Excerpt from the preface of Ballad of a Sober Man: An ER Doctor’s Journey of Recovery: Successfully getting sober is much like successfully getting wealthy—it’s slow and methodical, and it requires patience. It is a blessing that alcoholics and addicts never have to do it alone. My recovery required a letting go of my ego-driven independence and trumped-up sense of self-importance; I col- lapsed, figuratively, off my pedestal and into the arms of a car- ing crowd, allowing myself to be held up by the glorious mosh pit of my sober network. I had to, as Tyler Durden exclaimed in the movie Fight Club , “Just. Let. Go.” I had been provided with the gift of desperation. As par- adoxical as that sounds, I have found it to hold true. Only through extreme emotional and physical conditions have I been able to overcome my disease, get stronger, and start to evolve. I needed to learn to feel and process previously incon- ceivable and intolerable amounts of anguish and pain to spur my spiritual de

Of the many mystical creatures JK Rowling created throughout the  Harry Potter series, it is the Thestral- a skeletal winged horse-like creature which impressed me the most. In The Order of the Phoenix  Thestrals carried Harry and his friends on their backs from Hogwarts to The Ministry of Magic in London. They possessed many magical qualities, but for me, the most profound was their complete invisibility to most people. Invisibility to most people....but for anyone who had personally witnessed death and accepted its reality, Thestrals could be seen quite clearly. Here, Rowling made a vital distinction. To have the ability to actually see a Thestral, in all its terrifying beauty,  her characters needed to not only be present during the death of another, but internalize and process death's reality as a natural process of life. Harry could see Thestrals, as could Luna Lovegood.  Both had experienced death up close and accepted its reality. Over 25 years in emergency medicine, I hav

The following is the back-cover synopsis of my upcoming book: Ballad of a Sober Man: An ER Doctor’s Journey of Recovery: A  successful  emergency  physician  full of narcissism and ego  wakes up in  detox ,  his life having burned to the ground .   Dr. J.D. Remy — physician , father, husband, and medical missionary — wakes up  one morning to find himself in rehab for alcoholism.  His destructive behavior has resulted in t he los s   of  his   marriage , children, career — and almost — his life.  F aced with the challenge s  of starting over  from scratch, Dr. Remy must  accep t   that  he is an alcoholic  and  summon the courage to  tame the  demons  which landed him in such dire circumstances . Over time, he makes new connections in  sobriety  and rekindles friendships from  his former   life.  With the aid of  old friends and  his  new  sober network, he navigates his program as a professional in long-term  recovery -  overcoming unemployment, a horrendous divorce, the estrangement o

Excerpt from Chapter Two, Ballad of a Sober Man:   The inside of the building looked less like an academic center  and more like some stately manor home past its prime . Tony led me through a maze of narrow ,  carpeted corridors with uneven , creaky  floorboards and around corners until we arrived what appeared to me like a makeshift nurses’   station, as if the  l ord of the  m anor had  retrofitted  it  in the  tight  confines  of   a hallway between parlors . A burly, serious-looking man in navy - blue scrubs, perhaps sixty years old, with a solid gray Afro, stood behind the desk, staring. I froze. “ Relax ,”  said the  night man ,  “ we are programmed to receive. ” On the opposite wall  was a giant whiteboard , stretching ceiling to floor.  Black electrical tape  created columns and rows, forming  a giant  table   filled with  random symbols in combinations of red, green, and blue. The first column contained capital letters in  pairs . It must have been a status board associated wi

I've hit that stage in my life. Yesterday, as I was pulling into to the supermarket parking lot  to pick up some toilet paper (now back in supply!), a pickup truck passed by me, the words  Class of '21, in giant lettering,  scrawled across its back windshield.  Class of '21...wow, I'm getting old. I'm pretty sure my high school yearbooks are proudly displayed in somebody's vintage book collection; the '79 Chrysler LeBaron I once drove is sporting antique license plates (if it exists at all); and my master recording of Dark Side of the Moon could exact a tidy sum from some online vinyl collector.  But perhaps the greatest attestation of my age and place in modern history is not some dusty collectable or embellished memory- it is the fact that I have a daughter who is Class of 2021. I remember another member of the "Class of '21". When I was a college student in the eighties, he served as registrar and my unofficial premed advisor.  I thought he

Patience has never been one of my strong suits. I have a tendency to want what I want, when I want it....NOW. "All things in good time" has never been a mantra of mine. Maybe that's why I became an ER doc.  But I will admit am getting (slightly) more proficient at this waiting thing. Miraculously, I was able to write 500 words a day for the better part of a year, then  go back and revise, edit, and revamp for another six months, and finally submit my work for a time-consuming review...without my head exploding. This is a testament to my "one day at a time" recovery program. However, when my book's production company recently told me to push back the book's release date by a whole month, into October...well, somehow I'm having a problem with this. Maybe it's because my book's journey is in the homestretch; perhaps I am just strongly Jonesing to get my story "out there." The closer I get to the finish line with this release, the antsi

