Addicted to "Intervention"

For its bait-and-switch techniques, the Boston Globe called "Intervention" "vile" and "an exercise in fraud." In theory, my favorite show sounds like a hideous and possibly exploitative premise for prime-time fare. (Or worse, an opportunity for wet-eyed earnestness and psychobabble.) The show would not be possible without the ruse, however -- no addict would agree to be filmed. And, for me, "Intervention" serves a higher purpose than entertainment. It has provided a safe outlet for the intense, bottled-up grief and anger I have felt for the last 13 years. "Intervention's" editors leave in only the most intense, private moments of grief -- mothers sink to the floor in fetal positions, sisters wrap their arms around homeless alcoholic brothers. Grown men cry -- usually fathers driven to the brink of their composure. Nothing quite so cathartic has ever appeared on television before. Call it Television of Cruelty.

The show always makes me worry that someone's gonna die, but here's what gets me. I find that as I watch, I care more about the addict's family members than for the addicts themselves. There aren't many substance abusers on "Intervention" who are likable -- constant dosing makes you a pretty boring, obnoxious person, it turns out. But most of them are squandering some kind of potential -- they've forgotten who they are. Tressa had a shot at Olympic gold until she started doing meth; Trent, homeless and doing smack in a culvert, once worked as a four-star chef; Lacey became a millionaire in a divorce settlement. During the intervention, their families and friends remind them of the experiences, values and ambitions that used to guide their lives. Each member of the addict's social network reads a written note designed to remind her who she used to be, and shock her into grabbing a chance to resume a fulfilling life.

The notes are clumsy -- formulaic even -- but heartfelt. The miracle (perhaps because, for me, sloppy prose should have no effect at all) is that this living eulogy generally works. Very few addicts on the show ever reject a tearful offer of a cushy rehab center on the California coast or the Arizona desert, even if, like Laurence, they don't stick with the program and end up drinking themselves to death.

It is also a miracle to me because I would love to do exactly the same thing for my mother. DeLora has forgotten who she is, but no amount of memories and dreams I write down will remind her of that and jar her into resuming her old life. My whole family and our combined writing skills couldn't do that. "I want you back," family members almost always tell the addict on "Intervention." I want my mother back too, but no one ever returns from Alzheimer's. Instead, I get whatever solace and catharsis I can from watching other families remember who their mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters used to be and bring them back into their lives with the delicate power of words and tears.

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