultimately, Agni is the radiance and illumination that arises from spiritual practice and helps us sustain and support a journey of self-awareness and personal transformation.

Once again, it’s a concept totally outside of Western paradigms, but I like the depth of the science and the way it makes me revamp my view of the world. And because I’m actually experiencing it rather than just reading about it, I know it works, so all my skepticism is gone. The best example is that Agni also helps burn away body fat. Stepping on the bathroom scale after my practice this morning, I’m down to 180 pounds. Forty-five pounds lighter than my heaviest weight of 225 and back to where I was during my life as a foreign correspondent. Better yet, I haven’t had a back spasm in a month. I don’t need any stats or studies. This is all proof to me that Yoga and its fire of Agni are for real and it affirms my decision to be all in. One hundred percent. Maybe even one hundred ten percent.

Being adventurous and impulsive, I feel like celebrating my weight loss and a crazy thought arises inside of me about how to do it. I think I now have enough balance, energy, and courage to do something I never dreamed would be possible, especially with a failed back surgery: buy a bicycle! With a bike I can get out of my cave more, pedal around the island, see it for the first time through new eyes. The very idea makes me feel like a child again.

I’ve picked out a hybrid between a beach cruiser and a racing bike at the local bike shop. It’s clearly much more bicycle than I am rider. When I climb on, I’m tenuous and unstable, like when I was four years old and my father removed the training wheels from my first bike. I hold on tightly, place my feet on the pedals, and take off, somehow managing not to fall as I zig and zag like a drunken snake down the street. I have just enough balance to stay up, but I quickly start sweating like I’m in the final stretch of the Tour de France. After rounding our neighborhood block just once, I’m drenched and my thighs are screaming so loudly I have to call it quits.

Soon enough, however, I get the hang of it. Much like my experience when I gain mastery over a challenging Yoga pose, I feel incredibly empowered on my bike. After a few days I can even make it twice around the block without feeling like I’m going to collapse, and it puts much less strain on my back than walking does. Morgan has yet to get on a tricycle, but I envision us riding bikes all over the island one day, making more discoveries of special places to relax, tell stories, and play in the sunshine. I make a mental note of this: One day we’ll ride!

After a few weeks of daily practice, I can bike all the way to the bayside of the island a mile and a half from home. It’s mostly a gentle, flat ride on beautiful residential streets and underneath one end of the Coronado Bridge. This takes me back to the Le Méridien Hotel, where I first lived after leaving Hong Kong in 1993. The hotel has been acquired by the Marriott chain, but the staff still sends me letters to confirm it is honoring the complimentary spa membership I was granted during my long stay here, which seems like a lifetime ago. The spa has a quiet, upscale gym offering generous views of the bay. Although I’m healthier than I’ve been in years, my muscles have atrophied and I have very low endurance. Yet another crazy idea bubbles up: It’s time to take the game a little further.

Every morning now, thirty minutes before sunrise, I quietly slip out of my cave, hop on my bike, and head out through the darkness and quietude of Coronado’s neighborhoods to the bay. I drink in everything I can see in the predawn light. Certain sights captivate me and become inspirational signposts. As I turn toward the pathway that takes me under the bridge, there’s a sleek, towering eucalyptus tree on the edge of the golf course. It reminds me of the essence of Anjanyasana, the Yoga pose where I reach up to Heaven while deeply lunging into Mother Earth. A small sandy beach dotted with colorful rowboats reminds me that life still holds mystery, possibility, and adventure. The stately white egrets I see standing in perfect stillness at the water’s edge almost every morning are the essence of focus, balance, and stillness.

There’s a large cement foundation on a grassy knoll at the Marriott near the villa I once lived in and befriended Fred the duck. The hotel periodically pitches huge tents here for special events, but the space is never used in these early morning hours. I make it my outdoor Yoga studio, rolling my mat out at the edge of the platform to be as near the water as possible. After a few gentle Yoga poses to work out the kinks from the bike ride, I sit in stillness, listening to the lapping of the bay waters, the morning calls of gulls, terns, ducks, egrets, and the occasional cry of an osprey.

The San Diego skyline towers across the bay to the northeast, and I can feel the city slowly coming alive. To the southeast is the Coronado Bridge, with the arch of its sloping blue span perfectly framing a range of mountains on the border with Mexico. This is where the sun rises. As soft, predawn light begins to glow on the mountaintops, I sit in meditation with my eyes fully open, drinking in everything as a new day prepares to dawn.

Mud hens and cormorants float on the surface of the bay then quickly dive under, seeking their morning meals. An occasional seal swims slowly by, wriggling its whiskers like it’s smiling at me. A solitary boat floats out from the harbor, its wake leaving a rippling pattern behind it like migrating geese in flight. The ridgeline of the mountains begins to glow in hues of pink and gold as the sky expands. I begin soft chants of “OM,” and it sounds like all of nature is humming the mantra with me. I feel my entire being realign with the natural rhythms of Mother Earth and the cosmos.

Finally, the sun bursts forth above the mountains, sending a thick, dazzling beam of golden light dancing across the bay right into my heart center. It’s an electrifying, out-of-body sensation, like the first time I stepped into the Yoga room at the Pain Center. As the sun continues to rise, I feel golden light pouring into every cell of my being, cleansing, healing, and energizing me like celestial Agni. I can sense Mother Earth spinning through the heavens around this star in a glorious dance, and it’s easy to understand why so many ancient cultures worshipped the sun as a deity and the source of all life.

I drink in the deepest breaths possible, thanking my back pain, the broken vertebra, and the failed surgery for all they have taught me. The very first time I tried this practice of gratitude, waves of relief rolled through me, so I’ve stuck with it. I breathe in light and life and then exhale pain and suffering, accepting all physical challenges and setbacks as blessings and catalysts for positive change.

Concluding my practice as the sun lifts fully into the morning sky, I surrender to whatever the future may hold, then bring my palms together at my heart center in Anjali Mudra and bow my head, whispering, “Thank you, sun.” I finish with the Sanskrit term Savita taught me at the Pain Center, “Namaste,” sending a prayer from the light of my heart to the light of the sun. Then I softly roll up my mat, slowly rise to my feet, and walk in a sense of meditation to the Marriott spa.

The spa’s quiet, upscale gym offers generous views of the bay, though my focus is on the machines. I spend almost an hour trying every one of them. I have to keep the weights low. Despite how much stronger I’ve become, every exercise machine confirms I’m still weak and lack stamina. In my prime, I could bench-press 245 pounds for ten repetitions. Now I couldn’t lift fifty pounds for five reps if my life depended on it. I go slowly, taking several extra minutes on each machine to improvise supported Yoga poses: twists, extensions, hamstring stretches, and hip-openers. I’m doing a lot more Yoga than lifting, but the combination is furthering my progress, as strange and comical as I must appear to the dedicated morning workout crowd who begin to arrive as I finish up. I always try to make an exit before they pop on the TVs and the Sports Channel begins to blare and break the beauty of the morning.

The bike ride home is a bit of a challenge. Along with a slight incline in this direction, there’s a steep hill two-thirds of the way back that still gets the best of me. Although it’s only half a block long and no more than a thirty percent incline, it looms like the Himalaya Mountains themselves. I can’t get ten feet up the slope without stopping, dismounting, and pushing my bike the rest of the way, huffing and puffing as I go. Little kids heading for school zip right past me, zooming straight up the hill on their tiny bikes. I have to pause and laugh with complete abandon or else I might break into tears.

Pamela and I have rearranged our schedules to accommodate this new phase of my practice. She makes Morgan breakfast in the morning and gets him to preschool. I return from the bay and slip back into my cave until it’s time to pick him up at mid-day. I make him lunch, then he and I take off to the beach for story time. Once home, we play until his afternoon nap. I return to my cave, emerging each evening to pedal in the other direction, westward to the beach for sunset. It’s another transformative experience for me, meditating on the song of the ocean waves, watching the seagulls gather on the sand to prepare for evening as sailboats return to harbor beneath the golden-pink light. I’m filled with a refreshingly new and deep sense of gratitude as I say, “Goodnight, sun. Thank you, sun. Namaste,” again feeling synchronized with the rhythms of nature and truly blessed to be alive.

I’m home in time for dinner and bedtime rituals with Morgan, and then, of course, back in my cave for nighttime practices. This expansion of activities and spiritual connection with nature has deepened my confidence and commitment. I bike to the bay almost every day now, even on mornings when it is cold, cloudy, and foggy, only skipping the ride if there’s a rare rain shower. Even then, I drive my car and do my sunrise practice in the spa, listening to the song of the storm as the sky comes alive in hues of silver and gray. I try never to miss the sunset, either, even if it’s ducking down behind thick clouds or hidden in a bank of fog. Despite all this, the ego never goes away. It always wants to be in charge and is masterful at conjuring innumerable reasons not to stay faithful to my practice. But I have a deep sense that if I slack off, I’m not going to make it. My back will go bad again. I might even want painkillers. Who knows? The idea of falling back into the abyss is completely unacceptable to me, so I keep finding new ways to put my ego in its place.

Sometimes I walk outside and let the rain pour down all over me, then run inside and take a hot shower to break the chill. Occasionally, on an unusually cold morning, I bundle my sweatshirt and thermal jacket in the basket between the handlebars of my bike and take the morning ride bare-chested. It freezes me to the marrow and it’s everything I can do not to scream and wake up all the neighbors along my route to the bay. But I persevere by thinking of how young children can jump into cold oceans and lakes that adults can no longer step a toe in, or play endlessly in the hot sun without the need for air conditioning and shade.

As children, we have an innate capacity to handle a wide range of experiences. We take the hot and cold better than adults. We fall down, skin a knee, let out a roar, then get back up and keep going. But as we age, we become addicted to our creature comforts, we constrict our range, avoiding more and experiencing less. None more so than I during my years of being bedridden and medicated. After such an extended time of feeling nothing but chronic pain and depressed emotions, dancing in the rain and taking crazy, cold bike rides help me reclaim my inner child and expand my range once again. After so many years of running away from the pain inside of my body, I realize I’ve inhabited it once again. I’ve developed a new relationship with myself, discovered my inner life force, and opened myself more and more to the possibility of a completely new life.

CHAPTER 35

Going Deeper

AN OLD INDIAN ADAGE, often attributed to the Buddha, says that when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. One rainy morning, I see on the Marriott spa bulletin board that a Yoga class is scheduled to begin at 6 A.M., in just thirty minutes. I’m there on my mat ten minutes early, laughing at myself for being so excited. I try to close my eyes and meditate on my breath, but all I can think about is what the class will be like, and so I keep popping my eyes open, looking for the teacher. As the time for class approaches, it looks like I might be the only student, but then two or three hotel guests amble in just as the instructor arrives.

“Hello, my name is Rene, and it’s good to be here with you,” she says with a tone that feels contained and authentic. Then, with a twinkle in her eyes, she adds, “We’re here to move our bodies and move our breath, but most importantly, we’re going to have a good time doing it.”

Like my first teacher at the Pain Center, Savita, Rene is peaceful, grounded, and extremely present. She also sparkles with a childlike joy that’s contagious. She looks like a cross between an athlete and an actor who plays Peter Pan in summer theaters, with shortcropped blond hair, wide green eyes, a muscular frame, and balletlike movements. Her strength and flexibility are remarkable as she demonstrates the poses.

