Trifling With Traffic School

Trifling with Traffic School

Elizabeth Willis Barrett..........July 14, 2012

My grandkids just finished watching Toy Story I.  While making puzzles with 6 year old Claire, I kept my eye on the movie and praised its cleverness.  Then I saw something that sounded very familiar.  Woody and Buzz Light Year are desperately trying to catch up with Andy and the moving van.  Woody takes a match--his last--attempting to strike it to light up a rocket that is sure to propel the two macho toys straight to Andy.  When the match goes out before the mission is accomplished, Woody loses it.  He falls to his knees and beats his head against the pavement, all the time moaning, “No, no, no, no, no!”  

A nearly identical scene of grief was acted out by myself recently.  I had finally made it to traffic school to work off my unfortunate yellow-light-sneaking ticket.  I say finally because I had at first paid the unconscionable $360 fine only to find that that admission of guilt bumped me into the Motor Vehicle Department’s disciplinary program that insisted that I then take a Traffic Survival class that would cost another $200.  Because of a kind Mesa City Court Clerk and a kinder judge, I was allowed to retract my guilty plea and instead sign up for a four and a half hour regular Traffic School class.  Upon completion, most of my $360 fine would be refunded.

So, once again saved from my own ignorance, I almost enthusiastically signed up for a class held on a Wednesday from 7:00 to 11:30 am.  I had everything ready the night before so I wouldn’t be late and arrived at a huge bank building on Boston and Arizona Avenue in good time, especially for me.  Too bad I hadn’t paid attention to where to go once I got to the building.  It could have taken me in several directions, but I even had the Traffic School phone number and the answerer of that number directed me.  

I was ready.  “Everyone needs to take this class once in a while,” I thought as I waited for my turn to walk up to the teacher with my $205 money order and my ticket.  My ticket?  Oh, oh.  I had shredded my first ticket hoping another one wouldn’t find me.  And the ticket that had been very sneakily hand-delivered at my front door was thrown away because I had paid the fine.  Why would I want to hold on to that?  I had other papers, though, with my docket number, my infraction number, my name, etc. Surely that would be acceptable.  No?  They needed a copy of my ticket and would take nothing less?  Seriously?!  (I could almost hear the instructor say my grandson Barrett’s favorite line, “I’m seriously!”)

So......with a crimsoned face I took my leave of that early morning class that I had worked so hard to get to on time. My old self would have started crying which would have been even more embarrassing.  But I am trying to take life more casually now, philosophically believing that everything happens for a reason.  I got in my recalcitrant yellow-light-running mini SUV and drove up Arizona Avenue--past Williams Field, past Guadalupe, past Southern, clear to First Avenue in Mesa.  I got to the Mesa City Court and promptly got a copy of my traffic ticket.  I had never taken time to look at that ticket during my last two opportunities.  Yep, that was me in the picture, no doubt about it--sun-glassed and hell-bent for the Institute Building to pick up Kyle. 

When I finally got home after a much deserved and enjoyed visit to the Mesa Library for a stack of books on CD, I immediately signed up for another traffic school class, painstakingly refilling out every *required field.   It isn’t easy to sign up for a class.  They are usually far away and at times that don’t coincide with one’s schedule.  

Luckily, there was a class on the next Saturday.  I would have to come home from the mountains early but at least it was the same Traffic School company that I had already made my money order out to and in the same building so I would know where I was going.

This was a very full class of law-breakers.  I didn’t want to stand in the long line, so waited until the end to take up my check and my retrieved ticket.  Should I have the “chance” again, I won’t be the last to pay.  “The first shall be last and the last shall be first” doesn’t apply in traffic school.  If you pay last, your name is the last one read to receive your certificate.  And you can’t leave the room and get on with life until you get it.

