Ted Kennedy and mental health care

As flawed as he was, the real, true hope for mental health parity came, and went, with the late Massachusetts Sen. Edward "Ted" Kennedy.

Though Congress passed mental health parity into law, it's useless legislation for the millions of Americans who don't have health insurance. Many of those have a mental illness that prevents them from having a job with a stable income, and a house with running water.

The only hope rests with the Obama administration, and if it can carry the torch - and emphasize the importance of having health care for all - from the man who once famously declared that the "dream shall never die."

Michael Jackson death is ruled a homicide: Still self-inflicted?

The King of Pop also seemed to be the King of Escaping Trouble, whether his hair was on fire, his house was being repossessed or his nose was falling off. Somehow, he still got the legend's benefit of the doubt.

Score one more hit for Michael Jackson, even in death. Even after his symptoms of mental illness were so obvious that self-destruction seemed to be his obvious demise, he pulled another fast one today: The L.A. Coroners Office ruled his death a homicide.

This may be his biggest comeback yet. Not only have his songs sold at record pace since his June 25 death, he gets to have an eternity without having the same label that was attached to Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin or Kurt Cobain.

Or does he? Those intelligent enough to know will view this for what it really was: A man whose personal issues brought about his self-implosion. For the pop mainstream, however, he will be able to retain what he always wanted: Fake dignity masking self-blame.

For the mental health community, it's now harder to hold up his case as an example of mental illness' worst enemy: denial. From this, it makes it harder for the world to learn what's wrong versus what's right.

From The Los Angeles Times:

'Lethal levels' of anesthetic propofol killed Michael Jackson
August 24, 2009 | 1:24 pm

Michael Jackson died of "lethal levels" of the powerful anesthetic propofol, according to a search warrant affidavit unsealed today in Houston.

The court documents quote the L.A. County coroner's office as reaching that conclusion after an autopsy of the pop star.

The documents address one of the major unanswered questions surrounding Jackson's death. But they also raise new questions about how Jackson was treated, particularly in the hours before his death.

Conrad Murray, Jackson's personal doctor, told detectives with the Los Angeles Police Department that he had been treating Jackson for insomnia for about six weeks. He had been giving Jackson 50 milligrams of propofol every night using an intravenous line, according to the court records.

But Murray told detectives that he feared Jackson was forming an addiction and began trying to wean the pop star off the drugs. He lowered the dosage to 25 milligrams and mixed it with two other sedatives, lorazepam and midazolam. On June 23, two days before Jackson's death, he administered those two medications and withheld the propofol.

On the morning Jackson died, Murray tried to induce sleep without using propofol, according to the affidavit. He said he gave Jackson valium at 1:30 a.m. When that didn't work, he said, he injected lorazepam intravenously at 2 a.m. At 3 a.m., when Jackson was still awake, Murray administered midazolam.

Over the next few hours, Murray said he gave Jackson various drugs. Then at 10:40 a.m., Murray administered 25 milligrams of propofol after Jackson repeatedly demanded the drug, according to the court records.

Although Murray acknowledged to police that he administered propofol, authorities said they could find no evidence that he had purchased, ordered or obtained the medication under his medical license or Drug Enforcement Administration tracking number. However, police detectives saw about eight bottles of propofol in the house along with other vials and pills that had been prescribed to Jackson by Dr. Murray, Dr. Arnold Klein and Dr. Allan Metzger.

Other drugs that were confiscated in the search included valium, tamsulosin, lorazepam, temazepam, clonazepam, trazodone and tizanidine. They also found propofol in Murray’s medical bag. Murray told detectives that he was not the first doctor to administer the powerful anesthetic to Jackson.

At least two unidentified doctors gave Jackson propofol in Germany. Between March and April 2009, Murray said he called Las Vegas doctor David Adams at Jackson’s request to arrange for Adams to administer propofol. Murray said he was present at a cosmetologist’s office, where Adams used propofol to sedate Jackson. Since he began treating Jackson, Murray said he repeatedly asked the pop star what other physicians were treating Jackson and what drugs they were prescribing. But Jackson declined to provide the information, Murray told authorities.

