HER LIFELINE IN THE MORNING

She was on her way to the clinic. We went there in a cab. Her doctor
keeps an office in a strip mall in the northwest corner of the city.

She sees him on a regular basis - she has been seeing him for a long
time - but she was worried today because she had heard he was going to retire.

Her doctor is her lifeline. He gives her methadone. It comes in liquid
form, in little bottles; the taste is vaguely orange.

"I'll be on methadone for the rest of my life." You cannot tell that
about her, no matter how hard you look. "I pick it up every two weeks.
I'm tested once a month."

Her relationship with her doctor is as important as the methadone:
it's personal, they talk, she feels he knows and understands.

He once worked in Corrections; his practice is small, and includes
several former addicts. Were he to retire, she would have
alternatives, but she feels most other forms of help are like assembly
lines and she's not keen on group therapy.

The cab rolled on.

How old was she when she started using drugs? "I was 12 or 13 years
old. I started taking things out of the medicine cabinet. Then I
started doing LSD and cocaine. I was 15 when I had my first overdose."

She was the third of seven kids; her father drank; her goal, when she
was 13, was to pull the biggest scam in the world. Her reach exceeded
her grasp; she ended up spending a dozen years in jail.

"I did bank fraud. I grew up to be a con. When my husband died, I went
into a spin; heroin, you can't get away from it." In fact, she is
proof that you can get away from it if you are lucky enough to find
what you need when you are ready to need it.

How long has she been away from drugs? "Sixteen years." Is it still
hard? She gives me a look; harder than hard, hard squared and cubed
for her. "I have panic attacks."

How did she kick? At some point, between the high flights and the wild
falls, she knew she'd have to stop; and then, when she was at her
lowest, someone said she should see this doctor.

He agreed to see her on short notice. They talked, and he helped her
get through the weekend, and that was how it began; it beats shooting
up in the washroom of the bank where she once worked.

If the cab driver was listening, I don't know what he thought. I think
we live in a world of wonders.

"Could I quite methadone? I don't think so. If I go two days without,
I get cramps, sweats." Her faith in herself is strong and fragile at
the same time.

We pulled into the strip mall. They know her well in the clinic. She
did not get a free pass to the washroom; she had company. "People have
been caught with tubes up their legs, and bottles of clean urine."

You should also know this: methadone is a commodity on the street.
Some people get their scrip filled, keep half, sell the rest, say they
"lost" it, and try to get more.

Her doctor does not replace doses. He is a temperate man, calm and
reassuring. And he is not, thank goodness, about to retire.

He said, "If I had to send my patients to another doctor? As soon as
they hear the word 'methadone,' they take a step back."

He reassured her, and they parted, and she walked down to the pharmacy
to get her prescription filled; safe for two more weeks.