Rene’s class is gentle and restorative, yet playful and invigorating. Although I’m familiar with all the poses, she takes me to new levels in each one and it feels effortless. Moreover, I can sense Rene’s intelligence and devotion. By the middle of class I’m convinced she has great wisdom and insight into Yoga as a spiritual and transformative practice, not just as an exercise. As the class ends, I know I’ve found my next teacher. I quietly wait for Rene to end her conversation with the hotel guests then meekly ask for a minute of her time. “I need your help,” I say, giving her the shortest version of my story that I can muster.

“I feel I can’t take it much further without a teacher like you,” I explain to Rene, telling her that I’ve been creating my practices from reading books and then letting my intuition guide me from there. With a teacher, I hope to get feedback on what I’ve devised for myself, learn how to do the poses with more specific guidance on my alignment, plus get more help with breath work and meditation. The books have so many practices that I sometimes feel overwhelmed and don’t know which are best for me at this stage. I also feel like I’ve been alone on this journey for too long and need company, especially with someone who will validate rather than ridicule what I’m doing. I don’t want any misimpression, so I’m careful to note that I’m married and have a child. There’s no other agenda than to practice Yoga with someone who can take me to the next level.

“I think there’s a lot we can do,” Rene answers in a softly confident tone counterpoised with a radiant smile. “Let’s try it and see how it goes.”

We agree to practice twice a week on the Marriott boat dock, which juts about thirty yards into the bay near the platform where I sit each morning for my sunrise practices. When we meet the next day, Rene has brought several thick, woolen Yoga blankets for our session. We begin by doing a series of the restorative poses that I’m used to, but with Rene’s guidance and gentle, hands-on adjustments, I go deeper into them than ever before. A half-hour later, she uses the blankets to create a comfortable place on the wooden planks of the dock for me to lie down on my back. This is called Savasana (Shuh-va-suh-nuh), which is always the final pose in Yoga practice. Sava means corpse, and Asana, a pose, hence Savasana is the Corpse Pose.

In a way, it’s like playing dead, lying there like a corpse in stillness and silence, except there’s nothing morbid about it. The death is symbolic, signifying the cessation of movement, thought, and ego. It’s a deep and profound letting go of the body, mind, and senses while remaining fully aware and present. Before I lie down, Rene takes a long, soft cotton scarf and wraps it several times around my forehead, covering my eyes and ears. “This is a technique of withdrawing the senses,” she says. “The more we internalize our awareness, the deeper we are able to go.”

With the cloth around my head, I can’t see a thing and barely hear the lapping of the bay waters, but Rene’s voice comes through perfectly as she guides me into relaxing as she places her palm on my abdomen.

“I can see you already breathe very deeply,” she says. “I noticed it in class. This is excellent, but I want you to breathe even deeper now, and breathe much slower. Visualize your breath starting well below my hand, down at the bottom of your pelvic bowl. Now slowly draw it all the way up to the crown of your head.”

I find myself wanting to be a perfect student and take the biggest breath of my life.

“That’s too fast and too shallow,” Rene says with a sense of power and command that impresses me. “Dig down deeper. Start the breath lower. You are still above my hand, about at your navel, and you only took it up to your throat. Start lower and drink it all the way up to the crown of your head.”

I focus even more and deepen every inhalation, willing it with all my might to begin in my pelvic bowl and then seeking to pull it to the top of my head. Of course, I’m only filling my lungs with my breath, but the visualization helps me draw my diaphragm down and lengthen my lungs for a much fuller inhale. The effects are profound. After a dozen or so breaths, I feel like I’m floating a few feet above my body.

“You’re doing a good job,” Rene encourages me, “but don’t strain. Keep everything relaxed but your lungs and diaphragm. Deeper now.” The Peter Pan playfulness I witnessed in the spa is completely gone. This is all business.

Another dozen breaths and it begins to come naturally. Every cell in my body is lightly buzzing and I feel like I’m floating somewhere above the dock, going higher and higher. Just as I think I might leave my body altogether and soar into the stratosphere, Rene gently brings me down.

“Relax your breath now. No effort. Just let the air breathe you. Listen to it gently rise and fall like a wave. As you do this, gaze into the darkness behind your closed eyes. This is the inner universe. Don’t look for anything specific. Just notice.”

After a minute or so, an array of incredibly intricate, geometric patterns begin to emerge behind my closed eyes. They are multicolored and bedazzling, occasionally swirling like distant galaxies in endless space. My body relaxes to an even deeper level while I watch the light show. I’m completely mesmerized.

“Let this go now.” I can barely hear Rene and I’ve lost all sense of time and place. “We’ll relax your body even more now. Begin by noticing your toes… the soles of your feet… your ankles… your calves… now, your knees…”

She guides my awareness slowly through my body, from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head. It’s like the body scans Savita led me through at the Pain Center, only vastly deeper. Although I’ve never felt so relaxed in my life, I still find tension in certain muscles and joints when Rene brings my attention to these areas. This experience reminds me once again how much stress I hold without even knowing it’s there.

“Relax your emotions now,” Rene continues. “Let go of all past hurts, all obstacles, all self-doubt, all resentment, anger, and fear. Accept who you are, be at peace with yourself.”

Every time I softly exhale, I can feel more of my deep-seated emotional pain melting away. It’s as if the gentle waters of the bay are flowing through me and cleansing old wounds. Believe me, I still have a ton of them. I’ve been denying the innermost layers of my emotional stuff for so many years that this process is going to take a lot more time. Still, I feel a deep level of healing from the hurts I am able to release, and I know I’ve found just the teacher I need.

As we conclude our session, Rene brings me back into my body and breath. She has me lie on my side, curled up like a fetus for a few minutes, then gently press myself up to seated. Once she unwraps the cloth covering my head, I open my eyes. It’s like seeing the world for the very first time. Everything is alive with a visible vibration of energy. I can see it clearly in the palm trees flanking the bay and the lush floral gardens of the hotel, in the large pelican sitting on the railing of the dock a few feet from me, and permeating the clear, blue sky. It’s Prana, the life force of all things that Yoga speaks of so clearly, including the life force within me. It’s been there all along, within me and around me, but I’ve never been present enough to experience it.

I gaze at Rene and see her radiating with the same energy. There’s no need for words. It’s a profound, silent understanding. I bring my palms together at my heart and whisper, Namaste.

CHAPTER 36

The Studio

MY GIRLFRIENDS JUST told me the first Yoga studio in town has opened up near the beach!” Pamela shares this with me enthusiastically one June evening, knowing it will be the biggest news I’ve heard in years. Even though there is distance between us, she still always seeks to be supportive and upbeat. It’s always been one the greatest things about her.

“Where? Is there a phone number? Website? Address?” Hurrying over to my computer, I’m filled with questions and want to check it out immediately. I can’t find a website or phone listing, but after calling Pamela’s friends, I finally get the location. The studio is on the subterranean level of a two-story restaurant and shopping complex near the Hotel Del, just three blocks from our home.

Along with private sessions with Rene, I’ve attended the Yoga classes at the Marriott spa regularly, but they are very basic and the noise of the televisions and exercise machines in the room next door are disruptive and unsettling. I still don’t feel ready to drive over the bridge to San Diego looking for a studio, so this is a godsend.

The following morning, I’m at the new studio a half-hour early for the first Yoga class of the day. No one has arrived yet to open the door and I’m the only person in the underground hallway. It’s a long, dark, and drab tunnel, but I feel like a child at Disneyland. Peering through the studio windows, I see a small space, only about five hundred square feet, with glossy wood floors and mirrored walls on two opposing sides. This makes it seem more expansive, like the effect of the mirrors in my Himalayan cave. The far wall of the studio has two narrow windows at the top that allow some sunlight in from the ground level. It’s the first Yoga studio I’ve ever seen and I find it beyond beautiful.

“Good morning. You’re here so early!” I hear this welcoming voice from behind me as I continue to survey the studio. “Hi, I’m Linda. My husband, Jean-Pierre, and I are the owners of the studio. I see you have a Yoga mat. There are blankets and straps in a small closet inside if you need them.”

Linda is short and fit, with abundant, curly black hair flowing almost to her waist. She radiates health, which doesn’t surprise me because every Yoga teacher I’ve met seems to be this way. Despite her American name, she looks exotic, perhaps Middle Eastern in heritage. Her vibrant smile is welcoming. Her voice is deep and embracing. She unlocks the door and wheels a lectern into the hallway, then has me pay the class fee. A few other students begin to arrive, all women and, like Linda, in much better shape than I. Hoping to hide, I roll my mat out in the back of the room—but with mirrors on the front and back walls, it’s impossible to be invisible.

We’re seated cross-legged on our mats as class begins. Linda puts on gentle Yoga music and takes her seat facing us. Her strong presence quiets the chatter and brings everyone into stillness and silence. As I close my eyes, it feels like a blanket of peace is descending on the room, just like I experience during sunrise on the bay or when I practice in my cave.

“Good morning. I’m Linda. Thank you for being here. Please take a few deep breaths. Let yourself feel peaceful and grounded, getting ready for our practice this morning.” Linda exudes loving kindness yet has amazing command of the room. After a few gentle, seated poses to limber up, she has us stand at the front of our mats and begins taking us through a series of energetic and challenging Yoga poses. All the Yoga poses I’ve done so far have been restorative. They are performed down on the mat, lying on my stomach or back, or up on my hands and knees. I’ve seen these standing poses in my books, but feared they were too much for me. I’m about to learn how right I was.

In a pose called Warrior, we stand in a lunge with our front legs bent deeply at the knee and our back legs straight on the mat behind us, lifting our torsos and reaching our arms high into the air. It’s much harder than the lunge I’ve been doing with my back knee down on the mat. Everyone else in the room has a wide stance and deep lunge. My legs are less than three feet apart and my lunge is minimal. By the second breath, the thigh of my front leg is on fire and I’m having trouble keeping my balance. After a few more breaths, I realize I just can’t do this and I’m silently begging Linda to let me out of the posture. I barely make it when we switch sides and place the other foot forward.

In the Triangle Pose, we take a wide stance with both legs straight and extended laterally, bringing one arm down toward our forward ankle while extending our other arm up into the air, forming a triangle. I can’t reach anywhere near my ankle and have to hold my knee. Both my hamstrings begin to burn like hot lava. I feel awkward and unstable. After three breaths, I lose my balance and fall down. A few students glance at me, but most seem not to notice as they continue to hold their triangle with perfection.

“Just listen to your body, don’t push it. Wherever you are in your practice is just where you’re meant to be.” Everyone else is relaxed and at ease in Triangle Pose. It’s clear Linda’s words of comfort are for me as she brings a Yoga block and places it on my mat by my front ankle, instructing me to hold it with one hand so I don’t fall again. It’s the same type of dense, rubbery blue block shaped in a rectangle that Savita used at the Pain Center to help me stabilize my body in certain poses. Here, in front of the other students, it feels like a crutch and a blush of embarrassment floods across my face. Worse, I still can’t handle the pose.

