Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.11.2013, Blaðsíða 16

Reykjavík Grapevine - 08.11.2013, Blaðsíða 16
Worldwide, drug and alcohol rehab is closely tied to celebrity culture. It’s thought to be for people like Amy Winehouse, who died pre- maturely due to alcohol intoxication just three years after releasing her hit single “Rehab” in 2007, and Lindsay Lohan, who reportedly wants to open a rehab centre in her name, giv- en her extensive experience in such facilities. Alcoholism | Rehab Rehab is not for your average Joe. In fact, only 10% of people in the United States who need treatment for drug and alcohol addiction receive it, compared to 70% for diseases like hypertension, major depression and diabetes, accord- ing to a report released by the National Center on Addiction and Substance Abuse at Columbia University. In Iceland, however, the story could not be more different. Iceland’s Centre for Addiction Medicine, SÁÁ, which has been running the nation’s drug and alcohol rehab for the last 36 years, diligently advertises that its practices have touched every family in Iceland through the years. In fact, the number of Icelanders who have sought rehab treatment for alcohol and drug addiction—12.8% of Iceland’s living male population over the age of 15— is another of Iceland’s per capita world records, according to Gunnar Smári Egilsson, who recently stepped down as SÁÁ’s director. Of Iceland’s alcoholics, he says 70% have sought inpatient treatment at SÁÁ’s Vogur Hospital and 60% of those have been sober for one year or lon- ger, which he thinks must be another world record. With more than 250 people on the waiting list for Vogur’s 10-day inpatient rehab programme, SÁÁ can’t keep up with the demand. It may be four to six months before those on the waiting list get one of the hospital’s 60 beds, with first-timers being given priority. Meanwhile, as SÁÁ fundraises to expand its Vogur facilities, countless recovered alcoholics have been shar- ing their personal stories in the media to raise awareness—just like a cancer survivor might do for cancer treatment in the States. In the last two months, for instance, everyone from the direc- tor of a successful ad agency to a re- spected lawyer and former Supreme Court justice have written columns in Iceland’s daily newspapers, testifying to their successful treatments and en- couraging people to donate money to the cause. So just how did alcohol rehab, something that is fairly uncommon and which often carries a stigma in countries like the United States, be- come so common and openly accepted in Icelandic society? A Loophole In The System The story of alcohol rehabilitation in Iceland begins more than 40 years ago, when attitudes towards alco- holics were anything but favourable and daytime drinking was limited to white-collar drunks and homeless people. “At that time, alcoholics were ei- ther arrested and transferred to a prison for alcoholics in the country- side, or referred to psychiatric treat- ment at a mental hospital where they were given hot and cold baths and electroconvulsive therapy,” Gunnar Smári says when I meet him last year at Von (“Hope”), the building that houses SÁÁ’s outpatient centre, Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, so- cial events and more. “The idea that people could recover from alcoholism was a foreign idea.” Then, in 1975, an Icelander went abroad for treatment at Freeport Hos- pital in New York. At the time, Ice- landers had to go abroad for all kinds of medical procedures that were not available in the country so it was not al- together unusual that the Icelandic So- cial Insurance Administration agreed to pay for the treatment. “In two years, 300 Icelanders went to Freeport through this loophole in the system,” Gunnar Smári says. “The most well known bums in town went and were able to recover. This led to a great awakening, and SÁÁ was really founded on a call from the nation to give more people access to this kind of rehabilitation.” Financially, he says, it also made sense. Treatment was covered by in- surance, but patients had to pay their airfare and, although Flugleiðir (now Icelandair) agreed to cut rehab patients a deal, it was not cheap. Bringing Rehab To Iceland Among the first to go to Freeport was Hendrik Berndsen, who goes by Binni and runs a f lower shop in downtown Reykjavík called Blómaverkstæði Binna. In an article titled “Enginn trúði á þessa