Pattie Vargas saw with frightening clarity that her son Joel, 25 at the time, had a life-threatening drug problem. He came home one day in 2007 “high as a kite,” went to bed and slept four days straight, Vargas, now a 65-year-old resident of Vacaville, California, recalls.
As Joel lay listless, a terrified Vargas realized her son needed help, but she didn’t quite know where to start. She searched online and dialed the number of a treatment center she found.
The person who answered said reassuring things and walked her through the options, then sent a man to lead an intervention at the family’s home in Escondido, California. The intervention ended with Joel reluctantly climbing into the guy’s car and being whisked away to residential treatment in Laguna Beach, about 60 miles away.
Vargas was relieved to see her middle child head off to treatment—even though the 30-day program cost $39,000. Little did she suspect it was only the beginning of an ultimately fruitless cycle of rehab and relapse. Joel’s drug of choice back then was methamphetamine, but by the time he died of heart complications a decade later, he was hooked on heroin.
As competition has intensified, some rehab operators have resorted to wily and unscrupulous methods to draw clients. A common practice is to pay “body brokers” thousands of dollars to troll social media and sobriety meetings for insured people who need treatment.
Sue Harris, a San Diego resident, sent her son Jameson to a rehab center in West Palm Beach, Florida, on the recommendation of a “treatment coordinator.” It was the worst decision, she says. Jameson called from Florida and told her, “‘I’m going to die here, Mom. There are drugs everywhere,’” Harris, 59, recalls. He was right: He died shortly afterward from an overdose of fentanyl-laced heroin.
Once you have some promising leads, your real homework begins. You must vet them thoroughly—not only to confirm their integrity but to maximize the chance that you or your loved ones will get the personalized care needed.
At this point, Google actually comes in handy: Search the facility by name, paired with red-flag terms such as “fraud,” “indicted” or “body broker.”
And don’t be dazzled by dollar signs. “Just because it costs a lot of money, don’t think it’s great,” says Vargas, whose daughter, Rebekah, also struggles with drugs.
It wasn’t until her son was years into his meanderings through rehab that Vargas discovered public treatment programs that don’t cost anything—though they are hard to get into. In California, they are run by the counties and mostly funded by Medi-Cal, the government-run insurance program for people with low incomes.
How do you know what kind of program is a good fit? An initial assessment is critical. Get it done by a doctor with a specialty in addiction rather than at a treatment center.
Ask any potential rehab program about the credentials of its physicians, social workers, clinical psychologists, and addiction counselors on staff. You can check the addiction-specific qualifications of rehab counselors and social workers by calling NAADAC (703-741-7686), or the organization that credentials them in your state. In California, check the website of the California Consortium of Addiction Programs and Professionals.
Another important question, recovery experts say, is whether a program endorses anti-addiction medications—it should—and is prepared to administer them in-house or through a competent outside party. Don’t let them evade that question.
And remember: Addiction is a lifelong battle. Relapses are common. There’s always hope, though for reasons difficult to ascertain, some people are better at recovery than others.
Harris says Jameson was not one of those people: “He loved his family. He loved life. But he just could not stop himself.”