Murray said he noticed injection marks on Jackson’s hands and feet. When he asked Jackson about them, the pop star told him he had been given a “cocktail” to help him. In addition to Murray, authorities subpoenaed medical records from Dr. Arnold Klein, Dr. Allan Metzger and Dr. David Adams, the affidavit states. They also asked for medical records from Dr. David Slavitt, who conducted the independent medical examination of Jackson for Anschuntz Entertainment Group, Dr. Randy Rosen and nurse practitioner Cherilyn Lee. They also subpoenaed records from Dr. Mark Tadrissi, who stored medical records with Adams.
Jackson’s doctor told authorities he left Jackson’s bedside for no more than two minutes before returning to find the pop star not breathing. Jackson reportedly fell asleep at 10:40 a.m.

Murray said after monitoring Jackson for 10 minutes, he left to use the restroom. When he returned and saw Jackson wasn’t breathing at 11 a.m. He immediately began attempting to revive Jackson, administering CPR as well as a drug to reverse the effects of the sedative. But police are questioning that account. Cellphone records for the morning of June 25 show Murray made three separate phone calls for approximately 47 minutes beginning at 11:18 a.m.

He called Jackson’s personal assistant to request that they send security upstairs. After a few minutes without a response, Murray told authorities he ran downstairs to the kitchen. He asked the chef to send Jackson’s eldest son, Prince Jackson, upstairs. Murray said he continued CPR and waited for the arrival of paramedics.

Murray has already acknowledged obtaining and administering propofol to Jackson the morning that the pop star died. In an interview with police, Murray told them that he had left Jackson alone under the influence of the medication to make telephone calls to his Houston office and family members.

When he returned, he discovered Jackson was not breathing. He performed CPR, and one of Jackson’s staff members called 911. The 50-year-old pop star was rushed to UCLA Medical Center, where he was later declared dead. Much of the investigation has focused on propofol -- a drug typically administered by anesthesiologists during surgery -- and whether Murray’s decision to give it to Jackson as a sleep aid outside a hospital setting reaches a level of negligence required for an involuntary manslaughter charge.

-- Kimi Yoshino and Andrew Blankstein

Front-line insanity

War and sanity mix like whiskey and cocaine. What's left is disaster accelerated.

As the death toll in Afghanistan rises, the government is stepping in to help many soldiers fight their worst enemies: themselves.

The U.S. Army has enlisted the National Institute of Mental Health to try and mitigate the rising number suicides among the troops.

The study has been called "unprecedented" by officials at NIMH, according to Federal News Radio.

Study director Dr. Robert Heinssen said those involved are relying on the three "R's" - rigorous study, rapid execution, and relevant targets -- to find answers.

"The Army reached out to NIMH last summer and asked us if we were aware of any research-based approaches that had been developed on the civilian side that would help the Army with the problem of a rising suicide rate."

According to NIMH, suicide is the fourth leading cause of death among 25 to 44-year-olds in the United States, Federal News Radio reported.

Historically, the agency said, the suicide rate has been lower in the military than among civilians.

In 2008, that pattern was reversed, with the suicide rate in the Army exceeding the rate in the civilian population. The Army turned to NIMH for answers.

An autopsy that raised more questions than answers

Did she have a mini-stroke before she crashed? Or did she have a hidden drinking and drug problem?

The autopsy of Diane Schuler, whose car crash on the Taconic Parkwaay recently killed eight, seems to point to the latter. But these "T.I.A.s" may not come up in an autopsy report, so what happened before she smashed into another car is still unknown.

Many people - including people who read this blog - have leapt to her defense, saying she didn't drink, she didn't drug. If anything, it was a T.I.A. or some other undetected medical problem.

If we can hope for anything out of this, it's the idea that her 5-year-old son, who survived the crsh, can grow up knowing that her mother didn't self-inflict this wound.

And we can also hope that she didn't have friends and family living in denial over what could have been an undetected mental and substance abuse issue. We can hope that they are simply right.

From The New York Daily News:

You wouldn't look twice at Daniel Schuler if you saw him at the gas pump, on the loading dock or in the park he polices at night as a security guard.