Our instructor was a very genial and informed man.  He had an interesting stomach that hung over his belt with astonishing hugeness, but after I got over its interest, I tried hard to concentrate on his words and learn what I came there to learn.  I even took notes.  Did you know that the “gore area” is that spot before a freeway exit that is marked by two solid lines that come to a point?  Don’t ever enter it.  Did you know that if you get high centered on a railroad track and have to leave your car because a train is coming that you should run toward the train?  Not on the track, of course.  

Things were going along well until the teacher gave us a one and only break.  He warned us that if we weren’t back in exactly 18 minutes, the doors would be locked.  Our class was held on the 3rd floor of the bank building and because it was Saturday, the doors were locked and had to be opened from the inside.  He would leave a “student” at the door to open it for us until exactly 18 minutes later.  If we weren’t back on time, we would be shut out from the class and would have to take it again.  The threat hit its mark.  “Please don’t make me retake this time-eating, money-eating class!”  

Because it was lunch time and I was starving and had forgotten to put granola bars in my purse as I had remembered for the Wednesday class, I got in the car and drove to Jack in the Box, as did several of my classmates.  I don’t know what possessed me--some Ghost of Minutes Long, or something.  Because when I drove the two minutes to Jack in the Box, I actually chose to go to the bathroom before ordering.  What a stupid thing to do!  The instructor had already given us full permission to leave the class for bathroom purposes.  Why take even a moment of the valuable 18 minute break time to go to the bathroom?  Then I ordered.  Not a full meal.  Not a greasy, calorie infested hamburger with fries and a shake.  No, just three cheese sticks.  That’s all I wanted.  Three fat-oozing cheese sticks that could hold me over ‘til the end of class.  It took forever!  I stood there trying to determine exactly when my 18 minutes would be up while my stomach rolled at the thought of getting locked out.  I should have just left the place cheese stick-less, but $3.00 is $3.00.  Time and money always seem to be an issue.  

I was definitely tempting fate.  Since fate hadn’t been helping me out much lately, that was a very chancy thing to do.  After snatching the finally offered bag of repast, I hurdled into my car and lurched it into submission.  But I quickly realized that I couldn’t drive directly back the way I had come. Arizona Avenue has an island that can’t be crossed in certain places--certain places that were very important to me at that moment.  I couldn’t turn left, so I had to turn right, stop at a light that was, of course, red and then make a U-turn back again.  I was near to sobbing.  If it would have helped, I would have rolled down the window, shaken a fist at the heavens and screamed, “Eighteen minutes for a lunch break is ridiculous!”  

I couldn’t speed back to class.  Another ticket wouldn’t have helped my cause.  So I prayed.  “Please, please help me get back to class on time.  Please, please let there be someone there to unlock the door!  Please say that the instructor was just joking when he said he would lock us out.  Please, please, please don’t make me have to take the class again!”

I slammed into a parking space and ran to the door with my unopened bag of  cheese sticks.  The door was locked.  Just like Mr. What’s It said it would be.  Locked!  I crumpled.  My hands slid down the glass with my nose sliding above them.  “No, no, no, no, no!”  Thus my similarity to Woody.  And all for three cheese sticks that would probably never get eaten.  

I picked myself up with great effort and was just about to slither back to the car when three other students came dashing around the corner of the building.  I wasn’t alone!  I had someone to commiserate with.  Someone with whom to bellyache about the unfairness of it all.  

“We got back on time!” the blond careless looking young man claimed.  “The clock must be wrong in there.”

“I can’t take this class again,” the hard diminutive woman voiced.  She looked like cigarettes had painfully smoked the life out of her.  “I’ve got eight kids.  I’m a single mom and I’m the only one who works.  There’s no way I can pay another $200!”

My life looked pretty good after that declaration.  

The third delinquent looked stunned into silence.

We all tried both doors again.  We all peered through the glass with our faces smashed and distorted trying to conjure up a soul who would unlock the door.  We all cursed the dutiful do-gooder of a door keeper who had carried out his duties so precisely.  We all looked in our phones to see if somehow we could find the Traffic School phone number even if it was a Saturday.  Nothing.  Our lateness had belted us in our tender stomachs making hope whoosh out.