Excerpt from the preface of Ballad of a Sober Man Recovery from the nightmare of active alcoholism and drug abuse is very much a rebirth. We emerge kicking, screaming, and terrified into a cold environment, far too glaring and harsh for our oversensitive central nervous systems. We slowly learn how to adjust our senses without the protective, but faulty, shield of euphoria-pro ducing  chemicals. Having regularly used alcohol to suppress the emotions I never permitted myself to process and develop, I was forced, in sobriety, to adapt ;   I had to learn   the skills and coping mechanisms needed to handle life situations in a healthy, adult manner. During my drinking years I was certainly capable of dressing myself, showing up, passing exams, attending events, and generally acting civil in my social and professional life; in reality, any decent actor could have managed that. Meanwhile I was, in all respects, emotionally  stunted ,  my development as a human being frozen in time by my self

 I waited at the stop light, the lone car, quietly idling at the intersection. The symbolism didn't so much blindside me as stealthily pull up beside me, like a Tesla in the lane over. Feeling it flood my consciousness, I was simultaneously breathless and amused. I sat there, that steamy summer morning, sitting at the intersection, in my hometown. Four street corners- each with it's own backstory.  To my immediate right, on the southeast corner, sat a small, nondescript office building; the kind one might see driving in to work without giving a second glance. But not me- I give it alot of thought. Two years prior, in that very building, inside one of its cramped conference rooms, I sat for 12 hours at a meeting table alongside my divorce attorney as we negotiated the final settlement. Back and forth between rooms the mediator shuttled with offers and counter-offers as every last marital asset was meticulously divided up. It was as emotionally as it was mentally exhausting. I re

As if I needed  more  reminder s   of my imperfections,  I had Maggie and the  K idney  S tone  L ady, forever. Little Maggie, the cute five-year-old from early in my career who came in with her croupy cough and low-grade fever, and whose chest  X- ray was normal. She responded so well to racemic epinephrine, Tylenol, and humidified oxygen. The dark-haired girl with the big eyes who m  we all watched  gleefully sashay  out of the emergency department so many years ago,  smiling and happy, waving goodbye to me and the rest of the nursing staff  . . .  and who, just twenty-four hours later, died of overwhelming sepsis. How I sobbed for nights in my bed, rack ing  my brain as to what else I could have done, what subtlety in her presentation I could have picked  up on,  and  wonder ing  if I had discharged her too quickly instead of keeping her around for observation. It was back in the old hospital; I was maybe thirty-two at the time. Years later I was still trying to drown  the vision of

These days in between 4th of July and back-to-school time seem extra long this year. The community pools are closed, there are no camps, and shut-in kids are probably going a bit stir-crazy. I've never been a big fan of this sweltering stretch, but back when I spent time with my children we passed the weeks swimming, camping, treehouse zip-lining, and watching movies in air-conditioned theaters. Between COVID and my new life's work schedule (lots of night shifts), I find myself with a fair amount of indoor time on my hands. Skipper and I can only go on so many runs, and I certainly won't take him after 8am when the temperature climbs past 85 degrees. A few days ago, as I was driving to one of my regular seven-mile running loops, I came upon a furry black lump in a bend in the road. I quickly recognized it as a kitten, abandoned by its mother and dying, right there on the asphalt. I sighed deeply, got out of the truck, and approached to inspect. The little critter was caked

25 years ago today- on July 6th, 1995, I walked into an ER and worked my first shift ever as a full-fledged emergency physician. Bill Clinton was in his first term as president, we were mourning the loss of Kurt Cobain, and the world of email and going "online" was still new. I was 28 years old, fresh out of residency, infused with the latest and greatest knowledge and skills, and full of piss and vinegar. You could have fired me out of a cannon. I was ready to take on the world; I had "arrived."  I thought I knew something. Turns out, I  was a child who didn't know shit. A quarter century and 4200 shifts later, I now know better. I may have had book smarts and enthusiasm, but I lacked emotional maturity. I could manage a difficult airway, calculate pediatric infusion rates, and juggle multiple traumas at once, but had absolutely no understanding of either myself or the humanity around me.  I felt supercharged...entitled. My sense of entitlement led to behaviors

I’m looking at the release of Ballad of a Sober Man: An ER Doctor’s Journey of Recovery in mid- to late-September. Here is an excerpt to the preface.... “Recovery from the nightmare of active alcoholism and drug abuse  is very much a rebirth. We emerge kicking, screaming, and terrified into a cold environment, far too glaring and harsh for our oversensitive central nervous systems. We slowly learn how to adjust our senses without the protective, but faulty, shield of euphoria-producing chemicals. Having regularly used alcohol to suppress the emotions I never permitted myself to process and develop, I was forced, in sobriety, to adapt; I had to learn the skills and coping mechanisms needed to handle life situations in a healthy, adult manner. During my drinking years I was certainly capable of dressing myself, showing up, passing exams, attending events, and generally acting civil in my social and professional life; in reality, any decent actor could have managed that. Meanwhile I was

My generous and merciful HP landed me in Miami this week. A unique opportunity presented itself and I found myself clearing my schedule to enjoy three days at a condo on swanky Brickell Key. I indulged in the white sands, Jet-ski’d Biscayne Bay for conch, and dined at restaurants alongside the South Beach glitterati. I am completely outside my normal element, but the sea breeze feels good, my company is top-notch, and the poolside is relaxing. This time tomorrow I will be back in the hills of Virginia humping it in the trenches of the ER, doing what it is I do. But that is tomorrow. For  a few more hours I will relax on this lounge chair under the south Florida sun, nurse my açaí berry smoothie with wheat grass, chill, and be grateful.  Time for a nap. Peace out ✌️