Yet cameras surrounded this chunky guy in rumpled khakis and a black shirt Thursday in Garden City, L.I., their long lenses pointed toward him like gun barrels, and he stared them down.

I don't know how he did it.

Here was a guy who lost his wife and daughter; his wife was being portrayed as Cruella De Vil behind the wheel, and he's being tarred as practically an accessory to murder.

Still he tried to defend his wife, Diane Schuler, who killed four children, three men and herself when she drove the wrong way on the Taconic on July 26, drunk and stoned.

And he wanted to defend himself.

"I never saw her drunk since the day I met her," Schuler said, pronouncing her as "huh," in middle Long Island fashion.

He lives just one town over in Floral Park, where things were happy once, as they can never fully be again.

"She was the perfect wife," he went on. "I'd marry her again tomorrow."

Schuler looked exhausted. Since the accident that killed his wife, their 2-year-old daughter, Erin, three nieces and three strangers, he has traveled upstate every day to the bedside of his son Bryan, 5, the only survivor.

Schuler desperately wanted to tell us, this woman you are describing, this was not my wife. You don't understand her.

There's a lot about this many of us don't understand.

Medical examiners tell us she had a 0.19 alcohol level and pot in her blood, with 6 grams of alcohol still in her stomach. Schuler tells us his wife rarely drank.

Cops tell us 911 callers reported that on Routes 17 and 87 she tailgated, angrily beeped and passed them on the shoulder before taking a wrong turn up the exit of the Taconic.

Schuler tells us she was such a devoted mother and aunt that she wanted to take all the kids in her vehicle, because she drove so slowly and carefully. She wanted to get them breakfast at McDonald's, he said.

Schuler believes so strongly that something else happened, something medical, that he's ready to take his wife's body out of the ground and have doctors look again, to try to solve the central mystery of this case.

He wants desperately to believe his wife is not to blame.

His will be a lonely fight because the evidence is against him, public opinion is against him and too many unanswered questions still swirl in the wake of one of the worst highway tragedies in the metropolitan area.

Yet, he stood there, his world in ashes around him, trying desperately to try to make sense of it.

I don't know how he did it.

Michael Jackson's cause of death in limbo - and so is the lesson to be learned

As much as people like to condemn the tabloids, there always seems to be a nugget of truth in the stories. If we are to believe what we've read, the release of Michael Jackson's autopsy report will be anti-climactic.

But the release of the report could at least validate what's been said, and finally lift the veil on a life that Jackson zealously protected. We can learn something more about the dangers of drugs, the dangers of doctors and dangers of neglecting the obvious signs of mental illness.

From MTV:

More than six weeks after Michael Jackson's death, the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office announced on Monday that it had completed an autopsy on the singer that details his cause of death. Those results, however, are being withheld indefinitely to allow police to complete their investigation, according to the Los Angeles Times.

"The investigation was thorough and comprehensive," a coroner's official explained in a news release. But in order to avoid interfering with the ongoing criminal probe by the Los Angeles Police Department into what might have killed the 50-year-old singer, the office will honor the LAPD's request to put the results on a "security hold."

Quoting an unnamed police source, TMZ reported that the LAPD doesn't want the autopsy released, because it could hamper their ongoing investigation. In a statement released on Monday, the police department said its investigation "has included dozens of individual interviews and the service of search warrants locally and out of-state."

To date, the LAPD has interviewed a number of Jackson's former doctors, most prominently his personal physician at the time of his death, Dr. Conrad Murray. The doctor's Las Vegas and Houston offices have been searched in recent weeks, and police have carted away records and computer equipment related to Murray's treatment of Jackson.

Murray reportedly told police that he administered the powerful anesthetic Diprivan to Jackson in the 24 hours before the singer died, and police have identified the cardiologist as a suspect in their manslaughter investigation. Murray's lawyer has said his client did not "prescribe or administer anything that should have killed Michael Jackson."

The doctor was hired at a cost of $150,000 a month to be Jackson's personal physician in the lead-up to the singer's planned 50-date string of This Is It comeback shows at London's O2 Arena. Footage of rehearsals for those shows will now be released as a documentary on October 30.