All the other standing poses are equally challenging, and it gets even tougher for me when we balance on our right legs, lifting our left knees up toward our chest. I tremble, wobble side to side, and completely lose it. It’s even harder to balance on my left leg, which has always been my nemesis because it’s the leg that was damaged when I had polio as a three-year-old child, and it was the left pedicle bone of my lumbar vertebra that broke when I fell off the ledge during the storm in the Bahamas in 1986. Of course, everyone else in class is holding this Balance Pose with ease. Because they’re all female, it’s fabulous medicine for my male ego. I wonder if I’m not in so far over my head that I shouldn’t just roll up my mat and sneak out the door. Get up, Daddy. I start the mantra and vow to stay with the class no matter what. I’m in all the way. Of course, this is when it gets tougher still.

We begin Sun Salutations, which are a series of powerful poses harmonized with the breath and woven together in a flowing sequence. We begin by standing at the front of our mats, inhaling our arms high into the air, then exhaling and folding forward at the hips, reaching down toward our toes. We inhale and step one leg back into an extended lunge, exhale and step the other leg back as well, planting our palms on our mats while lifting our hips high into the air in what is called “Downward Facing Dog.” On the inhale, we bring our hips down to the mat, press into our palms and lift our upper torsos, creating a deep backbend called “Upward Facing Dog.” On the exhale we push back to Downward Dog again. Then we step one leg forward back into the lunge, followed by bringing the other leg forward into a standing forward fold again. We end by inhaling and lifting our torsos up, reaching for the sky, exhaling, and bringing our palms to our heart centers.

At least that is how it’s supposed to go. I’m not anywhere near flexible or strong enough to perform the Sun Salutation sequence properly. Downward Dog is impossible. So is Upward Dog. Halfway through the first round, my arms and legs are like limp noodles, my Yoga mat is an ocean of sweat, and I can’t keep pace. By the end of the second round, I give up and lie down on my mat, almost hyperventilating, while the rest of the class completes a third and final round. I stay down while Linda leads the class through a few more standing poses. As she continues to instruct everyone, she somehow finds time to come over and guide me into Child’s Pose, seated on my knees with my head bowing toward the floor and my buttocks down toward my heels.

“Don’t worry about not being able to do everything,” she whispers as she gently presses her palms into my aching lower back muscles. “You’re doing great.” Linda compassionately provides the affirmation I need at precisely the right moment. I thought I was progressing so rapidly in my cave, and now I realize how far there is to go. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so I just breathe as deeply as I can and remind myself again, I’m all in.

The last portion of the class involves restorative poses. I’m back in my comfort zone and begin to feel more confident about being here. Then comes Savasana. This time I really do feel like a corpse as I lie on my back and almost melt into oblivion. Before I know it, I’m asleep. A few minutes later, as everyone else comes up to a seated posture for the end of class, the student next to me gives me a nudge and smiles as I groan my way slowly back up. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been snoring like a drunken sailor.

Despite the challenges of this more rigorous practice, I’ve added daily classes at the Yoga studio to my Sadhana. I attend every class, which is two to three times a day. They are almost always taught by Linda. The only other teacher is her husband, Jean-Pierre. He’s on the road most of the time, serving as a personal trainer for a wealthy client who travels worldwide. Short and stocky, with a background in martial arts, psychology, and physical fitness, Jean-Pierre is impish, lovable, and charismatic, his dark-brown eyes always gleaming. When he is in town, Jean-Pierre becomes the star of the show, making special appearances at the studio to lead our practice. Like Linda, he’s masterful at commanding class and guides us with great precision through even more challenging poses.

“Pooooiiiiint your toes! You are beeeuuuuutifuuul!” Jean-Pierre is also poetic and theatrical with his thick French accent. He has a knack for making every student feel that they’re the most special person in the world while pushing them right up to and then beyond their limits. “Reeeaaacccchhhh to the sky!” he says, almost singing this as he stands behind me with his hands firmly on my upper arms and all but lifts me off the ground. By the time class is over, all I want is a hot bath and a nap.

Even though this is purely physical Yoga, or more correctly, Asana practice, Linda and Jean-Pierre are the perfect complement to my work with Rene and my own studies and practices. I never would have attempted such rigorous poses without their guidance and encouragement; as a result, my strength and flexibility soon start soaring. It feels so exhilarating that I beg Pamela to go to class with me, thinking she will have the same experience and get interested in Yoga. It could be a shared interest, something that might help her understand me more and at the same time bring us closer together. When she agrees, I’m beside myself with joy as we find a sitter for Morgan and head to class.

As we practice side by side, I have visions of Pamela coming into my cave and doing Yoga with me in the early morning hours, joining me at the bay for sunrise and walking Morgan in his stroller afterward along the waterfront, and then ending the day doing Yoga with me on the beach at sunset. But it doesn’t work out this way. Pamela tries two or three classes on her own while I’m with Morgan and decides it’s not for her. I find myself feeling hurt and angry, and then have to catch myself, breathe deeply, and do my best to let it go. I’m taking charge of my life, I remind myself, but I’m not in charge of her life.

Because I’m at the studio several times every day, I become friends with Linda and Jean-Pierre and eventually share my story with them. They’re understanding, supportive, and inspiring, telling me about the many students they’ve seen make great strides in their lives. I feel some special synchronicity must have brought them into my life right when I needed them, just like Rene and Savita. One morning after class, Linda calls me aside and exclaims, “Over the past two-and-a-half months you haven’t missed a day. You’ve been at almost two hundred classes! I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years of teaching. I think one day you will be a great Yoga teacher!”

It reminds me of when I left the Pain Center and my Jin Shin Jyutsu teacher, Dawn, said one day I would help others heal. I thought she must be crazy, and now I think Linda must be crazy, too.

Thanks to the psychology of Yoga I’ve been applying to my life, my emotional state has continued to move from being dominated by depression, self-pity, anger, and resentment to optimism, gratitude, and humility. I have a deeply established faith now in my capacity to take charge of my life and effect true and lasting personal transformation. Yet I’m only halfway up the mountain. I’ve survived a little bit beyond the two years my cancer doctors predicted, but I still have periodic bleeding in my throat. My neck glands sometimes feel tender and swollen. Occasionally, it feels like the old malaise that signaled the arrival of cancer shortly after Morgan’s birth is trying to make a comeback.

I’m gripped by a silent fear every time any of these symptoms arise. It always shakes me to the core and tests my faith. I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my healing journey or if I’ll succumb to terminal disease. Can Yoga really help me heal from this? This is my contemplation this morning during my practice on the bay as the sun lifts fully into the sky. What can I do to face this challenge head on?

I close my eyes and listen for my inner voice, that deeper wisdom that has guided me throughout the year. Nothing. I silently chant “OM” with the rise and fall of my breath, being patient, staying focused, giving it time. Ten minutes becomes twenty, and then thirty. Finally, I begin to get a message.

You’ve been in avoidance of the cancer rather than acceptance, in fear rather than faith. Healing this must now be your utmost priority. You must embrace and thank the cancer, just as you have your back pain. Take your practice to a deeper level. Purify yourself in every way possible. Take it all the way.

I place my hands together at my heart and bow my head down toward my fingertips, thanking my Soul for providing this guidance.

CHAPTER 37

Organic Chemotherapy

IT’S THE END OF JUNE 2001. I continue to practice every morning in my cave, bike to the bay for sunrise, attend classes at the Yoga studio, and make it to the beach for sunset. My weight is down to 165 pounds, ten pounds lighter than I was as a senior in high school. Downward and Upward Dog, Sun Salutations, and Warrior Poses are now a breeze. So is Triangle Pose, balancing on one leg, and all the other rigorous postures Linda teaches at the studio. I can touch my toes effortlessly in forward folds, do a full backbend, and almost the full splits. I’m even starting to master headstands on my own in my cave.

But I’m a year and a half into my healing journey now, and still feel that I have to purify myself further. This morning, I get on the Google search engine and type in Yoga and purification. The first hit looks like the perfect answer. It’s a retreat at a Yoga center in the mountains outside of Santa Cruz in northern California, and it starts tomorrow. It’s being held by the center’s spiritual leader, who comes from India and is known as a master of Yoga. He only does this once a year. I call immediately. There’s space available. I’m in!

Thanks to Yoga, driving my car is no longer a challenge, but this is an all-day trip and I’m feeling sore when I arrive. After a few standing stretches in the parking lot, the tenderness in my back melts away and I’m flushed with joy. Sitting high on 355 partially wooded acres overlooking Monterey Bay, the retreat center is like Heaven on Earth. It’s a massive complex, with residential units for guests and small, woodsy homes for the community of dozens of live-in students who run the center. As I’m registering and then being shown to my room, I realize once again how vibrant and healthy everyone looks, just like Savita, Rene, and Linda, and all the other devoted Yogis I’ve met thus far.

Dinner is being served before the evening program that commences the retreat. When I enter the dining hall I’m astounded. There must be at least three hundred people here for this. Maybe more. They’re all calm and quiet, yet warm and friendly. I immediately feel at home, like finding a family I never knew I had. The food is vegetarian, of course, but I notice most of the dishes also have signs that say “vegan.” I ask the person next to me what that means and they explain that veganism is the purest form of vegetarianism: no dairy, no eggs, no fish, no animal products whatsoever. I decide to experiment and eat only the vegan items. Because I fasted all day before arriving, I heap my plate with a colorful assortment of salad, vegetables, beans, and grains. My meal is beyond delicious.

I read early on in my healing journey that the three greatest killers in the first world—heart disease, cancer, and stroke—are all linked to the Western diet, which is predominantly based on meat and dairy products along with processed and junk foods. Weighing in at a bloated 225 pounds, I was a great example of what the Western diet can do. Although my current vegetarian diet has largely consisted of organic vegetables, fruits, legumes, grains, and nuts, it hasn’t been vegan. I’ve regularly included four foods I still love: wild-caught fish, free-range eggs, organic milk, and cheese. After dinner, one of the retreat assistants tells me new research has shown that the protein in dairy and meat products, including milk, cheese, and fish, tends to nourish cancer tumors, while vegetable protein tends to shrink them. That’s all I need to hear. No more fish or eggs, no more milk or cheese. I’m going vegan from here on out.

In the days that follow at the retreat, we practice hours of Yoga poses and meditation, but the purifications are what captivate me. These include rigorous breath techniques that are far more advanced than any I’ve ever done. We also pour medical water through one nostril and out the other to cleanse the sinuses, perform self-induced vomiting to cleanse our digestive tracts, and take medicated enemas to cleanse our intestinal tracts. It’s incredibly intense, and I have to overcome tremendous resistance to trying each practice. Of course, the old me would have dismissed all of this as completely absurd. Even now, my ego screams so loudly that I have to repeatedly remind myself: I’m in all the way.

The nasal cleansing repulses me at first, and it’s tricky to perform. I have to pour water in one nostril and let it flow out the other. The moment I tilt my head and start to pour the water in, my eyes flood with tears. I inadvertently breathe in through my nose instead of my mouth, get water in my windpipe, and choke and cough like crazy. I’m not alone. Most others in the group are also struggling. After a while, though, I get the hang of it, and when it’s over I feel renewed and refreshed. It makes me think of the assault Dr. Chasan used to perform with the nose-cam before my radiation sessions to look at my throat, only now it’s my choice!

The self-induced vomiting requires drinking several large glasses of warm, salted water, which soon triggers regurgitation. I do this back in my room, of course, not with the group. The idea of throwing up has always given me a sense of fear and revulsion. I have to force myself to gulp down the final glass of water. Then I feel nauseous as bitter acid rises up from my stomach. It tastes horrible, and at first I hate every moment of it, but by the end of the process my entire digestive system is tingling and I feel inner sweetness and space.

