Poisoned Read online

  I still couldn’t bring myself to see Dr. Rea at his Environmental Health Center in Dallas. This was largely because I knew I’d have to live in Seagoville, a community that seemed like the place of last resort. Everyone I talked to in my network said it was crowded with people suffering from chemical sensitivities who had run out of options, and I couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than that.

  Now that my belief in the medical establishment had been shaken to the core, I began exploring innumerable alternative “cures.” An entire circus parade of healers came through my bubble in Elgin.

  One notable participant in my curative attempts was a doctor from Seattle with stellar credentials: he held both an MD and a PhD, and headed up a brain injury clinic affiliated with a university hospital. This doctor was researching a drug he claimed could reverse brain injury.

  I paid for him to travel to Elgin. In the bubble, the doctor examined me, then proceeded to dose me with his specially formulated medication. The guy gave me two pills, looked at his stopwatch after a few minutes, then gave me two more. He looked at his watch again, and when an hour had passed, he told me to take two more tablets.

  Suddenly, I felt a seizure coming on. I was light-headed, weak, and dizzy. My hands and feet began twitching as I was abruptly thrust into what felt like an alternate dimension. I was experiencing a grand mal seizure. Although I wasn’t in pain, I was aware of my head smashing to the ground. A whirlwind of colors blended and swirled around me. It felt like I was in a wind tunnel.

  I didn’t black out, exactly, but I woke up not knowing exactly what I’d missed. The look of fear in the doctor’s eyes and the rage on Susan’s face told me that whatever had happened was pretty bad.

  The doctor called a cab and disappeared down our dirt road in a cloud of dust. Meanwhile, Susan helped me into the sauna, where I sat and sweated out the potent drug he’d given me. Afterward, I called the medical board in Washington and discovered this quack had numerous complaints pending against him. I lodged one more.

  Still, I was desperate enough to try anything. One Chinese healer traveled to Elgin from Los Angeles. He mixed up herbal potions for me to drink. These did nothing, but at least they didn’t send me into a seizure.

  Another woman, who claimed to heal with energy, asked me to lie face down on a massage table. She proceeded to lay her hands on my body, “harnessing energy from the universe,” and explained that she was infusing energy into my body to make me healthier. That had no effect, either, but it was nice to be touched.

  Of the dozens of healers who arrived on the doorstep of my bubble in Elgin, the strangest was probably the “psychic surgeon” from the Philippines. This practitioner told me to lie down on a table with my eyes closed while he lit candles around me, explaining that he would be inserting his hands through my skin—literally, he would make an incision using his bare fingers, no knives involved—to remove pathological matter from inside my body. Afterward, he added, “your incision will spontaneously heal.”

  Naturally, I was skeptical of that guy, but I let him proceed. I had little left to lose.

  • • •

  One of my most bizarre and disheartening experiences during this time took place in a famous hospital in Tijuana, Mexico. Tijuana had become a busy center for alternative health-care treatments, particularly for cancer and AIDS patients who had run out of options on our side of the border.

  This hospital advertised “metabolic” therapies that included detoxification through enemas, fasting, injecting vitamin and glandular supplements to boost the immune system, and treatments using Laetrile—an extract from peach pits that supposedly cured cancer.

  “At least going to Tijuana will get me out of this pollen,” I told Susan.

  She wasn’t convinced that the trip was a good idea. This act of desperation would most likely prove to be a big waste of energy and resources, she said.

  “You go if you want, but I’m not coming with you,” she announced. “Anyway, somebody has to take care of Ashlee.”

  “You know I can’t fly alone,” I protested.

  Susan’s solution was pragmatic, though it left me feeling more emotionally cut off from her than ever: she sent me to San Diego with Ashlee’s babysitter as a companion. This feeling of being an outcast from my own country—and even from my own family—was amplified when I boarded the plane with only this young woman and my oxygen tank for support. Other passengers seemed to visibly shrink away from me, afraid of catching whatever disease I had.

  I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t want what I had, either.

  My father met us at the San Diego airport, put me in his rental car with my oxygen tank, and drove us across the Mexican border to Tijuana. We were stunned to discover that the Mexican hospital was an absolute dump, filthy and rundown.

  I couldn’t be an inpatient at the hospital because of the abundant chemical smells of the disinfectants, nor could I stay in my father’s hotel room with the curtains and bedspreads infused with fire retardants. So, each day, I’d meet my dad at the hospital, have treatments, then drive to a cliff on the seashore while on oxygen. I’d sleep fitfully in the car for a few hours, then reverse direction in the morning and return to the hospital for more treatments.

  I still have no idea what potions they gave me. A German doctor injected fetal cells from sheep using a giant needle—supposedly to help my body regenerate white blood cells—and I was on IV drips of medication they promised would clear up my candida. I was surrounded by American patients paying large amounts of cash for questionable treatments. It was a real mill, and the worst part about it was that, after four days, I was even worse off than when I’d arrived—something I didn’t think was possible. I returned to my Arizona bubble in defeat.