Jackson was reportedly found in Murray's bed on the morning of his death, and when emergency workers arrived to try to revive the pop star, they are said to have found an IV stand, an empty IV bag and oxygen tanks in Murray's room, all indications of the administration of an intravenously delivered drug such as Diprivan. No charges have been filed in the case to date.

The Chicken Zoo, part 6: The base (a non-fiction novel)

[This story is based on my experiences as a reporter for The Delaware State News from 1990-93. Some names and dates have been changed. This was part of my unpublished novel, "The Chicken Zoo," that I wrote five years ago.]

Nikki left the paper. She stayed home in Newark, out of touch. Over the next few weeks, I got the urge to grab the telephone and call. But I resisted. Jenny, meanwhile, ran out of people for me to talk to. Absent any help from above, I felt helpless. Other than writing occasional updates on the police’s investigation, my own probe went nowhere.

Jenny grew frustrated, and began to pin the blame on me. On several occasions, I was dispatched to her office where she questioned my effort. By the end of July, I heard whispers that Jenny was preparing to have Theresa Barton relieve me of my murder-investigation duties. I, as a result, grew increasingly insecure, and my work suffered. All the while, I hoped for some kind of a breakthrough.

In August, he finally got it: Iraq invaded Kuwait, and Dover Air Force Base was involved. In my short time there, I learned that the base was like the other side of the Berlin Wall. Reporters frequently complained that it abused its privilege as a preserver of national security. But in August 1990, the C-5s were moving their big loads to Saudi Arabia, and the base was in show-and-tell mode and boasting of its usefulness to the national media. It granted unique access, allowing reporters to enter and canvass the ground – though within limits, and always with an escort.

Days after the invasion, I was summoned to Jenny's office. Jenny who was sitting there, staring out her tiny window, and smoking a cigarette.

“Here’s our chance,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“I’m saying, here’s our chance to interview somebody who knows what they’re talking about,” she said. “So far, we’ve just been swatting flies. Now we can get to the root of all evil.”

“OK,” he said. “What should I do?”
“The base is giving tours to the media, you know, because of this whole Desert Shield thing,” she said. “They’re taking reporters out the planes, doing the dog-and-pony thing, you know…”

“Right.”

“They’ve got a tour today – it’s in a half hour, so you should head out now,” she said. “Some crew is being dispatched to Saudi Arabia, so they want the media there to write about it. Go do that, but see if they’ll take you to the mortuary, too.”

“Do they let people go to the mortuary?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she said. “But it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

“And you want me to find people who worked with Cramner, you know, back in ’78…”

“Yeah,” she said. “Some of those guys have hung around for a long time. Then you’ve got contractors and volunteers who are gearing up for casualties from the gulf – you may encounter somebody like that…”

“But this Jim Jones thing happened 12 years ago,” I said.

Jenny pulled out another cigarette, and with a quick light, filled the stale air with her smoke.

“Just go over there, and get a tour, and see what you can get,” Jenny said. “See if you can do it…it never hurts to try…”





I drove to what’s called “the main gate,” and rolled his car up to the guard.

“License, please!” the guard belted out.

I nervously reached into his pocket, pulled out his driver’s license, and displayed it. The guard, wearing sandy colored cammies and a tight, flat hat, waved him toward a neighboring parking lot.

“Over there,” he barked.

I drove over, and then waited. A woman appeared in a car – she called herself a “media escort” – who pulled up alongside me and rolled down her window.

“Hey, follow me,” she said.

I did, and she led him to the runways – they call it “the flight line” or “tarmac” in the military – where a long line of media waited. Everybody – ABC, CBS, NBC, CNN – was there, rolling television cameras and clutching notepads as they waited for their next instruction.

I got out of my car, and walked. It was a hot day, but a heavy wind swept through these flatlands anyway. Some television reporters covered their hair, worried that the wind would blow it out of place. I walked right by them, and looked for the escort.

I thought she was funny-looking, like she was a too-skinny waitress at a roller drive-in. Her hat was tilted to the side and almost on top of her ear, and it was attached to her tightly woven hair with a big pin. I had a hard time taking her seriously.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Quickly,” she said.