And then came the miracle. 

“The instructor told me to come down and let you guys in,” said the assigned and accursed door keeper as he pushed the door open from the inside.  We’d been saved!

Up the elevator to the third floor, I assume we each said our own silent prayer of thanks.  I said mine anyway.  Then we entered the stuffy instruction room  and sat in our chairs nonchalantly as though we hadn’t just been a howling, sniveling mess of humanity. 

Relief blanketed me.  Once again I had been rescued.  “Oh ye of little faith,” I seemed to hear in a far corner of my mind. I felt like Woody must have felt when he miraculously landed “kerplunk” in the box right next to Andy. 

 

I finished the class.  I got my certificate--the last person in the room to do so.

I drove home with care and a feeling of liberation, stopping obediently at any hint of yellow.  Non-obediently--since we were taught in class not to eat while driving--I reached inside the offending bag of cheese sticks, brought one out and took a bite.  Cold and rubbery.  Definitely not worth the consternation they had caused.  But I had made it through another of life’s crises.  All was well!

      

Please Enjoy the Music? Impossible!

PLEASE ENJOY THE MUSIC?  IMPOSSIBLE!

Elizabeth Barrett

June 20, 2012

When placing a phone call, as soon as I hear the word “Please...” I groan.  Because what is certain to follow is “....enjoy the music while your party is being reached.”  And then comes such an assault on my ears that every nerve is jangled as with the skill of a bell ringer.  I can’t enjoy the music, can you?  It is not music.  Even when the “song” is something I vaguely recognize, it is not music.  It is a cacophony of harsh, grinding, unremitting noise.  The sane person would simply hold the phone calmly an arm’s length from his ear until the din subsides and the pleasant, well-meaning call-ee answers.  But I always use ear phones with my calls and pulling them out each time my ears are attacked is rather inconvenient. 

The ones that put that “music” on their phones must never call themselves or they would know the disservice they render.   It couldn’t actually cost a monthly fee to keep that reverberation going, could it?  If it does, I would ask you to save your money and save what’s left of my hearing! Please!

PHOTO RA"DARN"

PHOTO RA“DARN”

Elizabeth Willis Barrett

June 6, 2012

(Reading this essay may save you some grief!)

Have you ever come up to a yellow light and debated a second too long whether to stop or not?  You must choose to slide on through the yellow or squeal your brakes causing bodies and 44 ouncers to slosh dangerously.  A second to decide is all you’ve got.  

I came to a light at Dobson and Main and my split second decision was decidedly the wrong one.  I drove through the yellow only to see a flash of brilliance that made my stomach reel.  Photo radared again!  Before this incident, I had received only one unflattering blurred picture of myself driving.  I took it to a complaint department and asked them how they could tell it was me.  He was very kind and said there was no denying the likeness.  He also told me how the lights are synchronized and that I did have time to stop but chose not to.  Off to traffic school I marched to avoid the fine and the record.

When this next expected indistinct photo arrived in the mail connected to a traffic ticket, I ignored it as many experienced photoed drivers have advised me to do.  Unfortunately, a hungry ticket issuer decided to knock on my door one evening with a copy of said ticket.  

“Are you Elizabeth Barrett?” she asked. Thinking she had something exciting to offer me, I admitted that I was.  “Here!” she said and thrust an envelope into my hand before she scampered away out of the porch’s light.  I felt the same way I used to feel as a kid when a racing child slammed me with, “Tag, you’re it!”  This one I knew I couldn’t run from.  

I didn’t want to spend a whole day in traffic school which also came with a rather steep price tag, so I opted to pay the very hefty fine of $361.50 which sounded a bit over the top for not stopping at a yellow.  I paid it anyway just to be done with the whole thing and thought I was.  

Yesterday, however, I got a letter which showed that not only was I not done, but the can of worms was proliferating.   