The enema is just as daunting. Another extreme violation. But again, once I’ve completed the process, I feel light and clean.

By the third day of the retreat, I find out that the purifications I’ve been doing are from a thick and detailed Yoga text called the Hatha Yoga Pradipika, written back in the 1400s. I buy a copy at the retreat center bookstore and begin to devour it. Hatha refers to the physical aspects of Yoga practice, and Pradipika means illumination, like shining light on these ancient teachings. Along with Yoga poses, and the practices I’ve already done, the book includes numerous scientific techniques designed to detoxify the body at its deepest levels, including prolonged fasting. I read through half of the Pradipika’s 600 pages before the retreat ends and, even though it’s radically beyond anything I’ve ever considered, I’m convinced that it’s just what I need.

Yes, these are far from mainstream aspects of Yoga. They’re incredibly extreme. So is cancer. This is my only shot, so I’m going all the way. There’s no turning back. No picking and choosing what seems easiest. I’m committed to the whole deal. This is it…Get up, Daddy!

By the time the retreat ends, I have my plan. I’ll stay vegan, fast as often as I can, take off at least another twenty pounds, and cleanse myself down to the cellular level, trying all the techniques in the Pradipika that I can handle. Then I’ll thank the cancer for what it has taught me, embrace it as a catalyst for personal growth and transformation, and ultimately invite it to leave. As I drive down the California coast for home, I decide to call this plan my “organic chemotherapy.”

I thought it would be a great struggle, but after a few weeks, veganism isn’t as daunting as I feared, especially because I’ve turned the entire process of creating a meal into a meditative ritual. I thank Mother Nature as I choose each vegetable or piece of fruit at the store. Slicing into a banana or a zucchini is an incredible wonder. I notice the color, the texture, the aroma, the seeds filled with intelligence and potential. Once the meal is ready, I say a silent prayer of gratitude to the earth, water, and sun that have joined forces to produce this miracle of nourishment. I contemplate the fact that this food will soon become me, that we are merging as one. I deliberately take smaller portions, eat more slowly, and savor every bite as delicious, healing medicine, being as fully present to the experience as possible.

I periodically fast for a few days at a time, and always fast one day per week. Before this, the only time I ever went more than a day without food was in the mountains of northern Iraq. It wasn’t by choice. I just couldn’t catch the chicken. Now, fasting is a central part of my plan. Every Monday morning I have a breakfast of fruit and grain, then make Morgan his favorite organic pancakes with maple syrup. I skip lunch and dinner, drinking only warm water with lemon. The following morning, I have no breakfast, then break my fast at lunch with a light, organic, vegan meal of steamed vegetables, rice, and some salad. This gives me a twenty-four hour period without food but still provides some nourishment each day. The first few times I do this I think I’m going to die of hunger as images of steaks, pork chops, and salmon smothered in raspberry sauce float through my brain, taunting me.

Within a few weeks, however, my weight is plummeting like never before and I feel radiantly healthy. Still, hunger pangs arise almost daily. When I contemplate the hunger, however, I realize it’s mostly a result of habit. I’m not really as hungry as I feel. All I need to do is slowly sip herbal tea or lemon water while visualizing that it’s providing everything my growling stomach needs. It works most of the time, and soon I’m past the cravings for meat or fish—but I have to admit that instead, I now have periodic visions of heaping portions of brown rice smothered in stir-fried vegetables and a plate piled with fresh, ripe fruit that dance through my mind when I haven’t had food for a prolonged period of time.

I rinse my sinuses with the water every morning. Once a week, I shorten my nighttime practice and head upstairs to the bathroom for the more radical procedures of regurgitation and enema. These practices still repulse me and I have to summon all my mantras, remind myself of my commitment, and compel myself to do it. I never get used to it, but I realize how purifying it is, especially on one occasion when I fast for four days and am amazed on the final night when I do an enema and continue to release waste materials even with no food in my stomach.

There’s more. A practice I haven’t mentioned. The Pradipika also maintains that drinking one’s own urine can effect great healing. Oh, ancient sages, how could you do this to me? I’ve totally bought into this science on every level, and now you want me to do this? The Pradipika says it has profound effects, especially on cancer, but I can’t imagine anyone remotely considering such a repugnant idea.

I think about it for weeks on end. Go for it, I tell myself every morning. You must be kidding me, another inner voice chimes in. This is as gross as it gets. Finally, I get the courage. I’m all in. I get a glass, go into the bathroom, and fill it half way. I hold it in front of me. I’m totally disgusted. A deep breath now. I begin to bring the glass to my lips. Then I freeze. There’s no way. I’m all in—except for this. Even a fanatic has his limits. I just found mine.

The Pradipika also confirms what all my Yoga texts agree on—purifying the mind is as important as purifying the body. With all the noise of society—busy highways, bustling cities, mass media, and television sets blaring everywhere—our minds can’t help but be highly agitated and polluted. I now avoid all this as much as humanly possible, especially the television. Whenever I walk into a room where one is on, it feels abrasive, unnatural, and unhealthy, almost like an assault. It’s now hard to believe that I was a reporter on television for more than two decades.

Along with avoiding sensory overload, I speak less and spend more time in silence communing with nature. I choose my words more carefully with Morgan and invite him to explore the silence with me. Tonight, as I’m readying him for bed, he jumps into my arms and says, “Daddy, carry me downstairs. Let’s go sit on the front porch and listen to the dark.” It inspires me that he would come up with such a beautiful concept. I bundle a blanket around him and we tiptoe down, slip outside, and sit on the front stoop.

Without speaking a word, we cuddle together and “listen to the dark,” feeling the gentle breeze on our faces while gazing at a sky splashed with stars. The silence is like a symphony. Our closeness is beyond words. When I sense Morgan is drifting off, I carry him to bed and slip back into my cave. This is when my emotions feel most at ease, my mind stills more quickly than usual, and my evening practice becomes even more sacred.

Avoiding media and overstimulation, eating vegan and organic, fasting, performing daily purifications, and practicing advanced Pranayama are cleansing both my body and mind. It’s easier now to slip into a state of meditation and be fully in the present moment. I feel a sense of calmness and inner balance that are deeper and richer than anything I’ve ever experienced. I sense an inner harmony in my organs and tissues—even my bones—that seems to whisper to me that a great healing is taking place. This is it.

In the “Himalayan Cave.”

CHAPTER 38

Sacred Science

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your Soul and Spirit fly…

I WAS MESMERIZED by Van Morrison’s song “Into the Mystic” when I first heard it back in the 1970s. Now, all these years later, I feel something deeply mystical during my practice. It’s beyond words, inaccessible to the intellect I’ve always relied upon to define my vision of life, and yet palpable—like something in the atmosphere that can almost be touched yet remains ethereal and elusive. It’s the same sense of approaching life as a sacred, metaphysical journey that permeates the ancient texts of Yoga and offers a vision of inner exploration and transformation.

The original manuscripts are called the Vedas, which are estimated to be as much as nine thousand years old. The Sanskrit word Veda means knowledge, and it’s said the Vedas were divined by sages who spent much of their lives meditating in caves in the Himalayas and ultimately accessed this knowledge deep within themselves. The Vedas speak of the mystical powers of nature, cultivating harmony between the mind and heart, the importance of being simple and humble. The teachings are organic and holistic in that they weave all aspects of a conscious life into a tapestry of balance and harmony. The wisdom is deeply embedded in metaphor, imagery, and symbolism, and it stirs my Soul.

A subsequent great text of Yoga, the Bhagavad-Gita (often shortened to Gita), is much easier for me to grasp than the Vedas. Some two thousand years old, the Gita is one of the most widely read spiritual texts in human history. It’s set on the eve of a great battle as the hero, named Arjuna, takes his chariot to the center of the battlefield to view his enemies. Gazing out at the cousins, uncles, friends, and acquaintances in the army he must face in the morning, Arjuna despairs, telling his chariot driver, Krishna, that he cannot slay those he holds so dear. Krishna, who is presented as an avatar of the Divine, admonishes Arjuna, telling him that he must stand in Yoga and be a warrior. This conversation forms the Gita.

Although it’s filled with wisdom and speaks deftly on the pitfalls of greed, self-indulgence, anger, fear, attachment, and ego, I’m taken aback by the imagery of the battlefield and human conflict. I thought Yoga was about inner peace, stillness, and silence, not the slinging of arrows and slaying of soldiers! After several readings, however, my understanding deepens. The Gita is an allegory for the ethical and moral struggles of all human life. Each of us is Arjuna, on the battlefield of our own lives, struggling with our inner dilemmas, facing our dark sides, and seeking to be the best person that we can be.

Each of us is also Krishna, who to me represents our higher Self. Therefore, the Bhagavad-Gita is ultimately a story of finding one’s own power and living one’s truth through the spiritual science of Yoga, which ultimately means unifying ourselves with our higher power. Arjuna’s battle is a metaphorical one of transcending the ego, slaying self-centeredness, anger, and greed while learning to live in greater integrity. I know this struggle well, and each morning in my practice I strive to release my baser emotions and come to a place of inner peace and deeper truth. When I think about it, the irony is inescapable: I’ve gone from being a war correspondent covering external conflicts to standing on the battlefield of my own life. I now have to be a warrior in the quest to reclaim my Soul. This, too, is a central part of my organic chemotherapy: seeking to heal myself on all levels of body, mind, and Soul.

These ancient teachings are a completely new way of viewing life for me, but also connect me to one of my first childhood heroes, Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi stood strong in his truth, was completely peaceful in the nonviolent resistance he organized against the British, called Satyagraha, which means “Persistent Truth,” and ultimately prevailed against seemingly insurmountable odds. In doing so, he not only liberated India from colonialism, he inspired the world. I remember the first book I read about Gandhi when I was in eighth grade. His life impressed me deeply, but what astonished me the most was a photo toward the end of the book that showed Gandhi’s possessions at the time of his death. He was the father of modern India, but he owned less than ten things. They included a bowl, his sandals, reading glasses, and a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita.

While the Vedas and the Gita have motivated and inspired me, my favorite text has become the Yoga Sutras. Written more than fifteen hundred years ago, the Sutras take a more scientific approach, codifying Vedic wisdom into 196 terse statements called aphorisms. For me, these teachings articulate the spiritual science of how to be a human being. Although many of the Sutras can be daunting to comprehend, the more I read and reread them, the more their wisdom speaks to me. But vastly more important than reading and understanding the Sutras is doing my best to apply their wisdom directly to my life, again as a central aspect of self-purification and healing.

One Sutra invites me to cultivate positive emotions to replace negative ones, much like Dr. Miller’s Deep Healing techniques. I’ve developed my own way to practice this during my morning Yoga: I visualize that I’m breathing in compassion, gratitude, acceptance, forgiveness, and peace, and then exhaling any negative emotions that might still be lingering in my psyche. When I have a specific emotion arise, such as fear, I visualize that I am drinking in a golden, liquid nectar of courage into my heart center on the inhale, and then allowing that nectar to flood my physical and emotional bodies on the exhale. I can actually feel the shift as I become more confident, empowered, and courageous.