“Hi, I’m Tom Davis from The Delaware State News,” he said. “Thanks for inviting me out here today.”

“What is it you want?”

“I’d like to ask you a favor…”

“I don’t think I’m authorized to give out favors,” he said.

“OK,” I said, who was getting nervous. “Well, um, I was just wondering if we can…um…”

“Sir, I don’t understand you.”

“OK, look, I’m not just here to cover Desert Shield,” he said. “I’m covering a murder investigation, see, and it involves this guy who worked at the mortuary 12 years ago and …”

“Sir, what does this have to do with Desert Shield?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “But what I’d like to know is if you can – you know, when this whole plane thing is done – if you can escort me to the mortuary…I’d like to talk to some folks over there.”

“Negative…”

“Really?” I asked. “I mean, how hard would that be?”

“We’ve got a program today and we have to stick to it,” she said. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

I looked around, and thought about it. His mind drifted for a bit. “Well,” he said, “can you at least point it out for me.”

“It’s over there,” she said, pointed toward a medium-sized, bland aluminum building. It was just beyond a big C-5 jet, where troops were loading cargo.

“That is the mortuary,” she said. “It’s the military’s main mortuary for serving the European Theater.”

The woman turned away, while I continued staring at it. Then I started walking. And walking. And walking. And walking. I walked right past the ABCs and CNNs. I walked right by the sign that said “DO NOT CROSS.” It was a big sign, but it wasn’t in my way. The only thing that really stood in my way was a concrete barrier. I hopped that, too.

Then I walked right past the thick red line that stretched across the tarmac. It was on the ground, but I was looking at the mortuary up ahead, so I didn’t see it. My mind was in a tunnel, and I continued on his path until – finally – a siren blared. My brain was so fuzzy that I didn’t hear it as first. But when the siren’s sound became long and sustained, I made a dead stop.

I then felt hands gripping me, tightly, and I crashed to the pavement. I was on the ground, and I turned my head slightly to see that I was trapped by a muscle-bound man carrying 30 pounds of gear and guns. The MP then grabbed my head and turned it back toward the pavement, digging my chin into the asphalt. Another camouflage-wearing soldier appeared, and he stuck a gun in my ear. I could feel the cold steel barrel touch my skin. I shouted. “HELLP!!”

Then I heard deep, hoarse yelling, so loud that the words just ran together.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!!!?” the man barked.

“What? What? What’s is going on?” I pleaded.

“May I see some identification please?!?!?”

“It’s in my back pocket. Go ahead. Take it. Take everything!”

The man reached in and grabbed the wallet. He rose up, but I could feel his foot stepping on his back. He pressed so hard that my legs felt numb.

The MP then removed his foot, grabbed my shirt and pulled me up from the pavement.

“You work for The Delaware State News?” the guy said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“C’mon!” the MP declared. “We’re going to have to have a little discussion with your employer!”

“Can we not do that,” I said. “Please?”

“Excuse me, are you trying to tell me what to do?” he said. “Who broke the law here?”

The media escort hustled over. “It’s okay, he’s with us!” she shouted. “I’m really sorry about this.”

The MP pulled out a small notebook and began scribbling.

“Sir, may I have your name and your boss’s telephone number please?” the MP asked.

“Yes, my name is Tom Davis. I work for the Delaware State News. The telephone number is 555-2000.”

She wrote fast, and quickly closed up her pad. “Thank you,” she said. Within seconds, what looked like a golf cart rode over, the MP hopped in and she was whisked away.

“Thanks for helping me there,” I said, turning back to the escort.

“You’re in trouble,” she responded.

I sighed, and rubbed his eyes. “Well, hey, I’m sorry, but does he really have to call my employer? I feel like I’m going to the principal’s office, for Christ’s sake.”

“You have to understand that there is protocol here,” she said. “Unlike other professions, we go by the book.”

At that moment, a walkie-talkie on her hip crackled. She pulled it out of the holster and pressed on one of the side buttons.

“Yeah,” she said, speaking into it.

“Okay, State News has been contacted,” it said, through gargled static.