The letter was from the MVD.  It stated: “The following action has been ordered against your driving and/or vehicle registration privileges.” I thought that their letter had been sent before they realized that I had already paid the fine.  So I called the number given for those with questions.  Surely I could quickly explain that I had already paid the fine so they could cross me off their hassle list.  But as the young-man-in-training who was trying to help me explained, the MVD letter was totally separate from the court-issued ticket I had received.  In essence, he told me that since I had paid the fine, I had admitted to a traffic light violation.  Because Arizona is number one (or somewhere near) in red light run-ons, the state legislature has made a law that anyone admitting to running a light must take an eight hour Traffic Survival Class which could cost up to $200.  Therefore, my unfortunate second of mis-calculation could cost me about $561.50 plus eight grueling hours of class time.  Better than my life or someone else’s, I know.  But it seems like a high penalty for running a yellow light.   

I have a great respect for the law.  We should be held accountable when we make an error.  If we weren’t, there would be lots more funerals which would be terrible, especially if we know and love the one being grieved over.  I usually don’t even rail against photo radar because it keeps infractions down.  If it means I have to take my turn in traffic school once in a while, I’ll do it.  I just think the punishment should match the crime.  

Since I’ve had prevention on my mind a lot recently, I have three tidbits of advice to give to help you prevent the torment of a yellow light violation.

#1.  When approaching a yellow light, STOP!  Don’t try to out guess if it has a camera connected to it or not. Just STOP! Throw your right arm out to keep everything from continuing it’s forward thrust, and stomp your right foot on the brake.  The two minutes you save won’t be worth doing otherwise. 

#2.  If your doorbell rings, before you answer it, make sure you check the peephole to see who is standing there trying to look innocent.  If he/she looks like he/she is hiding an envelope behind his/her back, get away from the door and make absolutely no noise.  Hopefully, he/she will think you’re not home even though all cars are in the carport and your house lights are blazing.  If you do not receive an official summons, you cannot be held responsible.

#3.   If you fail to follow the first two pieces of advice, at least follow this one: When that letter is personally delivered to you by a nervous stranger, read every word of it so you don’t miss the fine print.  That print will probably say, “if you pay this fine you are admitting that you were wrong in a light violation.”  And if you pay the fine, the Court will send that guilty verdict to the MVD.  I don’t know why the MVD gets involved but they do. Then the MVD will require you to take an expensive eight hour class totally unrelated to the court requirement.  Fair?  I don’t think so.  But there it is.

Happy driving and just in case--keep smiling!

Mileposts

Mileposts

Elizabeth Willis Barrett

May 21, 2012

As I drive along the highway, I am usually oblivious to the mileposts set out every mile for the benefit of myself and other travelers.  I notice trees, I notice clouds, I notice mountain formations.  But mileposts don’t make it to my awareness.  I’ve never used them.  Recently, however, I had to tell a group of girls how to get to our cabin and mileposts were a very important inclusion in the directions.  I now see their value and will try a little harder to notice them. 

There are other mileposts that I need to pay more attention to.  Spiritual mileposts.

Throughout my journey on earth I have received messages from Heaven that could be called mileposts from a loving Heavenly Father who knows me well and loves me anyway.  Some of these messages come when I am sitting in the Temple waiting for a session to begin.  I pick up the scriptures and let them fall open.  Very often, the first words I see will be an answer to a problem I have been wrestling with at the moment.

One day in the Temple, I was, as usual, very concerned about my son whose addictions have worried our family for a long time.  I silently prayed, “Please help me be at peace and to be happy no matter what choices Jeffrey is making.  If there is something I am supposed to be doing concerning him, please tell me.”

I opened up the Doctrine and Covenants and these were the words I read:

“Behold, this is the promise of the Lord unto you, O ye my servants.

“Wherefore, be of good cheer and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you and will stand by you; and ye shall bear record of me, even Jesus Christ, that I am the Son of the living God, that I was, that I am, and that I am to come.”  (D&C 68:5-6)

At the time, that scripture felt like an answer written just for my comfort.  It calmed me and reminded me to testify of Christ--something specific that I could do for Jeffrey.  