There is also an insightful psychology in the Sutras that explains to me how I create my own emotional suffering by forgetting the oneness of all and becoming absorbed in my ego. Looking back in my life, I see that every time I’ve been depressed, distraught, angry, frustrated, or fearful, it fits into this concept. I was self-centered, caught up in my ego, clinging to my desires, and worried about things not going my way. Then I reacted, often with exaggerated emotion. I remember how dark I became when a failed back surgery ended the career I loved so much. I was a master of reacting with anger and outrage when I was drinking, drugged, and depressed. I could take umbrage at the slightest comment and go into deep aversion. This never resolved anything; it just caused me to stress out further and usually led to my speaking and acting out in ways that hurt everyone around me.

The Sutras teach me to remember that I am part of something much greater than my individual self. This gives me more humility, compassion, and understanding. It also helps me to remember that I don’t control reality, and that when challenges arise I can be calm, accept what is, and then act skillfully rather than reacting. It’s a real challenge to turn my thinking around this way, but I see the wisdom in it, and each time I’m able to be calmer and more accepting when someone says or does something that would have set me off before, things really do work out better. I remind myself that it’s far easier to see fault in others than in myself, and it’s spiritual practice to own up, take responsibility, and look at myself straight in the eyes. As Gandhi said, “Be the change you seek in the world.” When I’m able do this, the issue dissolves as time passes, I feel like I’ve made some progress toward becoming a better human being, and another level of inner healing takes place.

A centerpiece of the Yoga Sutras is called the Eight Limbs. These limbs offer me a formula for how to be a human being that is both scientific and spiritual. The first limb provides guidelines for cultivating a right relationship with the external world by practicing nonviolence, truthfulness, and honesty while avoiding self-indulgence and possessiveness. This is a huge shift for me. In morning meditations on these precepts, I recall how many times my words to others have been hurtful, how I haven’t always been honest, and how I’ve often hidden my motives from others. I contemplate how deeply I overindulged myself to mask my physical and emotional pain, and how I always avoided facing who I had become.

The second limb focuses on establishing a right relationship with the internal world—with myself—by seeking physical and emotional purity, contentment, and self-discipline. It also promotes the value of self-inquiry, spiritual studies, and, most importantly, the constant cultivation of an awareness of the Divine within myself, within all living beings, and within all aspects of the world. Again, it’s a huge shift, but I already realize that discipline and self-purification have been essential for sustaining my healing journey, and that contemplating my sense of higher power is the essence of spirituality.

Every morning in my cave, I ponder these teachings and set my intention to weave these new principles into my life as best as I am able. I realize that I’m nowhere near perfect. It would take me lifetimes to fully live these moral precepts, but as the Sutras also teach me, I vow to practice with devotion every day while not worrying about the outcome. In effect, just as my Yoga poses are rearranging and healing me physically, applying these precepts from the Sutras is remaking me emotionally and spiritually. And although I understand that variations on many of these precepts can be found in all major religions, this feels like something arising from deep within me rather than something demanded from an external source.

The third limb is Asana, the Yoga poses that most Westerners often take to be the whole practice of Yoga. Interestingly, the word Asana is only mentioned three times in the Sutras, and in each instance it means sitting in a cross-legged posture for meditation. All the hundreds of other Yoga poses that have developed throughout the ages are really designed to purify, balance, and strengthen us while giving us the flexibility to be able to sit comfortably for prolonged periods of time, still our minds, and go within to make contact with our Souls. I’m a long way from that right now, and I need the poses to keep me on a journey away from pain and back to a place of physical wholeness. Maybe the day will come when I can sit still for hours and feel perfectly at peace. Maybe.

The fourth limb is the breath work of Pranayama, whose magic I’ve been experiencing since first being taught to breathe more deeply at the Pain Center. Pranayama means much more than deep breathing. It’s the practice of expanding my energy—my life force—through deep and controlled breathing. Every breath I take these days feels like a miracle of life and reminds me that I have the capacity to make profound physiologic and emotional changes without having to rely on medications.

The fifth limb, Pratyahara, means withdrawing the senses from the cacophony of life and going within, which is what I have instinctively done by spending so much time in my cave. This guides me right into the next limb, Dharana, which is the practice of single-pointed concentration, like when I gaze at a candle flame and keep my entire awareness focused there. This leads to the seventh limb, Dhyana, or meditation, with which I always end my practice, seeking to concentrate deeply and merge with the focus of my meditation. The eighth and final limb is Samadhi, or merging with the Divine. This is not something that can be practiced; it just arises more and more as a result of the overall spiritual practice. It’s in Samadhi that we realize who we truly are, learn to accept life with equanimity, dwell in the present moment, and live in a state of Yoga.

I often feel what I call a beginner’s state of Samadhi during my practice. Then it slips away as I get on with my day, which I figure is pretty normal. I’m human and will never be a sage or saint, and as Yoga teaches me, it’s all about the journey, not the destination.

Covering conflict, war, and turmoil around the world taught me a great deal about the darker side of humanity. It also taught me something about human potential, although it took me years to realize it. Mahmoud, the Afghan boy who was burned over much of his body by napalm, managed to walk out of the vast Himalayas and make his way to a refugee hospital, surviving against the greatest odds. Little Adelin and Junaz, living in Manila’s Smokey Mountain dump, clung to life in the most horrid conditions, surrounded by danger and disease. Even Alejandro, forced into addiction, child slavery, and prostitution in Cochabamba, Bolivia, found the strength to scratch a hole in a dry riverbed and call it home, living longer than ever could be expected.

As a journalist, I witnessed everyday citizens—men and women from all walks of life, all ages, ethnicities, political, and spiritual beliefs—face chaos, pain, suffering, and loss. There were some who rose above the maelstrom and performed heroic feats and others who cringed and fled. Either way, what people believed about themselves and their capacity to face a great crisis was turned upside down. All were compelled to completely rearrange their priorities and view the world through a new lens. What was once paramount suddenly seemed petty. What was taken for granted revealed itself as sacred.

I’ve learned that humility and softness are far more powerful than the sharp edges of bravado and hubris of my earlier years. That accepting what is takes more courage than forcing what I think should be. That judgments, opinions, and the need to be right can be great hindrances. That it’s always better to give rather than to receive. Affirm rather than criticize. Serve rather than be served. I’ve also learned to be grateful for the smallest, most ordinary things. The morning light. A sip of water. A breath of fresh air. The privilege of being alive.

Yoga has taught me that a fundamental principle of life is that energy follows intention. When we create a strong intention and really believe in it, the world magically seeks to support us. People who think positively and have faith in something are vastly more likely to manifest it than those who feel doubtful and negative. It still takes great devotion and hard work, but it always starts with the mind. One of the great ancient texts of Yoga puts it well: “Your thoughts determine your actions. Your actions create your habits. Your habits form your character. Your character determines your destiny.”

CHAPTER 39

A Demon Departs

OH MY, you look like someone from a concentration camp!” Pamela’s mother, Kathy, means no harm by these words. It’s fall of 2001, five months since I became vegan and started the radical purifications. My weight is down to 140 pounds. This is twenty-five pounds lower than when I began my organic chemotherapy, and eighty-five pounds lower than when I was at my largest while disabled.

“It’s okay, Mama Two,” I say, using my nickname for my mother-in-law. “I feel better than I ever have in my life.” I give her a hug and sneak off into my cave to look at myself in the mirror. She’s right. I’m extremely gaunt, my bones are sticking out everywhere, and it looks like I’m starving myself to death. Mama Two is just the messenger I need to let me know I’ve done more than enough fasting. This phase of organic chemotherapy is over. It’s time to rebuild my body. Eat larger meals, still pure, vegan, and organic. I love it. Gorging myself on avocados, coconuts, and bananas. Quinoa bowls overflowing with broccoli, squash, carrots, and yams. Desserts of figs, dates, pears, and pecans!

My bayside healing teacher, Rene, left the country this summer to sail the Pacific in a small sloop with her husband. For the past few months, I’ve been doing a weekly ritual that she inspired on the same dock in San Diego Bay where we used to meet for our private Yoga sessions. After some gentle postures this morning, I wrap a soft cloth around my eyes and ears and lie down on a few thick Yoga blankets. I take myself into a deep meditative state and begin organic chemotherapy on my emotions. With every inhale I send golden healing light to my emotional body and deepen my sense of empowerment. On every exhale I continue to release remaining old wounds, resentments, angers, and fears. They’re generalized feelings at first, but in time they become very specific. Things I was in denial about, or were masked for years by drugs, begin to take form. They well up within me, and then I release them.

I let go of feeling alienated by my parents as a child, the first girl who broke my heart, being fired once by a news director who I felt was more beholden to corporate concerns than investigative journalism. As I continue this practice every day, bigger stuff bubbles up. I let go of resentments I’ve held from the intervention staged by my family, my years of overreacting and brooding, and finally the agony of hitting the bottom of the abyss during detox. It gets more challenging as I fully face, fully own, and finally release the dark person I was during my years of being crippled, overmedicated, and boozed up. No more justifications, excuses, or avoidance. No more self-pity or rationalization. It’s remarkably humbling as I finally face it all.

On Day Four the biggest one comes. I’ve never fully faced the loss of my career as a global journalist. This is the one I’ve stuffed the deepest and always pretended wasn’t there. Journalism was my truest joy, my full identity, the way I defined and validated myself. It gave me such a sense of worth that when I lost it I could no longer find value in anything, especially myself. As I start to crack the inner blockage on this one, a river of fear floods through me. It takes everything I have to find the courage to look it straight in the eyes. I loved being that person. I loved that career. It’s over now. I will never be that again. It’s over and gone. I begin to sob. And then the dam breaks wide open and my tears begin to flow. I grieve, whimper, wail, and mourn until I’m exhausted. This is when the sun bursts forth from behind the mountains and bathes me in its light. Suddenly it hits me: I have a new identity. I am someone again. I am fully alive.

It’s Day Five now. I feel like I’ve actually closed all the deep wounds, faced what I needed to face, owned what I needed to own. As I lie on the dock before sunrise, I begin talking to the cancer, offering it my gratitude for all it has taught me about what’s really important in life. I visualize it as a demon that has inhabited me and soon must depart. Again, the jaded journalist I was for decades would laugh at such imagery, likening it to the silly tales I tell Morgan on the story bench where the monster releases the little children after being showered with love. I’m no longer that cynical person, and cancer really does seem like a demon. More importantly, I now realize there’s a great deal of power in this sort of personification. It allows me to move beyond the rational mind into a deeper subconscious realm of healing.

Day Eight. I’ve been practicing releasing cancer every morning on the bay for three days. Today the air is cold and the sky is overcast, streaked with lines of silver and gray. The waters of the bay are smooth as glass, holding the reflection of the San Diego skyline like a painting. I take my Yoga blankets to the Marriott dock and settle in. The stillness is palpable. Even the pelicans and seagulls seem quieter than usual. A lone sailboat softly glides toward the harbor in slow motion. I wrap a cloth around my ears and eyes, lie down on my blankets, and soon go deeper than ever before.

I feel completely in touch with every aspect of my body, mind, and Soul. You can leave now, I begin to tell the cancer demon. It’s time for you to go. Every inhale carries You can leave, every exhale It’s time for you to go. I feel completely present, radiantly healthy, and connected to a vibrant inner power. You can leave. It’s time for you to go.