“They would like to see employee Tom Davis front and center immediately after media event is over.”

“Oh, great,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “They should have told you how things work around here.”


A half-hour later, I was back in the newsroom. Immediately, I noticed my mailbox, where a white piece of paper was sticking out. The heading said “memorandum;” the text was just as simple and terse.

“Employee Tom Davis was hired June 1990,” the text began. “Employee Davis has failed in several aspects that have brought much harm to the paper’s reputation.”

“What the hell is this?” I thought.

It went on, using vague words like “deficiencies” and harsh words like “transgressions.” It mocked his inability to be a “self-manager,” and ridiculed my “frenetic” and “disorganized” work style. It ripped what the management considered his “repeated mistakes” not only in story content but also in approach.

Its conclusion: My performance fell “way, way below expectations.” Just as I read that, Jenny walked into the newsroom and past me.

“What’s up?” Jenny said, smiling. “I see you got it.”

“Oh yeah. I got it,” I deadpanned.

“You remember, right, that you’re supposed to be evaluated just when you’re coming off probation?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, the bad news is, you’re still on probation,” Jenny declared, smiling. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any good news to tell you.”

I turned toward his mailbox, and shoved the paper back in there. “Look,” I said. “Is this about the base today?”

“It’s not just about the base,” Jenny said. “It’s a pattern of behavior that has to end, that is, if you so desire to continue working here.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Don’t bother trying to ‘get it,’ ” Jenny said. “Just do it.”



That night, I retreated to my apartment. I was spent. Heartburn burned in my chest. He sucked down a half-gallon of milk to cool it off, but it only made me feel worse. I felt like throwing up, again. I really, really wanted to. I went as far as the bathroom door. But like I’d done a hundred times, I stopped myself. I had promised myself that I would never do that again. And I didn’t.

This Delaware State News sucked. I had no friends. I had no fans. I had no fun. I was so desperate that I called MY parents. And even they were surprised.

“What’s wrong?” his dad asked. “Did somebody die?”

“No,” I said. “But I’m pretty tired.”

“So?”

“Look Dad, I don’t know if I can handle this anymore.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“I don’t know. It’s not going too well here,” he said. “I miss home. I’m lonely and everything. Can you understand?”

“I still don’t understand,” his dad said. “What have they got you doing there?”

“They’ve got me covering this murder here. But I feel like I’m just running in place,” I said. “This editor I’ve got – man, she is out there…”

“Well, she’s the boss,” MY dad said. “You’ve got to do what the boss says.”

“Yeah, but what if the boss is wrong?”

“You know what Billy Martin said about bosses?”

“What’s that?”

“He said there’s two rules about bosses,” his dad said. “Rule number one: The boss is always right.”

“OK, I’ve heard that before,” I said. “What’s rule number two?”

“Rule number two is this: If the boss is wrong, see rule number one.”

I laughed. “Uh-huh,” he said. “But I don’t know if you’re totally getting it…”

“Sure I do,” Dad said, interrupting. “You know, when I was young, I lacked a lot of confidence. I used to get stomachaches all the time – real ones, not like the ones you get.”

“Uh-huh…”

“I couldn’t eat much,” his dad said. “And eventually, it affected everything I did. I couldn’t hold down a regular job – I laid bricks. I sold encyclopedias. I just got really sick – a lot.”

“So what happened?”

“Well my Dad – he was a pip,” his dad said. “I was living at home, sleeping on a bunk bed, when one day he got in my face and he wagged those long fingers of his – they were like T.V. antennas, they were so long.”

“And he’d wag really close, almost to the point of sticking them in my eye. He said, ‘Son, just do your job, just do it well, and do it hard, and everything will be fine. And whatever you do – whatever you do – don’t ever, ever give up.’ ”

“He said that?” I said.

“He said it’s a sign of weakness if you quit, and if you’re weak, you don’t get any self-respect. And if you don’t get any self-respect, you have nothing. A man without any self-respect is nothing. You are a man without a soul.”

“So what did you do?” I said.