On another occasion, I opened the scriptures during a period of dissatisfaction.  This time the book fell open to the Topical Guide.  I thought I would have to let the book open again to a more promising section until I saw the words “Content: be content with such things as ye have.”  It was a much needed message that I tried to internalize.  I have to keep making myself remember that milepost. 

One of the most direct messages came as I was driving to my oldest son’s home at 5:20 in the morning to watch his two young sons so he could go to work.  When I’m in the car I never turn on the radio.  I either listen to a book on CD or enjoy the silence.  That morning I was enjoying the silence when it came to me that I should turn on the radio. That was an unusual thought.  It briefly touched my mind that something would be on the radio at that moment that would be to my advantage.  So I turned it on.

The song “Get Closer” was playing.  I don’t know who had been driving my car last and left it on that station, but I heard, “Darlin’, if you want me to be closer to you get closer to me.”  I didn’t have to ponder long to understand how those words pertained to me.  Sometimes I believe that I am very close to Heaven but at that particular time I felt a bit estranged.  I took that song as a powerful directive that I needed to be closer to the Lord and He wasn’t the One who needed to move.

The song “Draw Near Unto Me” would have been much more appropriate, of course, but I don’t suppose I’d ever hear that on the radio except maybe in Utah on a Sunday.  The Lord used the available resources to get to me and I got the message.

The words “Darlin’, if you want me to be closer to you get closer to me” run through my mind often.  They remind me that I can’t neglect my spiritual growth if I want to make the most of my time here on earth.

I am grateful for the little mileposts along the way manifesting that my Heavenly Father is aware of me and wants what’s best for me.  I just need to pay attention and follow.

An Ounce of Prevention

An Ounce of Prevention

Elizabeth Willis Barrett..........March 19, 2012

Well, Jeffrey is back to his Oleander--figuratively and in reality. Drug Addiction doesn’t go away without a screaming, bludgeoning fight which is usually too much for the sad and weakened characters who have engaged it.

If I could, I would start over with this child. I would gladly go through labor pains and the difficulties of babyhood and even the struggles of adolescence just to give him another chance at a wonderful life. I don’t know if it would make any difference. It certainly wouldn’t if we retreated 27 years without the blessing of experience. But if I could begin again with this remarkable child, and take with me what I know now, I gladly would. (It’s a good thing we don’t have the luxury of “overs” in every aspect of our lives, because some of us would require so many that we would never get on with things.)

If I could begin again, here are some things that I would do differently:

First, I would tune into Jeffrey’s anxiety. He has always been anxious. As a little boy he was afraid of storms, of death, of the unknown. He has also been impulsive and easily frustrated. If a model car wouldn’t go together on the first try, he would crumple the whole thing. If he was mad at you for not taking him to the store on the spot, he would rip up his dollar. If he wanted new shoes because he thought his regular ones were a little small, he had to get new shoes NOW. These challenges were easily overshadowed by his charm and delightful humor and outstanding abilities in sports and art and music. I didn’t think his problems needed to be addressed anymore than the problems of my other children. After all, who comes to this earth clothed in perfection? However, in retrospect, these emotions did need to be realized and confronted.

I have learned something lately that has given me more insight into his anxiety. When Jeffrey was in the womb of his beautiful birth mother, she was physically threatened many times which resulted in great personal anxiety. According to some experts, her anxiety would make Jeffrey’s fetal life and birth quite traumatic. Some psychologists have said that when you are born under these distressing circumstances, you can have high anxiety that never leaves you. I have heard the feeling described in this way: Suppose you are standing around minding your own business and someone comes up behind and thoroughly scares you. Try to imagine that high adrenaline feeling that is overwhelming for a moment. What would it be like if that feeling never went away? Children born under anxious conditions have that feeling and it never goes away and they don’t know how to cope with it. If I had known about that phenomenon, maybe I could have helped Jeffrey through times of excess anxiety.