After an hour of this mantra, my body begins to ache. Despite the chilly morning air, I start to sweat profusely. I feel tremors in my nerves. My arms and legs start quivering. Another thirty minutes and pain grips my whole body. Now it’s concentrating in my chest, shoulders, and throat. I’m losing control of my motor functions. Heavy convulsions now. Memories of the detox ward screaming through my mind. Suddenly, I have a vision of something flying out of my chest at warp speed and disappearing into the universe. In my mind’s eye, it flashes for an instant, looking like an opaque, geometric hologram.

The moment it leaves, all the pain and convulsions subside. Curling into a fetal position, I’m in an altered state. A voice deep within me says, The demon is gone. I’m past the cancer. It’s gone. My rational mind speaks up to remind me that this is utterly absurd. Nothing more than a hallucination. Cancer is a disease, not a demon. It doesn’t fly through the sky looking for victims, and it doesn’t fly out of someone’s body while they’re lying on a Yoga mat willing it to do so. Yet the experience is as real and tangible as the demons that tore at my flesh in the detox ward. Illusion or not, I know I’m healed. My organic chemotherapy is complete.

“How can I help you?”

The receptionist at my oncologist’s office doesn’t recognize me even though I used to have regular appointments and came to know the staff well. I can understand why. It’s been more than two years since I’ve been here and I look nothing like the person I once was.

“I’m Brad Willis, Cindy, here for a checkup with the doctor.” I watch with a smile as her eyes widen and her jaw drops.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she exclaims. “I knew you were coming, of course, but you look so much younger and healthier!” She is kind enough not to mention that I used to look like walking death. Cindy explains how difficult it was to find my file because it was shelved in the “inactive” cabinet. The inference is clear: It was assumed I had passed away.

Dr. Redfern is equally surprised when we sit down in his office. I give him the highlights of my healing journey, even the experience of the cancer demon leaving my body, noting that while it seems absurd to me, it must sound utterly ridiculous to him. After a checkup, he smiles and says, “You are definitely in remission and appear amazingly healthy. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but whatever you’ve been doing, ridiculous or not, it’s a miracle.”

CHAPTER 40

Warrior Pose

THE RISING SUN BURSTS above the mountain ridge on this mid-November morning in 2001 as I sit facing San Diego Bay. I stand up on my mat, bring my palms to my heart, and whisper “Namaste” to the morning light as I begin a series of Sun Salutations, breathing deeply, allowing my breath to move my body, silently chanting an ancient mantra of gratitude to the sun.

Next, I flow into Warrior One. My right foot is forward on my mat, the knee bent into a deep lunge. My left leg is straight out behind me with the sole of my left foot rooted into the mat at a 45-degree angle. My torso is lifted up, and my arms are high in the air, as if I’m reaching to the light and drinking it into my heart. I feel incredibly strong and balanced, serene yet powerful, vibrant and fully alive. Holding the pose, I feel like a warrior for inner peace, a warrior for healing, and a warrior for self-transformation.

After ten deep breaths, I change sides and hold the pose for another ten breaths. Now I transition to Warrior Two, standing in the same powerful lunge, this time with one arm straight forward reaching toward the bay and the other arm out behind me, pointing toward the Pacific Ocean. Taking ten breaths on each side again, I feel expansive, grounded, focused, and whole.

Finally, I enter Warrior Three, a pose I once thought completely impossible. Balancing myself on one leg, I tilt forward at my hips and straighten the other leg out behind me in the air as I reach both arms forward, forming a T with my body. Breathing deeply, I feel as solid as the massive rocks that line the bay and as centered as the snowy white egrets that stand on one leg in the water awaiting their prey. As I change sides in Warrior Three, the sunlight glistens across the smooth surface of San Diego Bay and into my heart center. All my muscles are taut and engaged, working together to sustain my balance and alignment. I feel like I could hold this pose forever and marvel at the fact that it’s taken me less than two years to go from the depths of pain, disease, and despair to a level of health and wholeness I’ve never known. I was supposed to have died by now, but the only thing that passed away was the old me.

After Warrior Three, I squat down on my mat, lift up on the balls of my feet, and brace my knees into the back of my upper arms. Placing my palms firmly on the mat with fingers spread wide, I lean forward and balance on my hands as I lift into Crane Pose. After ten breaths I lean farther forward, place the crown of my head on the mat, and lift my legs straight into a headstand. Then I come slowly down to my knees and bow my forehead to the mat as I sit on my heels in Child’s Pose, offering my body and breath as a prayer to Mother Earth.

From Child’s Pose, I rise up onto my hands and feet, sweep my right leg forward, and slide into a full split. I melt into the splits for ten breaths then transition to the other side, chanting and breathing as I go. Rising up from the splits, I roll onto my back and wrap one leg behind my head, straightening the other leg out on my mat. Ten more breaths and I change sides.

Next, I hug my knees to my chest as I open myself to gratitude, compassion, forgiveness, loving kindness, and inner peace. Now I bring the soles of my feet down, take my arms behind me, plant my palms on the mat, and lift myself up into a full backbend. I hold it for a full minute, amazed every time I do this pose that a spine with a broken vertebra and failed surgery has this much capacity to heal.

A series of gentle poses follow the backbend as I settle down toward stillness, ultimately entering the Corpse Pose. I lie here for ten minutes, visualizing Mother Earth holding me in the palms of her hands. It feels like the air itself is breathing me, and every effortless inhale is an affirmation of my journey, every exhale is a merging back into the source of all that is. Once I return to a seated posture, I practice Pranayama, then sit with my eyes closed and meditate with immense gratitude for the challenges that have taught me to appreciate the miracle of life.

When I’ve completed my meditation, I gaze out over the bay, contemplating how Yoga has guided me into a personal transformation I never dreamed possible. Although the poses I’ve done this morning are only a small aspect of Yoga, they do something much greater than build confidence, strength, and flexibility: They reflect life. The more flexible, balanced, and grounded I become on my mat, the more I bring these attributes to life off my mat. If I can move past the resistance I feel in my hamstrings, I have a greater capacity to handle tension in the real world. Staying in poses that test my muscles without backing out helps me stand firm when facing times of challenge. The more present I become in meditation, the more awareness I bring to all aspects of my life.

There is another aspect to the more physically challenging poses that is also transformative. When, after a long period of sustained effort, I finally master something I used to believe was impossible, like getting my legs behind my head or holding a headstand, it empowers me. This faith in my capacity to do something I felt was beyond my reach soon translates into other aspects of my life. It gives me confidence and courage, and helps me turn setbacks and obstacles into opportunities and accomplishments.

At the end of my day, I pedal my bike to the beach to watch the sunset. I breathe in the moist, salty air and watch sandpipers skitter along the ocean’s edge. Walking to the water’s edge, I let the tide rush up and soak me up to my knees. It’s bone-chilling cold and feels exhilarating. I feel a rush of exuberance and begin chanting I am alive! I keep it up as I run fifty yards along the shoreline toward a jetty of huge boulders in front of the Hotel del Coronado. It’s the first time I’ve run since the test in Saudi Arabia to be a pool reporter for the Gulf War. I am alive! I climb the boulders effortlessly and sit on a wide, flat rock facing southwest toward the Coronado Islands and the coast of Mexico. It’s a favorite place of mine that I call Meditation Rock. I watch the sun dance on the ocean’s surface as a line of pelicans soars across the face of a rolling wave. In the distance, a regatta of sailboats heads back toward harbor as a majestic cruise ship departs for the tropics. I am alive!

It feels like only yesterday that I limped into the Pain Center and was admonished for lying down on the reception couch. I fondly remember the wonderful people who guided me in Biofeedback, Jin Shin Jyutsu, Physical Therapy, and my first Yoga class. Suddenly, a picture drifts into my vision. It’s the poster in the Therapy room of the woman doing Boat Pose on a jetty of rocks much like the jetty I’m sitting on right now. Inspired, I climb to the top of the highest rock and playfully go the pose one better, balancing myself on my arms with one leg behind my head, still chanting I am alive!

On the jetty at Coronado Beach.

It’s early December now. Today is Coronado’s annual Christmas Parade. Morgan will soon turn four years old, and something very special is in store. Morgan is still asleep when I tiptoe into his room. Gazing at him softly sleeping, I suddenly remember the good-bye note I tucked away in my suitcase when I feared I might not survive. I wrote it to Morgan when I was at the Marriot Hotel in La Jolla almost two years ago while attending the Pain Center, asking that he never forget me. I step softly back into my bedroom, bring the suitcase down from a high shelf in the closet, and retrieve the note. My eyes flood with tears of joy as I read it one final time, then I rip it up and toss it in the waste bin.

Morgan ambles into my room, sees the tears, and says, “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Nothing, sweetheart,” I answer. “They’re tears of joy. I’m so happy to have you, and I can’t wait for the parade!”

“Me, too!” Morgan exclaims with glee. “Now, will you draw on my back?”

As happens every year, thousands of visitors have flooded into Coronado for the parade. Two years ago, I was on the curb, watching the parade from my recliner, strapped into my Clamshell brace, drinking a stout beer, pickled on drugs, crippled, and dying. Morgan was snuggled up on my lap, giving me a play-by-play on all the floats and marching bands. I remember as if it were yesterday, how he held me so tightly and pleaded with me to march with him in the next Christmas Parade.

I had been diagnosed with cancer and was certain this would be the last Christmas with my son. It broke my heart when I promised him that we would march together. I felt like a liar, a failure, and a hopeless case. Little did I know that my son would soon make another request of me. It was just a few weeks later that he pleaded Get up, Daddy! That was the catalyst for this journey, the one thing that gave me the strength to persevere. Without this bond between father and son, I know deep in my heart that I never would have pulled through.

Last year, I was well enough to watch the parade with Morgan, of course, but not yet strong enough to join in. This year, Morgan has been invited to join a group of his little friends marching in the parade as elves, and I’m all in—one hundred percent. I manage to mock up a fairly silly elf costume for myself and join the other parents who are escorting the kids. When we arrive at the beginning of the parade route, the marching bands, karate club, cheerleaders, sports teams, and even the garbage trucks are all in the queue again, with Santa on the large red fire truck bringing up the rear. I look down the long, wide street and see the throngs of holiday revelers as an instrumental version of “Joy to the World” blares from a nearby loudspeaker. A profound sense of joy washes through me. I kept my promise to my son. I am alive! Joy to the world!

The excited voices of the little children in our group sound like angels as we are told that our group is next to march down the parade route. As we begin walking, Morgan reaches for my hand. We skip from one side of the street to the other, just like Santa’s elves, waving at the crowd and laughing out loud. After a block or two, I feel a tug at my hand and glance down to see Morgan smiling at me.

“Daddy, can I have a shoulder ride?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” I answer with a smile, swinging him up onto my shoulders and dancing with him perched above me all the way through the parade. As I see familiar faces along the way, I realize this parade is very much the same as it has been every year for decades. It’s me who is different. Completely different—in body, mind, and Soul. I never dreamed I would fulfill this promise of being in the Christmas parade with my son, much less be able to carry him on my shoulders. I never imagined that such healing was possible. Joy to the world!

When we reach the end of the parade route, near the beach and the Hotel Del, I swing Morgan down from my shoulders into my arms, hug him closely, and say, “Guess what? Daddy got up!”

“What does that mean?” he asks, smiling widely as he hugs me back.

