- Alcohol
- Drugs
“It’s not enough to have lived. We should be determined to live for something. May I suggest that it be creating joy for others, sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind, bringing hope to the lost and love to the lonely.” Leo F. Buscaglia
On October 27, 1997, it was my idea to go to a specific Honduran bar called Chicas Malas. My father-in-law got shot. My friend Victor put himself in front of me to stop me from being shot, and he was shot and died as a result. He left a family behind, and almost every time I see his dear wife we cry together. He will be forever in my memory, and I will always wonder what could I have done to prevent his death.
Since Victor yelled out that the two gunmen were his uncle and cousin, I hesitated while holding a 357 magnum loaded with hollow points. My hesitation killed my friend. Taking my friend and family to the most dangerous bar in Catacamas killed my friend and almost killed my wife’s dad. I took five bullets and almost made my children orphans and my wife a widow.
We all have ways of dealing with our past. In 12-step programs we have no shame when sharing our stories. My stories in general are not for you, but those who identify will hear my words. My mission is to speak to those who have been where I have been and lived to talk about it, to those who need to hear the one word that they can hold on to. It is my duty to many to share my story.
The closest I came to death was at my own hands, and this is something I have never shared. The close-to-death episode you read above had nothing to do with me being shot. On July 22, 2000, at 6AM, I was in trouble. After consuming an eight ball of coke and over 25 beers, I was sitting in my 4X4 on the streets of Catacamas, Honduras. I was in physical trouble. It was not the first time. My first doctor friend turned me away, saying he was tired of my flirts with death. Another doctor friend, Hector, gave me a 50/50 chance to live after injecting me with all he could to stop me from going into respiratory failure. He said my life was in the hands of my maker. From there Hector took me to a missionary clinic. I will never forget the look Dr. Amanda gave me. She told me it was not possible to tame a rebel. I said, “Today I surrender.”
Against clinic protocols I was given a bed. I made it through the first night. I will never forget the sounds of the birds singing and the lone rooster crowing that July morning. I stayed there 10 weeks, and I cried every day. My best Patuca soldier, Tony, came to the clinic to take me out and said I looked liked a joke dressed in a brown shirt, brown shorts that did not fit and flip-flops. This was far from my usual man-in-black attire. I told Tony I was done. Perhaps to the world I looked like a wimp, but inside I knew I had a new beginning. I told Tony to go home. I fought severe panic attacks for weeks. I asked God if it was His wish to take me. I had asked Him many times for another chance only to slap His face later. At the clinic I learned I was to have a son. I got on my knees and begged my wife for forgiveness.
The moment of death I talked about is when one night my blood pressure and heart rate raced above 200. The young man who was the night nurse looked at me with tears and said there was nothing he could do. I was calm. I said I had no one to blame but myself. The Patuca warrior, the “aguila negra,” the survivor of fantastic jungle adventures, was going down in a rehab clinic. Not in a gun fight, not in a jungle rain storm, not by a river gator, not saving the people. I hated what I had done to my name and to the Patuca people. I hated how I was going to be remembered. I hated how my wife and children were going to be treated.
While I thought I was going to die sitting at that desk, propranolol pills arrived at the clinic. Fifteen minutes after taking a pill my blood pressure and heart rate began to go down. Dr. Amanda arrived with another doctor. They said the worst was over for that night.
Is there life after death? Yes, there is. No matter what wreckage people have in their past, can they change their destiny? Yes, they can.
The best job I could find in Atlanta, Georgia, in 2001 was yard cleaning and odd jobs. Since my final Patuca warrior days were in a rehab clinic, many assumed I would relapse. I was a marked man. My glory days of gold hunting, sleeping on jungle river banks, fighting for the rights of Campesinos and indigenous people and leading US choppers to landing zones meant nothing. No one wanted to take a chance on me. I understood I had to deal with the consequences I had created.
I stood in line to get food stamps to feed my family. I chose to be grateful for the good the missionary group did for me in Honduras. Believing in myself, I left Atlanta behind and started my construction company in Washington, DC. I started by pushing a broom at eight dollars an hour. I left food stamps behind, not forgetting for a moment what had brought me to this point in my life. In June of 2003 I went to Baltimore, MD, to get my construction license.
Despite my self-destruction in Honduras I did manage to help the Patuca people, and I guess God never forgot. Five years after I walked into the small rehab clinic in Catacamas, Honduras, I have a company with 1.5 million dollars of contracts for 2005. I am still clean and sober, and I still thank God twice a day. Life can be beautiful.
To those who are in doubt at this moment with their vices: You must believe life can be different. Forget the vice brand people place on your forehead. Dig deep and believe you want to change. Change for you, not for God, family or friends. Your new beginning must begin with you. Let the masses believe what they want to believe, and do not let them make you believe what they think about you is true. One foot in front of the other, day after day. Fight the darkness, and embrace the Great Spirit. He will lead you away from the dragons.