Excerpt from Chapter 9 “The first job back will feel incredible. ” Such were the words of wisdom from Carter, a resident in recovery whom I met briefly near the end of my stay at the treatment center. A neurologist hooked on fentanyl and alcohol, he was a habitual relapser. After rehab he’d be standing trial for grand larceny and assault with a deadly weapon (quite literally, he shot a man while robbing his castle). For some strange reason, I found him mesmerizing, routinely listening intently to what he had to say. So when he suggested that my first job out of treatment practicing medicine would feel glorious, I put stock in it. Naturally, I would be thrilled to go back to medicine. It was just four weeks earlier, in my first few days of recovery, that I had convinced myself that my doctoring days were over, that there was no going back. I recalled sitting in the community room of Penuel, scribbling calculations of my net worth on a napkin to determine how long I could stretch our fam

Dear beloved follower, So it begins! 🕺 The digital version of my book is now available for preorder on Amazon.com! As of August 25th, you can purchase  Ballad for Kindle, Nook, and other tablets. If you are more of a hardcopy reader, the paperback preorders will go live in a few weeks. Either way, you get over 300 pages of the inside of Dr. Remy's unpickled brain. So for those of you who are digital readers, go to Amazon, pony up six bucks, and go for it! I thank you in advance for your interest. In gratitude, JD

  I'm always looking for relief from my phantom pain- that ache coming from a long-lost arm or leg. Amputees experience it- the hurting of an extremity that is no longer exists, yet whose ghost still somehow feels attached to the body. The part of the brain once responsible for sensing the departed body part basically has nothing to do, and is “tricked" into believing that the  nerve endings still exist, often in screaming agony. It is so common a condition that pain management specialists have entire therapies dedicated to managing the syndrome.  I routinely employ a certain technique for controlling my emotional phantom pains. Having had three children severed from my being four years ago, I continue to feel the ache and throbbing as if they were all just  one room away (which they never are). So I distract myself- play guitar, run, go to a meeting, or throw the ball with the dog. Sometimes I engage in a good interaction with a complete stranger- like the man who apologized

First full day in professionals’ rehab...  ...Small group ended, as it apparently always did, with a group embrace and the Serenity Prayer. I was huddled up tight with my new siblings, complete strangers to whom I would eventually be forced to bare my soul, reciting the prayer loudly and emphatically.  As far as I was concerned, there was a lot I could change and very little I couldn’t; therefore, in my mind, serenity was not nearly as important as courage. Courage to get through this all at the top of my class, with no demerits, and move on to restore my life to the way it used to be, the way it needed to be once more. This was going to be a few months unlike anything I had ever experienced before, that was for damn sure. The session ended, the door opened, and we broke for lunch.  12:00: Lunch  I walked across the quad to the cafeteria, books and binder under my arm, with Eddie, RJ, and some of the other guys. Eddie, who happened to be in my small group, and I sparked up a conversati

  Danger, Will Robinson! I have a robot. He lives inside of my head. I installed him a few years back, with the aid and expertise of friends and sponsors,  to help protect my recovery. Whenever a relapse-inducing character defect approaches the outer perimeter of my thoughts he detects it and sends out an early warning alarm. Danger! Selfish act approaching! Danger! Self-centered fear! Danger! Ego-driven reaction forming! Over the past weekend my recovery-bot was on red alert. Two incidents drew me perilously close to thinking and acting in a manner which would have created self-anger, which would have lead to self-loathing, a diminished sense of self, and, ultimately a craving to drink. Must. be. Avoided. At. All. Costs. I was working a twelve-hour ER shift at a small hospital way out in the boonies, I am relatively new there, and was doing my best to get off to a good start with the staff. This involved not putting on a friendly facade, but instead being the best version of myself I

The advanced reviews on Ballad are beginning to trickle in.  I am getting some fabulous criticisms and difficult as it is for me, I am trying hard to listen. Chapter three always seemed like a loner to me- somewhat out of place and a significant detour from the narrative. I liked it for what it was- a stand-alone dream sequence. However, a few of my beta readers early on expressed their confusion over it- why it was there, what it represented, the point of it at all. Many readers became disoriented from it. Although I loved the "story inside the story," I debated myself whether it really added much to the book, or if it was just too wayward. One of my professional reviewers, a respected psychologist and author herself, had this to say: "About Chapter 3:  I think it erodes the trust of the reader when you go suddenly in such a different direction. I felt really confused; Thought my kindle had gone offline! The reader may not continue. What a loss!  Remember the editor’s

Excerpt from Chapter 6; reflections  on my very first AA meeting many years ago. YOU have helped me come a long way since then!   The prelimina ry readings were completed, and it was time for people to  “ share. ”  It was an open discussion meeting , and the topic was chosen from the participants. The leader called out  for volunteers  and an uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Finally, an ancient guy in the corner rocking chair  began to speak , and the  conversat ion  began. My thoughts hijacked me- This is silly. I feel like an imposter, like I don’t belong here. I’m not a week sober and these people are going on decades. What do I know? How can I possibly contribute, and to what end? This whole thing is useless crap. A bunch of drunks sitting in a room talking about how they were born a drunk and will die a drunk and hopefully with the help of other drunks won’t do any drinking today so they  can  piece together a string of no-drink days in their sorry pathetic lives, in their g

Excerpt from Chapter 6  My introduction to “the rooms,” as those in the Fellowship call them, happened well before my bottom, the day I refer to as Implosion Day. About a year prior to my stint in rehab, when it became clear to me I was a serious alcoholic, I decided to quit drinking—again—and give Alcoholics Anonymous a try. On some level, I realized that stopping on my own was impossible, completely beyond my capacity. I attempted all the usual maneuvers—tapering my consumption, switching from vodka to wine, substituting Valium for vodka, and even going for longer and increasingly intense runs to achieve a more prolonged runner’s high. Inevitably—which usually meant by lunchtime—the palpitations, shakes, and racing thoughts intensified, eventually overwhelming my ability to resist...

“Blessings for all you do.” “You Rock!” They arose from the grass on the median strip and stood there, beautifully askew in the pre-dawn moonlight; dozens of them. Created by local youth deprived of their classrooms and isolated at home, they served as little testaments of gratitude towards our local medical community. As I drove through the main entrance of my hospital’s campus and took notice of the homemade signs, I felt my emotions bubble, as every picture’s unique design revealed the creativity of one particular child. With the assistance of parents and teachers, these kids were tasked with providing inspiration to hospital personnel working the front lines of the COVID pandemic...and they succeeded. I found the homemade display a refreshing reprieve from the usual mundane outdoor signage directing patients to various departments within the hospital campus. As an impaired physician four years into my recovery from alcohol, I felt a gratitude that I would not have recognized within