“Well, dammit, he made sure I got my ass out of bed every day and got to work,” his dad said. “He had a friend who had an insurance business, and he got me a clerk job. Then every day, he’d wake me up and he’d poke at me with those long fingers of his, and help me get out the door. He’d watch me, and he made sure that every day I was well-fed, that my tie was pulled tight and that my suit was as sharp as a razor blade.”

“I see.”

“And then it all becomes habit. You’ll see. Work is like brushing your teeth every night. It becomes you, and you become it.”

“Right.”

“Ask your mother – although, I tell you, it wouldn’t be too bad if she were home a little more often to cook dinner,” his dad said. “I’m not very good at it.”

“Well, I tell you what,” I said. “I call you in a couple days or something, just to get an idea on how mom’s doing. All right?”

“Okay. See you then.”

No mystery in tragedy - wrong-way crash driver was drunk

Once again, there is no real mystery in tragedy. Instead, the only unanswered question is not how a mother of two drank twice the legal limit of alcohol, smoked a lot of pot and crashed her minivan on the Taconic Parkway in New York, killing eight people, including herself and her child.

The question is: Why did she do it?

Was this a family secret? Or was it her secret? Or was there some mental illness behind the facade of normality that she projected to her friends and family? Was there some undetected issue that was ignored, and shouldn't have been ignored, but played against her type?

Here, we have somebody playing against type: No reported history of mental illness, self-medication or dual diagnosis. But something caused Diane Schuler to drive erratically as she did, call up her brother and complain about how she felt, and then drive head-on into another car.

Why were drinking and drugs never raised as an issue? Why did we just discount what wasn't so obvious, that some people can put up the facade of living a "normal" life, but they're really all that normal?

Before we demonize her, perhaps we need to start peeling away at the face of tragedy and see what true cause lies beneath.

As reported by The New York Daily News:

Death driver Diane Schuler was drunk and high on marijuana when her wrong-way crash killed eight people on the Taconic State Parkway, sources told the Daily News on Tuesday.

Schuler's blood alcohol level was .19 - about two-and-a-half times the legal limit, investigators confirmed Tuesday.

State Police first learned the toxicology results last Friday, but decided not to reveal the information until the victims were buried.

Police have given the findings to Schuler's family and relatives of the three other victims of the July 26 crash, which killed 36-year-old Schuler, her 4-year-old daughter, and her three nieces, ages 9, 7 and 5. Her 5-year-old son survived.

Also killed were the three Yonkers men inside the SUV Schuler hit - Guy Bastardi, 49, his father Michael Bastardi, 81 and family friend Daniel Longo, 74.

"We're beside ourselves," said Robert Guzzo. His wife, Roseann Bastardi, is the sister and daughter of the victims.

"Nothing's going to bring them back," he said. I can't say it helps to know what happened."

"In the beginning I was as puzzled as everyone else, but now it makes sense," Guzzo said. "I'm very angry... but it's a tragedy on both sides. I feel for those kids."

Westchester's chief medical examiner, Dr. Millard Hyland, told the Journal News the case has been ruled a homicide and referred to the district attorney.

Investigators revealed Monday that Schuler had been driving erratically for nearly 60 miles before the fiery crash and stopped at a Liberty, N.Y., McDonald's on the drive home from a camping trip in Sullivan County.

Her husband, Daniel Schuler, told police they left the campground around 9:30 a.m. and his wife was fine.

Around 1 p.m., Schuler called her brother - whose daughters were in the car - and said she was sick and needed help driving.

The brother, Warren Hance, called State Police in Tarrytown to say Schuler needed help. Troopers searched for the red minivan she was driving, but didn't find her in time.

Around 1:30 p.m., Schuler entered the north-bound Taconic via an exit ramp in Briarcliff Manor, Westchester County.

She drove for 1.7 miles before plowing into the Bastardis' Chevy SUV.

"I don't even want to think about if the brother knew what she was doing and let those kids get in the car," Guzzo said.

The Bastardis and Longo were on their way to Guzzo's house for dinner. They were going to discuss an upcoming family vacation to Wildwood, N.J., an annual tradition.

"We can't bear to go this year," Guzzo said. "I don't know if we'll ever go again."