I have to laugh out loud and then whisper softly, “One day soon, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Epilogue

As 2002 unfolds, Pamela and I realize that the chasm between us has become so wide that it might be impossible to bridge. A newsletter from the retreat center where I first learned about deeper purifications and devised my organic chemotherapy regimen is advertising a couples retreat led by a man and woman with international reputations for their work in helping couples reconcile their differences. I beg her to try it with me, and she agrees. Morgan will stay with his grandmother while we’re away for four days, which is challenging for both of us.

I’m hoping Pamela might love the place so much that she’ll consider moving into residency as a family. We would be in a conscious community, surrounded by nature, and have a chance to make a new start. It even has a school that offers preschool through high school. The day we arrive, I realize it’s a fanciful illusion. This is not her world and never will be. We both do our best to come together during the retreat, but it doesn’t do the trick. The drive home is painful. Our conversation is inauthentic. Like most men, I want to fix things. Find a logical solution. Put it all back together. But I can’t.

A few weeks later I take one last stab at finding a way to create a new life that we both can accept, and Hawaii seems to hold great potential. There’s a retreat in Maui with Rod Stryker, one of the few Vedic masters in America. Rod is among the small minority of teachers who focus on what resonates most with me: the deep and ancient teachings of Yoga and how they apply to our lives. He’s like a spiritual scientist with a talent for taking arcane and complex theories and synthesizing them into a language that’s accessible and easily understandable. His lectures are punctuated with practices that provide a direct experience of the teachings, as opposed to simply offering intellectual insights.

I decide to attend the retreat and also find a home in one of the more rural villages that we could buy, again with the idea of creating a new life. Pamela could enjoy the holiday atmosphere of Hawaii while I continued to study and practice Yoga. There’s a private Waldorf school near the place I’ve chosen. Waldorf schools focus on nurturing each child’s creativity, emphasizing music, dance, theater, writing, literature, legends, and myths. Its website says “Waldorf students cultivate a lifelong love of learning as well as the intellectual, emotional, physical, and spiritual capacities to be individuals certain of their paths and to be of service to the world.” It would be a perfect place for Morgan to attend.

Pamela flies in with Morgan after the retreat. I’ve booked us lodging at a quiet, meditative spa on the more uninhabited side of the island. Pamela hates it. She wants to be at a five-star hotel with pools, water slides, and organized tours. She doesn’t want to see the homes I’ve found to look at, and I realize my whole plan is foolish. It’s hard for me to face, but I also realize that I keep trying to impose my vision on her. It isn’t her vision and it isn’t fair. Anyway, Yoga taught me long ago that true change comes from within, not by altering one’s external circumstances. What was I thinking? I make a switch and we travel to the populated side of the island and check into a resort. She is much happier here, but I can’t stand it. It’s far too commercial, noisy, and inauthentic. We are worlds apart.

The Royal Way Ranch sits seventy-five miles northeast of Los Angeles in the high Mojave Desert, with the San Bernardino Mountains towering in the background. With its lush gardens and a small stream flowing from a natural spring, it’s an oasis in the midst of a bleak moonscape of cracked earth and dry, twisted chaparral. A full moon illuminates the landscape as it sets in the west. Hints of sunrise are stirring in the east. My mat is rolled out on the desert sand as I sit in Lotus Pose, doing my Sadhana in the “Time of the Divine,” while “listening to the dark,” as Morgan once put it so beautifully.

It’s late May in 2002, and I’m here for a weeklong Yoga of Fulfillment Retreat with Rod Stryker. During this retreat, Rod has guided us into deep levels of self-reflection. It’s now the final day, and I have a vision that I’m standing on the edge of a great abyss, much like the abyss I fell into with a lost career, broken back, and cancer, and that used to haunt me in my nightmares. This time, however, I’m seeking to open my arms as if they were wings, release all fear, and allow myself to fall forward over the precipice. The abyss, this time, symbolizes the unknown. For the past several days, I’ve felt great resistance to visualizing letting myself fall over the edge. My fear is because I can’t control the outcome. It’s because I have no guarantee what the result will be. In truth, life is always this way, but most of us still want to think we’re in charge of the future, that somehow we can avoid risk, disappointment, and danger.

This morning, I’ve realized the specific meaning of the abyss. It’s my fear of facing something my Soul had known for far too long but my mind has been refusing to face: My marriage is over. I’m reminded of the Serenity Prayer and having the wisdom to know those things I cannot overcome. Although I’ve been able to effect profound changes in myself through the spiritual science of Yoga, this doesn’t mean that I can determine all that happens in my life. I realize, too, that this realization is an essential part of completing my healing, and I know Pamela feels that her healing also requires this difficult step.

My mind blocked it out for so long because I had to heal my back and overcome cancer. And there’s more to it. Deeper things. I’ve been apprehensive about what it might mean for me socially and financially. Most importantly, I’ve held a deep fear over how it might affect Morgan. But Pamela and I have gone too far in different directions, with too much painful history behind us, to ever reconcile our differences.

Now, it’s time. I breathe deeply and finally accept the truth, stare my fear straight in the face, and peer over the edge of the abyss. I visualize myself opening my arms wide, leaning forward, and finally letting go. I immediately fall into the darkness with terrifying speed. As I expected, the visualization terrifies me. Then I find my wings, make a mighty effort, and eventually soar out of the abyss and into the clear, blue sky.

As the summer of 2002 comes to a close, Morgan lives with me half the time. Pamela has moved to another home on the island, and we have ended our marriage. We gave counseling our best try but just couldn’t put things back together. It has been traumatic for both of us. We have faced fear, anger, uncertainty, guilt, indecision, and all the other emotions that go with separation. We also have had to face ourselves. Build new lives. Make sure the impact on Morgan is as minimal as possible. Always let him know it’s our fault and how deeply he is loved.

I feel a natural sense of sadness and pain the days I’m without my son. To help me cope, and to be with like-minded community, I attend a meditation north of San Diego one night a week. It’s held at a large, serene facility where men and women sit on opposite sides of the room, chant Sanskrit mantras, then sit in silent contemplation. Tonight, November 1, 2002, I’ve brought two Yoga students from the Coronado studio with me for their first visit to the center. After the meditation, they want to go down the corridor to a small cafe that serves light vegetarian meals. I’ve always preferred to skip this part of the evening and head home for some final practices in my cave before bed. This time, I agree to join them at a table where they’ve met two people they find intriguing.

One is a man named Eros who engages my friends with captivating tales of his retreats in the tropics, where he swims with wild dolphins. The other is a woman named Laura who, like me, remains quiet and reserved. I’ve hardly glanced at her to notice how extraordinarily beautiful she is, yet I’m mesmerized by her presence. We barely speak to one another, but deep within, each of us feels a sense of destiny unfolding.

After college, Laura lived in Europe and was general manager of The Discovery Channel Europe. Along with running the channel, she produced documentaries on science, culture, and spiritual topics such as vignettes on the Dalai Lama. Like me, Laura endured her own dark night of the Soul and found her way out of her own abyss through turning toward a more spiritual life. But we are both in emotionally tender places. Neither of us is looking for a relationship. Isn’t this when it always happens?

January 2004. I’ve remained in the same home where Morgan was born. Laura and I have married and embraced a life together that is centered on aligning our lives with Vedic wisdom. We’ve developed a style of daily practice that’s based on my experiences and studies in my cave, with spirituality and self-awareness as the foremost principles. I sleep in these days, arising between 4:30 and 5:30 A.M. for my Sadhana instead of 3:00 A.M. I rarely attend a class at the Coronado studio, preferring instead to continue developing my own practice.

Laura and I periodically travel to Yoga conferences or attend trainings to study with great teachers. This month, as a pilgrimage, we journey together to Esalen. It’s an institute in Big Sur, on the northern coast of California, dedicated to holistic studies and human development. Esalen is a stunning place. Sitting on a steep mountainside surrounded by lush forest, it towers just above the Pacific Ocean and offers staggering views of the rocky cliffs forming the coastline. A fresh canyon stream runs through its spacious gardens and walkways. Its natural mineral baths are nurturing and healing. The pervasive silence is only broken by the song of the mighty waves below.

We’ve come for a weekend workshop called “Imagery, Deep Relaxation, Movement, and Music,” with Dr. Emmett Miller. I’ve long wanted to meet the man whose voice transfixed me in Biofeedback, and whose work helped transform my life. Although I feel like I already know him from listening to his audiotapes for so many months during my healing journey, I’m taken by his presence. Dr. Miller is well over six feet tall, lean and sinewy, with thick, black hair slightly graying at the temples. A full beard, neatly trimmed, covers his strong jaw. His chocolate-brown eyes are soft and glowing. His voice is even richer and deeper in person, and just hearing him speak feels remarkably healing.

The workshop is like a celebration of mind-body medicine as Dr. Miller guides us into rediscovering peak moments of healing, empowerment, love, and joy. He leads us through techniques of selective awareness, meditation, and guided imagery as we explore the healing force within us. His presence is simultaneously soft and powerful, reminding me of principles in the Yoga Sutras that advocate standing in steadiness and strength while remaining soft, open, and supple.

During the weekend, Laura and I establish a personal relationship with Dr. Miller. “Call me Em,” he says gently after I share my story and thank him for the incredible healing I experienced as a result of hearing his words in Biofeedback, reading his book, and exploring his practices while I was at the Pain Center. “Your experience is a profound illustration of the power of mind-body medicine and self-healing,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder and gazing into my eyes. “One day you must share it with the world.” I take this as advice from a modern-day sage as I humbly bow my head and answer, “I will. When the time is right, I will.”

February 2008. Laura and I have founded Deep Yoga, a Vedic school devoted to teaching the fullness of the ancient wisdom of Yoga. For me, this is an expression of the new person that I have become. When I lost my journalism career, I lost my identity. I found it in Yoga, and now with this new venture, I feel a renewed sense of worth and accomplishment, like I am contributing something to the world.

We call our trainings “Mastery of Life.” Our intention is to guide our students into owning the power and living their truth. Through applying the deepest principles of Yoga, we help them develop greater harmony and balance, find their true calling in life, and express themselves to their fullest potential. Through our Mastery Programs, we train Yoga teachers and Vedic healers, offer classes, workshops, and retreats, and continue to see a wide variety of private clients in our practice.

It’s a profound privilege to serve those seeking to heal, grow, and transform their lives. Part of our mission is to remind our students that their greatest guide, their true guru, lies within them. That each of them possesses the capacity to recreate themselves and live in greater authenticity, contentment, and self-expression. We’ve seen so many wonderful people make incredible strides in healing, transforming their lives, and living to their fullest potential, and several of our graduates have gone on to serve others as powerful healing guides.

Morgan joins us periodically as we teach a Yoga class, and occasionally sits in on portions of some of our trainings. He already displays a deep understanding of the primary principles of Ayurveda and has memorized several complex Sanskrit mantras. Yet he is following his own path, becoming a junior black belt in karate, surfing, and designing amazingly elaborate creations with his Lego blocks. We let him know that Yoga is always here for him, but we never require it or even try to nudge him in this direction. He is perfect and whole just as he is, and we are confident he will chose his own path in life with discernment and commitment when the time arrives.