If I could live again yesterday with today’s information, I would know that overly anxious children are susceptible to drug use. Drugs can take their anxiety away and finally give them peace. So I would be on the lookout for drugs. I would be expecting them. As it was, I had no idea that drugs would invade our “near perfect” family until they sneaked in an unlocked door and it was too late.

Second, if I could start over, I would be armed with the knowledge that drug addicts lie. They lie and lie and lie. They lie so much that they don’t even know that they are lying. So when I first caught Jeffrey right after he had been smoking weed on the canal bank and he said that that was the first time he had ever smoked marijuana and that he really didn’t even like it and that he would definitely never do it again, I would have known that he was lying and I wouldn’t have been lulled into mind and spirit dulling complacency.

Third, I would become informed. When the school invited me along with all the other parents to a meeting to discuss drug use, I would go and encourage others to go. I didn’t attend those meetings in the past because I didn’t want to waste my time learning about someone else’s problem. I have finally learned that drugs are everyone’s problem and very few will get through life without being touched in some way by drug abuse. Had I gone to those meetings, I would have learned, for one thing, that pain meds need to be locked up. Even without a drug addict in my family, friends come over and if any of them have addiction problems, they might shamelessly rummage through my cupboards looking for an easy fix. I wouldn’t have thought that anyone would be nervy enough to do that, but they are and they will.

Another thing I would have learned is that some kids participate in pharming parties. To enter they have to bring their share of pills, preferably prescription drugs. All these pills are put into a large bowl and each person takes a handful ad swallows them to see what will happen. Because pills take a while to work, often the person thinks he didn’t take enough so he takes a few more. He is lucky if he wakes up to relate his experience. I’m not sure if my knowing that specific information would have saved my son, but I do know that it pays to be informed.

The fourth thing I would do if I could start again, is to network. I tried to do some of that, but when well-meaning friends told me of Jeffrey’s drug use, I didn’t always act on it right away. And when I told others about their sons’ drug use, they would say something like: “I talked to Jason, and he admitted to smoking pot but he promised he’d never do it again. So we’re okay.” They weren’t.

Drug addicts are good at networking. That’s how they know where to get their stuff and how to use it and how long it will stay in their systems. They are embryonic networking pharmacists. Drug addicts’ parents need to network, too. We need to humble ourselves, listen to each other and respond quickly to warnings. I would be better at networking if I could have a second chance.

Finally and most importantly, I would make sure that ours was a drug testing family. I believe that had we been, Jeffrey would have a good life without drugs right now. I didn’t know about home drug testing until Jeffrey was deep into his problem. I have since learned that drug testing is like a report card that shows how well a child is doing. If our family had started testing at an early age when there were no issues, it would have become the norm. A failed drug test would have allowed us to intervene much sooner to save him and our family from the drug addiction spiral.

The best part about being a drug testing family is that it could have given Jeffrey an “out” when he was first approached about using drugs. “You want me to smoke weed with you? Are you crazy? My Mom drug tests me and if I ever come up positive, she’ll take away all my privileges and she’ll tell your mom, too.” That’s what I imagine he’d have said, anyway. I know now that drug testing is a great deterrent and Brad and I are strongly urging our children to make their little families drug testing families. We’re going to do all we can to prevent drug abuse in our grandchildren. Drug testing is a crucial part of prevention.

So--armed with superior awareness, knowledge, networking and pee tests, Jeffrey’s past and our family’s past would have a very different outcome. I’m sure of it. There might have been other problems since life seems to be full of them, but armed so well, we could have evaded the drug scene.

I can’t go back, I know. I can’t start over. But I can learn from the past and try to teach others what I have learned, which is this: there is great power contained in a little ounce of prevention. We all ought to use it.