  Other than spending time with my father and feeling his love and support, the only good thing that came from the trip was the reminder that the ocean proved to be the best thing for my breathing. So I decided to try living in a California beach town. I was hopeful that I could somehow cure myself by breathing the pure air blowing off the Pacific Ocean—despite the fact that, by now, my belief in miracles was shaky at best.

  • • •

  I had traveled to California years earlier as a prosecutor and recalled Santa Barbara as laid-back and clean. I chose this small city as my next destination. At least there would be no pollen like what I’d encountered in Elgin.

  Susan and Ashlee flew with me to Los Angeles. By now, I knew that new-car smells set off a reaction, so we called Rent-a-Wreck and secured an older car to drive to Santa Barbara from the airport. Through my growing network, I found a nice guy with a house to rent in Montecito, a suburb of Santa Barbara. This was a beautiful, comfortable neighborhood close to amenities like restaurants and shops. I hoped Susan would be happier there than in the isolation of the Arizona desert.

  Unfortunately, the minute we arrived at the house, I realized I couldn’t even enter it without having seizures. Because we had already signed the lease, and Susan and Ashlee needed a place to stay, my only choice was to leave them there, go back on oxygen, and drive to a cliff overlooking the ocean, where I slept in our Rent-a-Wreck.

  It was torture, not being with my family and having to live in a car like a vagrant. But given how weak I was physically, emotionally, and mentally by then, I couldn’t find my way out of that situation for months. It seemed like I’d lost the ability to tolerate any indoor spaces at all. During daylight hours, I’d return to the house and spend time outside with Ashlee, who, despite only being three years old, had long surpassed me in her physical abilities. Whereas I could only hobble or shuffle, she was leaping, jumping, running, and growing taller and heavier by the day.

  Meanwhile, I desperately continued trying various “cures.” Since Santa Barbara is a part of the world that attracts people interested in exploring alternative lifestyles, there was no shortage of things for me to try. I paid handsomely for all sorts of useless treatments, including colonics, herbal remedies, and even spir
itual cleansings.

  I had come from a world of skeptical lawyers who don’t believe anything exists unless you can see it, smell it, touch it, hear it, or taste it—or, preferably, all of the above. I had spent decades proving truths in court beyond a reasonable doubt by harnessing these five senses.

  Now, however, I could “feel” chemicals harming me, even though nobody else could sense these same chemicals in the environment. Knowing that “invisible” things caused my body to react, I started opening myself up to other intangible possibilities: what else might exist that even I couldn’t sense? I kept making new leaps of faith, convinced something would heal me eventually.

  As the days passed, I spent whatever daylight hours I could with my family, and nights in a broken-down jalopy on the cliff. Susan brought me food when I was too weak to leave the ocean shore. At night, I’d lie down on the back seat and try to sleep—a nearly impossible feat, since I was too tall for the seat and in constant pain.

  Then, one night, I’d dozed off in the car when there was a tap on the window. A pair of police officers were peering inside; one of them was using a flashlight to knock on the glass.

  “Open the door and step out of the car,” one of them ordered.

  I had worked long enough with cops to know that I’d better do as I was told. I also knew how I probably looked to them: like a homeless, emaciated drug addict.

  “Put your hands on the hood and spread your legs,” they said once I was standing outside.

  “You don’t understand.” I tried to explain my situation.

  “Be quiet and listen to us,” the other cop barked as he handcuffed me and prepared to take me away, presumably to a jail, a psychiatric ward, or a homeless shelter.

  “Wait a minute,” I protested. “You can’t do this.”

  “You’re a bum and a trespasser,” they insisted. “We’re removing you and your car from the property.”

  I continued talking fast. I’m sure I sounded desperate or insane—or maybe both—as I explained that I was actually a prosecutor from Florida who’d become too ill to stay in my own house.

  “Look, there’s my oxygen tank,” I said, “and you can check my wallet. I have a prosecutor’s ID card. I know this probably sounds nuts to you, but I live in Montecito with my wife and daughter. I understand what you’re thinking, but believe me, this is true. I can’t sleep in my own house because it makes me sick.”

  At long last, they took the cuffs off me and said, “Get out of here. And don’t come back.”

  I drove away slowly, thinking how ironic it was that I’d once been a prosecutor accustomed to having police officers take my orders.

  I had experienced very few failures in my life. Now I felt like I was failing every minute, just in the business of ordinary living.

  After that night, I became even more itinerant. California has a long coastline, and over the next few months, I must have slept in dozens of different places, always in the car, waiting for the next cop to find me.

  Finally, one night I woke up shivering and realized I couldn’t keep doing this. It was late fall in California, and the nights were getting colder. We returned to Elgin, defeated once more.

  The only option left for me to try was Dr. Rea and his Environmental Health Center in Dallas.

  7 • THE LEPER COLONY

  SUSAN PUT ME ON THE plane with oxygen in Tucson, and my father met me at the Dallas airport. He wasn’t about to let me go through this alone. Susan promised that she and Ashlee would join me in Dallas in a few weeks.