As part of my own journey, which in many ways has been a rebirth from the person I once was, I have taken the spiritual name of Bhava Ram. Such names often embody something that it is important to aspire to. This particular name means several things that I will always seek to embrace. Bhava means the essence or experience of an emotion, and Ram is the name of the central character in the spiritual epic The Ramayana, a man who stayed devoted to Yoga and lived his truth in the face of great odds. Ram also signifies the sun, the light of the heart, and the fire of self-discipline. Together, a great Sanskrit scholar has told me, the name can be translated as “Pure State of Being in the Heart.”

Traditionally, such names are given by a disciple’s guru. Because I have no formal guru and am not seeking such a relationship, Bhava Ram is a name I’ve chosen as a way of reminding myself that I’m only alive because of devotion to my new path and that I must continue to follow it to the best of my abilities, as imperfect as I might be. After deciding upon this name, my primary teachers agree it’s the right choice and give it their blessings.

One of these teachers, Dr. David Frawley, has invited Laura and me to be his guests at a retreat on the Ganges River in the foothills of the Himalayas. Also known as Vamadeva Shastri, Dr. Frawley has written dozens of books on Vedic wisdom and, although American by birth, is viewed in India as a great master of Sanskrit, Yoga, Ayurveda, and the history of ancient India. Laura and I have long wanted to make our first pilgrimage to the country that is the source of the practice that has transformed our lives, and we readily accept this generous offer.

Following a fascinating retreat with Dr. Frawley, Laura and I travel to nearby Rishikesh, known as the home of Yoga, for the International Yoga Festival at an ashram called Parmarth Niketan. Ashrams are centers for live-in spiritual studies, and like many other ashrams in Rishikesh, Parmarth sits on the banks of the Ganges, with sublime views of the river and the mountains rising toward the Himalayas. The ashram’s spiritual leader, fondly known as Swamiji, uses funds from the festival to house and educate orphaned children and raise them in the ancient traditions of Yoga.

Each evening, everyone gathers on the banks of the Ganges at sunset, facing a towering marble statue of Shiva, the archetype of transformation, sitting on a platform over the river, for what Swamiji calls “the best happy hour in the world.” The orphan boys, clad in saffron robes, surround Swamiji on the wide steps facing the river as he leads us in traditional chants to the Divine. There is a musician playing tablas, which are small Indian drums similar to bongos, only with deeper bass notes that sound ethereal. Another musician plays a harmonium, a small wooden box with piano keys and a bellows pump that sounds like an accordion. Swamiji’s voice is angelic as he sings ancient Vedic chants celebrating spirit and divinity. It sounds like a celestial choir as the orphan children lift their voices with him.

Swamiji, radiant in his orange robes, flowing black hair, and full beard, is internationally known as a servant of peace. He often meets with heads of state around the world while collaborating with other spiritual leaders such as the Dalai Lama. Thousands travel from America, Europe, Australia, and throughout India simply to be near him, to receive what is called Darshan—sitting in the presence of a master teacher, a true guru. Swamiji wants no control over anyone’s life. He simply offers his heart to all and serves as a living embodiment of the human capacity to be a fully self-realized being.

During the Yoga Festival, Laura and I are given the great honor of being asked to join the Parmarth Niketan teaching staff and return to India each year to share Deep Yoga with students from around the world. Then we’re invited to sit in Darshan with Swamiji. We’re guided to a reception area behind the ashram office that looks like a small, intimate park with a grassy lawn, lush flowers, and bougainvillea flowing over a plaster wall painted deep gold. A roofed bamboo frame covers the reception area, with an altar at one end and Swamiji’s cushion in the middle.

A few minutes after Laura and I are seated, Swamiji enters and sits in silence. His presence alone overwhelms us with a pure sense of loving kindness, grace, and the experience of being with a great sage. After a few minutes of meditative silence, Swamiji invites us to open our eyes, places one hand over his heart, embraces us with his peaceful and knowing gaze, then softly whispers, “Welcome home.”

Afterword

I faintly recall my wide-eyed daze watching Tom Brokaw query a prominent war correspondent named Brad Willis during the Persian Gulf War. The NBC News reporter flashed across the TV screen with images of an inferno foreign to my unblemished mind. That was in 1990, when Willis was a fiercely impassioned and intrepid reporter crossing enemy lines into a bomb-struck Iraq, navigating through twisted, torqued bodies on a chemical battlefield, and delivering stories no one else was reporting.

As a communication major at UC San Diego, I longed to one day do what Willis exemplified: cover the world’s momentous events, peel back layers of illusion to unveil the truth and, finally, deliver the power of knowledge to the masses in prepackaged media nuggets. There was no sign back then that this tough, hard-edged reporter would become my dear teacher and mentor—not in a journalism class or “J-school” as it’s often called but in “Y-school,” as in Yoga. As in “why” love and inner strength matter more than all the victories of war or worldly riches one could garner.

Fast-forward the tape sixteen years: It was a sunshiny day in 2006 when a man with deep pipes and an uncommon serenity strode into my favorite Yoga studio and began to teach. His was no ordinary Yoga class, where bodies performed athletic postures while eyes wandered the room. His voice commanded pure presence, and as we moved on our mats the clock stopped ticking. In moments, a roomful of strangers breathed as one. The idea that we were exercising melted away as it became a completely sacred experience, a Yoga studio transformed instantly into a temple.

“Reach up to the heavens, drink in light and love, and now bow down to Mother Earth,” Bhava Ram invited. “Take healing light into your palms and send it down through the vessel of your Soul. Feel the radiance inside your heart and know you are a Sacred Being,” he beckoned us over and over again.

I didn’t know what he was doing with this highly unusual, spiritual approach to Yoga, but I was instantly hooked. I was now a television news reporter myself and my brain was busy with the endless news stream, yet every single class from Bhava Ram brought my otherwise stressed and occupied mind into deeper stillness, focus, and harmony.

People of all ages, shapes, and shades quickly filled his classes. Bhava and his wife, Laura Plumb, lovingly cultivated a community of modern-day Yogis through their Deep Yoga teacher training school and inspiring workshops, which soon drew seekers from around the country. There was no bottom to their giving. From an urban oasis near downtown San Diego called Ginseng Yoga Studio, I learned there was nothing newfangled about Bhava at all. He was reviving the ancient spiritual practice of healing and self-realization otherwise being overlooked as mere exercise in an overly stimulated Western world.

And why not? Through his personal catastrophes, Brad Willis had essentially been reborn as Bhava Ram. The foreign correspondent had covered unthinkable atrocities—Kuwaiti torture victims piled into morgues, Kurdish mothers clinging to dead babies in squalid encampments, child prostitutes enslaved in Thailand’s red light district—but ultimately, he had to slay more penetrating, private demons than any he covered as a journalist. First, a miserably broken back and doctors diagnosing him as “permanently disabled,” and next, late-stage cancer his physicians deemed terminal.

I’d heard that this man, spurred on by indomitable love for his infant son, had recovered—not through conventional cancer treatments, but through Yoga. But, how? Ever the journalist, I was curious about the details.

Even after years of studying with this master, I didn’t know how he actually overcame these seemingly insurmountable ailments. This book, at long last, answers that question and tells his extraordinary story with the lucid detail of an esteemed journalist. Whoever you are, whatever your challenges, this text is a treasure that can lead you into a new understanding about your life and how to live it fully.

This is what Bhava has gifted me. As fate would have it, I was an accomplished journalist with PBS in my mid-thirties when I fell ill with a chronic disease that mystified the medical establishment. There was no known cure, doctors said. Debilitating symptoms forced me to quit my career and retreat into a world of stillness. In my darkest, most dreaded moments, Bhava gave me what I had lost entirely: hope, faith, belief in myself, and something beyond the scared little me curled up in bed. I knew if this man could crawl out of the doorway of disability and death, certainly I could heal, too. He taught me tools to resuscitate myself—the same basic protocol that filled his broken, cancer-ridden body with strength and well-being. Through years of diligent practice inspired by Bhava, I feel healthier than I have in a decade and happier than I ever was before the illness.

Something about him inspires one to greatness. Bhava routinely produces miracles in his students. A sixty-year-old woman riddled with cancer tumors went into full remission, another student with fibromyalgia bid farewell to all pain medications and the pain itself, an older man immobilized for decades by depression started doing handstands and climbing mountains.

As a journalist, Brad Willis reported what mattered in the news with courage and devotion. As a teacher, Bhava Ram shares what’s truly important in life with even greater devotion and a sense of humility and compassion that is palpable and inspiring. He is living proof of how courage triumphs over all rational prognosis and odds, how deep and abiding love for a child can conquer all, and how we each harbor unseen capacity to heal from whatever wounds life inflicts.

Rebecca Tolin

Journalist/Writer

Acknowledgments

As I imagine all authors experience, once I began ruminating upon whom to thank for making this book possible, a flood of familiar names and faces flowed through my heart. Most notably, of course, is my son, Morgan, who provided the love and inspiration that prompted me to launch my healing journey. Thank you, my son. As the years have passed since that day you pleaded, “Get up, Daddy,” you continue to inspire me. It’s my greatest blessing in life to watch you grow into manhood as one of the most centered, authentic, kind, and loving people I have ever known.

To Morgan’s mother, Pamela, thank you for so many good times and for standing by me during so many of the bad times. You are a wonderful mother and a truly good person.

To my wife, Laura, thank you for being my best friend, my partner in Yoga, my teacher, and my beloved. It was you who provided the ultimate affirmation for the writing of this book, and it was your encouragement along the way that nourished and sustained me.

I thank my sisters, Valerie and Pamela, and my mother, Doris, for embracing me upon my return from Hong Kong as a broken man. You stood beside me even in my darkest days and I love you eternally.

To all of the amazing people at the McDonald Center who helped me through detox, thank you from the bottom of my heart. “Nurse Ratched,” whoever you really are, I give you my endless gratitude and will always wonder how you managed to put up with me. To the equally amazing people at the Pain Center, I will never forget you, Savita, Beth, and PJ. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I am ever grateful to Dr. Emmett Miller, whose wisdom and guidance helped me heal on all levels. I thank Yoga teachers Savita Geuther, Rene Riley, Debbie Adams, Linda and Jean-Pierre Marquez, and Michael Lee for getting me started in my journey into Yoga. I thank Rod Stryker, Dr. David Frawley, and Pujya Swamiji for helping me understand and experience the deepest aspects of Vedic wisdom. A deep and heartfelt Namaste to all of you.

Thank you, Denise Baddour, for your boundless enthusiasm and support in bringing this memoir to publication and thank you, David Nelson, for being such a great agent. Others who were instrumental in this process include Arlene Matthews, Rebecca Tolin, and Anne Marie Welsh.

To my editor, Debbie Harmsen, you are amazing. You challenged me, you gave me greater clarity, you made me look deeper into my Soul, and you brought out the best in me. My thanks to all the other wonderful people at BenBella Books, including publisher Glenn Yeffeth, Adrienne Lang, Jennifer Canzoneri, Lindsay Marshall, Monica Lowry, and Leigh Camp. I am honored at the privilege of working with each of you. Special thanks to Paul Henderson of Rise Design Studio for designing a beautiful book cover.

My gratitude goes out to Brad and Cindy Bennett, the owners of Ginseng Yoga Studio in San Diego, who played a central role in the establishment of Deep Yoga and have provided Laura and me with a beautiful studio to call home for our teachings. To all Deep Yoga students, I bow to you. You have given me the privilege of living my dharma.

Bhava Ram and Morgan, San Diego, 2012.