_

A Pound of Cure

A Pound of Cure

Elizabeth Willis Barrett.................February 6, 2011

One might wonder how we ever got to the point of having a son living on the canal bank in an Oleander bush. I wonder, too. It wasn’t the first remedy tried, that’s for certain. Just for my own well being, I will tell you the things that we as a family tried to do for Jeffrey to help “cure” his addiction or at least detract from it. Some of these are hospital stays resulting from drug use.

The first serious drug incident came in the fall of 2001 when Jeffrey blacked out during an out of town football game and had to be taken to the Tucson Heart Hospital. We found out much later that that episode was caused by Jeffrey taking several ephedrines supplied by an upper class man. The pills were supposed to help Jeffrey play football better. He was an excellent player already and all that dosage did was take him out of the game and put us deep into our first drug related expense.

After that came Dr. Knighton, Counselor Johnson, Counselor Goldberg and an unnamed psychiatrist who said that Jeffrey was just fine. Jeffrey had a great ability to say just what he needed to say to stay in the drug scene.

When the time to go on an LDS mission came and went leaving Jeffrey in a state of unworthiness, we sent him to the Joseph Smith Academy in Nauvoo, Illinois, for a semester. Then to BYU-I for a semester and to UVSC in Provo, Utah for a semester. Drugs kept getting in the way of prolonging those stays so it was a waste of education opportunity. “Friends” sent him marijuana while he was in Nauvoo. The same friends drove all day and night to Rexburg, Idaho, to take him some weed and he ran into “friends” in Provo. If he couldn’t find drugs where he was, he could always count on his “friends.”

He attended the Banner Health Outpatient program and I watched him put stars on the white board to say how many days he had been sober. Everyone cheered. But he had lied. He hadn’t been sober any of those days.

We put Jeffrey in Chandler Valley Hope for a few thousand dollars and many real friends came to visit and support him. But he wouldn’t stay.

We even went to the time and expense of getting him orthodics for his flat feet because he said his back always hurt, thus the need for pain pills. He never wore them.

We were delighted when Jeffrey finally agreed to go to a drug treatment facility called Renaissance Ranch in Utah in October of 2005. What was a $15,000 sacrifice if Jeffrey could finally be cured? They kicked him out after a month, saying that he wasn’t buying into their program. Right after leaving Utah, he was again with his “friends” doing drugs and called an ambulance himself to pick him up because he thought he was dying. We wanted to leave him stranded at the hospital but our co-dependency kicked in.

We had heard that a Naltrexone tablet inserted into his arm would keep him away from heroin. We tried that for about $1500. Right when the tablet’s potency wore off, he got high on heroin and smashed his dad’s prized VW bug into the back of a parked trailer. That took an ambulance, a helicopter and a lengthy hospital stay to save his life. We were so glad to have him still with us that the $100,000 tab was insignificant. We could only pay a portion of that bill since, as my mom enjoyed saying, “You can’t get blood out of a turnip!” Incidentally, Brad misses his VW.

In August of 2006 we thought we had found the perfect place for Jeffrey: Narconon in Newport Beach. It’s fee was a mere $25,000 for four months with a chance to return if he relapsed after graduation. It was a great place. He got to go surfing every day in between his classes on how to get along without drugs. And in November, he graduated--a new person ready for life. That lasted until April when he couldn’t stay away from old “friends” and had to return, this time to the Narconon facility in Caliente, Nevada. He didn’t like Caliente nearly as well as Newport with its beautiful waves and refused to stay.

We firmed up our resolve a little and said he couldn’t live with us, but his sister welcomed him in Pleasant Grove, Utah, where he stayed for a few months. His ordering of pain pills over the internet ended that gracious hospitality.

By a series of miraculous coincidences, we heard of a village in Africa where some addicts had gone and were healed. We were right on it and off Jeffrey went to Africa in November of 2007. He went to a Pentecostal Church and was prayed over and urged to read the Bible and made friends with the natives. It was an experience of a lifetime and it worked. We went to Africa to pick him up in March and once again he was his old, wonderful, pre-drug self. We stopped in New York on the way back and enjoyed his gregarious and charming personality more than ever.

