Twin brothers, twin addictions--when one crossed over, the other crossed the line.Numb. That's how Jonathan Davis felt when he pumped his body full of painkillers to abate his AIDS-related pains. Eventually, he lost his battle, leaving his identical twin, Scott, to deal with both the emptiness of losing his brother and the stress of being a young medical student. In time, Scott was also hooked on painkillers and was heading down the same road toward destruction and death."Living Jonathan's Life" is the true story of how Scott--Dr. Scott M. Davis, who is today a renowned addiction medicine physician at the Betty Ford Center--experienced the same kind of pains in the same places that his brother Jonathan did before he died. The phantom pains battled medical experts, who tried surgery, morphine, and prescription narcotics. Soon Dr. Davis was writing prescriptions for himself, living a life similar to that of his twin. When Dr. Davis's addiction was finally discovered, his personal and professional world came crashing down. The only thng that kept him afloat was his brother Jonathan's secret poetry, kept hidden until after his death.This unique true story will inspire readers whose lives are touched by family demons. "Living Jonathan's Life" breathes life into the notion that anyone can fall into the darkness of addiction--as well as rise above its wrath.

Scott M. Davis, M.D., serves as the only full-time addition medicine physician at the world-renowned Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California

1The Mournful Beat of Unforeseen Drums July 23, 1993 The dream is always the same.Jonathan and I are eight years old again, happy, laughing, running down a sidewalk in our quiet New Jersey neighborhood. The summer sun is bright and warm on our backs as we run to nowhere in particular. Just to be able to run seems good enough. I run behind Jonathan in tandem with his steps, as though the movement of my feet depends on his.We race across a neighbor's lawn and cut into a narrow alleyway between two houses. We are still laughing childishly as the cold, dark recess seems to swallow us up, sweeping us toward the other side. As we near the end of the alleyway, the sunlight becomes even brighter and warmer than before. Somehow, I am now ahead of my brother as I rush into the light, arms raised and waving wildly, yelling, 'Heeeere weee gooo! Heeeere weee gooo!'I run into a large field I know well. It is dotted with small, grassy knolls and scattered with beautiful sunflowers. But I can no longer hear Jonathan running behind me. I turn around to urge him on faster.Jonathan is running to catch up, but he is no longer an eight-year-old boy. He is thirty-three years old, as when I last saw him, and his body is frail with pain and illness. His eyes and face are sunken and discolored, pasty and ashen in tone. His clothes hang loosely around his wilted limbs. With a tired arm, Jonathan motions me to run ahead, and I dash behind one of the grassy hills. I lay flat behind the small hill, frightened by my brother's sudden transformation. Cautiously, I peer around it.Jonathan is gone. I am alone in the field. Sherman Oaks Medical CenterSherman Oaks, California On July 23, 1993, I awoke once again from that dream. I had fallen asleep in the small dark hospital library. I was alone in the room, breathing in the musty smell of the worn leather couch where I had slept. A ray of obnoxiously bright fluorescent light intruded through the doorway and cut the serenity of the darkness. I feared that my life would change forever when I left this room, and I did not want to leave.Knowing I could not stay, though, I walked out of that calm cocoon and into a torrent of frenzied activity. Nurses and doctors breezed by, seemingly oblivious to my presence as I made my way down the hallway to the intensive care unit.From the crowded nurse's station, Jonathan's physician, Dr. Gottlieb, looked up at me. He nodded and smiled weakly, but in his eyes was a sadness and sympathy that had not been there before. With his head, he motioned to me in the direction of Jonathan's room. I anxiously quickened my pace.I was horrified by what I saw when I entered his room. In the dim early morning light of the intensive care unit, Jonathan lay in bed, eyes closed. A large plastic tube snaked out from a unit near his bed to a clear mask on his face. As the unit hissed in time with his shallow respirations, it forced concentrated oxygen into his weakened lungs. A heart monitor a

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Excerpted from Living Jonathan's Life: A Doctor's Descent into Darkness and Addiction by Scott M. Davis
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