róna” (“Nobody Believed In Those Bums”) published in SÁÁ Blaðið, a free fundraising paper de- livered to homes, Binni recalls SÁÁ’s formative years when a small group of people took it upon themselves to bring rehab to Icelanders. “Society looked down on alcoholics, seeing a drinking problem as a weak- ness rather than a disease. Alcohol- ics in the mental health system were looked down on, by other patients and not least by themselves,” says Binni, who was admitted 20 times to Iceland’s main psychiatric hospital, Kleppur, before finally seeking help at Freeport and recovering. When he came back, people could hardly believe their eyes. “People called and asked, ‘what can we do for this one or that one,’” Binni says in the interview, “and so we started shipping people out.” For a year and a half, he says he made 60 trips accompanying alcoholics to Freeport—mostly white- collar drunks like directors, CEOs, MPs, undersecretaries and the director of the Social Insurance Administra- tion—clocking more f light hours than a f light attendant. Binni and a few others then found- ed the Freeport Club to support those returning from treatment and to get them into AA meetings. This group then founded SÁÁ in 1977 with the purpose of bringing rehab to Iceland and Binni became its first vice-chair. After bouncing around between temporary facilities, and even trans- porting robe-clad patients mid-treat- ment, as Binni recalls, they set out to build a more permanent home and proved themselves to be not only pio- neers in addiction treatment, but also in fundraising. SÁÁ, Binni says, became the first organisation to get companies in Ice- land to raise money for their cause. “We got Frjálst Framtak’s [the com- pany “Free Enterprise’s”] Magnús Hreggviðsson to make calls. We is- sued bonds that we sent to every home. People could decide how much they wanted to pay and over what time pe- riod. Búnaðarbankinn [one of Iceland’s main banks] used this as guarantee on SÁÁ’s loans,” Binni says. “Then the media turned against us. Many jour- nalists were drunks at the time, as you can imagine, and they succeeded in arousing suspicion.” When that fundraising method failed, SÁÁ came up with another way to sell their bonds. Then director of Sjónvarpið [Icelandic TV]—who Binni describes as “one of us”—had given SÁÁ a primetime slot for a fundrais- ing programme, so Binni and Magnús f lew to Los Angeles to convince the stars of ‘Dallas,’ a popular show in Iceland at the time, to make an appear- ance. With the help of the Icelandic film producer Sigurjón Sighvatsson, who was studying film in LA, they were more than successful in their mis- sion, secruring not only actors from ‘Dallas,’ but also a number of others, including actress Melissa Gilbert who struggled with drinking and played Laura Ingalls in Little House on the Prairie, another popular show in Ice- land at the time. “This led to a change in the atmo- sphere and fundraising took off again,” Binni says. “It was like mudwrestling to establish Vogur.” Checking In At Vogur Hospital A little more than a year after Vogur opened, Þórarinn Tyrfingsson became its head doctor and treatment coordi- nator. “Like so many others my age and a bit older, who struggled with alcohol addiction, I drank myself into the field,” he says, chuckling from across his desk at Vogur. By the time he checked into Vogur, he was working as a general practitio- ner. Following his treatment, he went on to become an “Icelandic brennivín doctor,” as he calls himself, overseeing what he describes as “10-days of de- tox and motivation that gives patients hope and assurance that they can find a cure for their evils.” He emphasises that SÁÁ views alcoholism as a disease and that the treatment at Vogur is evidence-based and all in the hands of doctors. It’s also no accident that the sign greeting people who come for rehab does not just say Vogur, but Sjúkrahúsið Vogur “Like so many oth- ers my age and a bit older, who struggled with alcohol addic- tion, I drank myself into the field.” 16The Reykjavík Grapevine Issue 17 — 2013 Rehab Nation They tried to make me go to rehab and I said, "Yes, yes, yes!” — Anna Andersen Nanna Dís 30,000 estimated alcoholics in Iceland - 22,000 alcoholics have gone to treatment - 10-12,000 alcoholics are in recovery - 900 have sought treatment, but haven’t recovered - 8,000 haven’t sought treatment Source: SÁÁ

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