But after about four more months of sobriety, he was back to his “friends” and back to the drugs. He stayed with another sister in Show Low where we paid for a hypnotherapist. We also paid for another counselor who did eye patterning and character analysis. She made him feel better about himself but wasn’t able to stop the drug use.

We took him away for weeks at a time in the mountains, had him go to the AARP program in the LDS Church, got him on a very unfortunate Suboxone regiment (which later turned into a worse regiment of Methadone), took him to a few more counselors and finally got him arrested for possession of heroin. Then we paid for a lawyer to keep him out of jail and get him into the TASC program which requires periodic UA tests (urine analysis). When a client successfully completes the TASC program, he no longer has a felony on his record. It is a great way to keep someone clean. But half way into the TASC program Jeffrey was kicked out because of dirty tests. We paid a lawyer again to get him back into TASC. By the grace of Heaven and the opposing lawyer who, after we begged for an hour, graciously relented and allowed him back into TASC, he was again on track for getting rid of the felony. This second TASC try was after an unsuccessful stay at The Salvation Army, a short stint at Crossroads Half Way House, a few detoxes at Aurora and at Community Bridges and a $10,000 rejuvenating treatment at River Source.

I’d like to think that all of this “cure” worked together to bring Jeffrey to a point where he could seriously deal with overcoming his addiction. It at least reminds me that we tried to help and give him every chance possible. But maybe the end result would have been the same if we had done absolutely nothing. Who knows? One thing I am sure of, however, is that prevention is much more effective than cure.

Could we have helped prevent Jeffrey’s drug addiction? I will try to figure that out in my next essay: An Ounce of Prevention.

Expect a Miracle

Expect a Miracle

Elizabeth Willis Barrett.....................February 5, 2012

I was ready to post a new essay on my blog and call it “A Pound of Cure.” In it I planned to enumerate all the cures we have tried in order to bring our son Jeffrey back to his old pre-drug wonderful self. After trying everything we could think of and what the “experts” could think of, we simply ran out of options. Living with a drug addict makes everyone a bit crazy and we have been mired in this insanity for over 10 years. As his wit’s end parents, we didn’t know what else to do but ban him from our home. Thus, his stay on the canal in an oleander bush.

I still want to write that essay, but not just yet. In this essay I want to report a miracle. On January 8th, early in the morning, we received a phone call from a sad and frightened son. Jeffrey said, "Mom and Dad, come get me. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I’m not sure why this time is immensely different from any other time when he has promised to work on his sobriety. But something has drastically changed in Jeffrey’s actions and in his demeanor. Maybe it was the one more prayer that someone sent to Heaven in his behalf. Maybe it was that one prayer that gathered all the previous prayers into an astounding critical mass. I know that Heaven listened and mighty changes are occurring. If it was your prayer that made the difference, I thank you profusely.

There are others that I must thank, too, who have gently nudged or shoved Jeffrey onto Recovery Road and walked along with him for a while. Our family friend and doctor has freely given Jeffrey hours of his time to counsel him and adjust his prescriptions. We could never repay him for the vital role he is playing in Jeffrey’s progression.

Our Home Teacher has held onto those medicines and followed Jeffrey around to dispense them properly. He, too, is very busy but has taken much of his time to help heal a soul.

There are other dear ones who have called and visited Jeffrey. They made sure he had food and something to sleep on and under, always offering their help and encouragement and reminding him of his true nature. Coaches, teachers, Priesthood leaders, family and friends.

I’m not inexperienced enough to think that this is the absolute end of Jeffrey’s drug addiction. I know he will have to be on the offense for the rest of his life just like when he was a football star running the ball toward the goal line. Instead of the ball, he’ll be running his life past many obstacles until he makes the final touchdown where there will be much rejoicing.

But I will celebrate this victory, this yardage gained and I thank you all for your interest, your prayers and your love. How could I as a mother ever repay you for what you have helped accomplish? “For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.” A miracle!