  As Dad and I drove thirty miles down Highway 175 from Dallas to the Seagoville Ecology Housing area, he said, “Don’t worry, Alan. You’re going to get through this. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You’re going to beat this thing. I know you can do it.”

  Hearing my father say these words reminded me of the time he taught me to ride a bike when I was in elementary school. He had jogged alongside my two-wheeler, holding the bike upright as I pedaled, constantly murmuring encouragement despite having to huff along.

  Finally, when my bike went fast enough for me to balance on it, he let go. I didn’t realize this at first; I was too focused on cycling as hard as I could. Then I turned around and looked at him as I pedaled away.

  “I knew you could do it!” Dad shouted.

  The joy and love in his eyes made me realize I could do it, too. Having him believe in me made me believe in myself.

  I didn’t feel nearly that confident now, even with my father beside me, but I was comforted by his presence. He continued talking on the drive to Seagoville, probably knowing how nervous I was, repeating, “I know you can beat this, Alan. We’re going to do it.”

  But when we reached Seagoville, both of us fell silent. All we could do was stare at this new version of hell in disbelief.

  Seagoville Ecology Housing was an independently managed, special environmental housing village billed as a place where the air was clean and the well water on the property was filtered and free of chlorine. Residents had to be under a doctor’s care, and most were Dr. Rea’s patients at the Environmental Health Center.

  Susan had called this place “the leper colony” when I described it to her, and I had to agree that the name fit. My first thought upon seeing it was, “This is the last stop. I’ll never make it out of here alive.”

  The housing units were customized mobile homes constructed of porcelain, steel, and glass. Instead of typical paint, wood, fabric, and carpeting, the interiors were built with these inert materials that didn’t emit fumes and sicken the community’s inhabitants. The units were raised off the ground on cement blocks; this allowed air to circulate underneath them, preventing the growth of mold. Each trailer had its own air filter and organic cotton bedding, but not much else inside.

  Thirty-gallon metal trash containers were scattered around the village; these served as storage lockers for personal articles that might otherwise convey toxins into our living spaces. There was one large community kitchen with refrigerators to store our food; we could also get organic food delivered there.

  Despite the obvious lack of curb appeal, this all might have been tolerable for me, since I was accustomed to living in a car. However, this place was inhabited by people who looked like victims of war, plague, or some horrible natural disaster. The residents wore white uniforms and gloves as they shuffled from one trailer to the next. Most of them were attached to IV poles. The housing units had metal roofs, many of them rusted blood red.

  I couldn’t bear the thought that these sick people had been dumped out here in the middle of nowhere, in this awful place. Most were literally dying in isolation because their families and spouses had left them, unable to cope with having such fragile, chronically ill people in their lives.

  “Jesus,” my father muttered under his breath. “I was in the Battle of the Bulge, son, and this place looks worse than the foxholes I hid in during the war. Are you sure about this? Because we can turn around right now.”

  I shook my head. What choice did I have? “I don’t think there’s any turning back for me, Dad,” I said.

  He helped me to the small trailer that would be my home for the next five months. Suddenly the heavens opened up and a heavy downpour began. As my father left the trailer to retrieve our luggage, someone began screaming. I looked out the window and saw him trying to help lift an older woman who had fallen and was now sitting in mud as a hard rain fell.

  “Leave me alone!” the woman yelled. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want help! I just want to die! Put me out of my misery!”

  I could only watch helplessly as my father stood there dumbfounded. Finally, the woman crawled to her feet and staggered in the direction of the infirmary.

  The next morning, I watched as an ambulance pulled up with no lights or flashing sirens. The attendants took out their gurney, then wheeled out the woman’s lifeless body. The woman was finally free of Seagoville and all the troubles of our toxic world.

  • • •

&nbs
p; My father stayed at a local hotel. There was a shuttle service for Dr. Rea’s patients between Seagoville’s Ecological Housing and the Environmental Health Center. My father met me at the Center each morning and stayed until I went home in the afternoon.

  To our immense relief, the health center looked like a well-run hospital and was very modern and high-tech. Patients came here from around the world and from all walks of life. It was a humbling experience for me to be one of them.

  Epiphanies come in all shapes and sizes. For me, this was the first time I could see for myself that there were many, many people who had, like me, been injured by exposure to chemicals in their environments. Whereas before I had felt alone and ostracized, now I was one of many people who would suddenly start wheezing or experience a seizure if we breathed in or touched the wrong thing.

  Seagoville residents rarely left the property, except to get treatments at Dr. Rea’s clinic in Dallas. They had to travel in retrofitted cars and vans, older models stripped of all carpeting and plastic and equipped with air filtration systems. Even then, the patients needed oxygen tanks or cotton face masks while in transit.

  One of these outings nearly ended in tragedy when two of my fellow residents ventured out to a Whole Foods store as a nearby bank was being robbed. The criminals were driving an older car described as being similar to the one used by the Seagoville residents. The cops descended on Whole Foods and, when the two residents exited with their bags of groceries, wearing their cotton face masks, the police leveled shotguns and pistols at them. It took a lot of explaining to convince the officers that, despite all appearances, these people were probably the least likely bank robbers in Texas.