From Hero to Zero A firefighter’s survival story. By Jeff Griffin

irst, let it be known that I am grateful to the program of recovery that

has kept me clean and sober for 6.5 years. Moreover, I am humbled Fby the love, compassion and support, (which I do not deserve) from the dozens of family and friends standing next to me. At one time, I was actually

angry at some of these wonderful people that stepped in and “worked me.” I

often wondered why they wouldn’t just let me be so I could move toward my own

miserable end. My name is Jeff Griffin, and for 30 years, I served with the City of

Phoenix Fire Department (PFD). I retired highly decorated and honorably in 2011

at the rank of captain. owever, just 8 months into a dream retirement, I made a terrible decision to operate a motor vehicle while impaired. This decision Hresulted in an accident that left an innocent man seriously and pro- foundly injured. I took full responsibly for my actions in a court of law and was remanded to the custody of the Arizona Department of Correction for a prison term of 4.25 years on the charge of aggravated assault, a class-three felony. I suppose I had a normal childhood. We did not have any extra money, but we had food on the table and clothes on our backs. The only blemish might be that my parents were divorced when I was about 4 years old. Equally important, I never saw my father again. My mother remarried a decent, hard-working man who was displeased with my restlessness. The actual words used to describe my behavior starting in about 5th grade: “If he could only sit still.” I was active in outdoor recreation, participating in bench-pressing, football, baseball, softball, rugby, camping and fishing. There was nothing like putting on the pads Friday nights only to be knocked around on every play! Likewise, I remember feeling quite content when I could barely make it out of bed to attend Saturday morning practices. In fact, I recall hearing the prin- cipal agree while speaking to my mother at work saying, “Yes, Mrs. Griffin, we wish football season was year round too.” I discovered alcohol at the age of 14. My friends and I were attending an overnight desert campout, and a couple of six packs mysteriously made their debut. Perhaps one of our clan had taken it upon himself to borrow them from the family stock pile? I recall seeing grownups drink beer on all sort of occa- sions; what was the big deal anyway? The cans made their rounds, and although I was disgusted by the taste, I wanted to further investigate the warm and fuzzy feeling. On future expeditions, I was thrilled that this new stuff calmed my fears and gave me the courage to ask a girl to dance. I have no idea how I graduated high school with a C average. I suspect someone might have doctored the books. I discovered years later that this someone was my high-school principal, the very man who had me as a guest in his office on so many occasions. Furthermore, this man wrote me in prison for just about one year until he passed away. I found it very odd that he had taken the time to track down my contact information almost 37 years after I graduated from his high school. fter graduating high school, I wondered what to do next. I wasn’t going to land a multi-million dollar pro contract or receive a university Afootball scholarship. I got the idea that I should become a firefighter. The more I looked into it, the more I realized that the fire service was my call- ing. For the next few years, my drinking was no longer one of my life’s central themes. In fact, I drank only on Saturdays after rugby games. I was even bold enough to spend my own money to take an EMT class at the community col- lege. I met a nice girl who eventually became my wife. She had the ability to settle me down, so I decided she was a keeper. In 1981, my hard work paid off, and I was hired by the PFD. During my probation rotation, people began to notice that I could bench press quite a bit more than the average B Shifter; I suppose I began to morph into one. In an act that required brute force and no smarts, I pulled a fellow firefighter to safety. It wasn’t long before people were saying things like, “Griffin can lift a ton. Too bad he can’t spell it.” Due to my actions at that fire, I was named Firefighter of the Year as a mere rookie. (I honestly tried to no let it go to my head!) In 1982, I was attending a going-away party for a dear friend. Two of my high-school football coaches were there, and one had just been hired as the head coach at a new local high school. He suggested that I help him coach the freshman football team. (Except for a couple of transitions years, I remained a certified Arizona high school football coach until my eventual incarceration in 2014.) Many firefighters had two jobs, and I was one of them. Both of these sub- cultures (firefighters and football coaches) are known to toss a few back from

VOLUME 8, ISSUE 2 28 HERO TO ZERO

time to time; I fit right in. At this point, my loved ones were not too concerned about my drinking habit. In response to several below-the-waist burn injuries, our fire chief, Alan Brunacini, instituted a mega-change. He issued a decree that Phoenix firefight- ers would no longer be allowed to wear day boots in the hazard zone. This was tyranny! We were screaming from the rooftops, “Don’t they know how hot bun- ker pants are?” In his infinite wisdom, Chief Brunacini anticipated this uprising. Still, he stuck to his guns. magine the courage it took this man to stand his ground. I heard a say- ing that describes how I felt about the whole thing: “A coward dies a Ithousand deaths, a brave man only once.” Chief Brunacini’s stance saved my life physically and mentally. On July 1, 1989, I fell into a fully involved attic wearing bunker pants and all other full protective clothing. Coincidentally, a neighbor captured this entire event with a home video camera. That was it! Chief Brunacini needed video evidence to back up his stance. Now he had it, and what was even better, it was me, one of his very own court jesters. Equally important, a quarter century later, Chief Brunacini made a more dramatic impact on my life. Shortly after my legal trouble began, in January 2012, I was informed he had begun to reach out to my family. I never asked why. I was too brokenhearted. I considered him a father figure, and I was too ashamed to face him after what I had done. Hell, he had already save my life once, what else could he do? After my arrival at a medium-custody facility (Arizona State Prison Com- plex, Tucson) in August 2014, letters from the chief began to arrive. For reasons still unknown to me, the chief went through the Arizona Department of Correc- tions (DOC) visitation background-check process, and he starting showing up as one of my many visitors. I often wondered if he and my high school principal, Mr. Ryan, knew each other. In October 2017, the chief passed away. His family honored me by requesting that I speak at his memorial. In spite of their efforts, Arizona Department of Corrections had to decline this request because he was not an immediate family member, and it posed a security risk, based on the amount of people is expected to attend. (This was difficult for me to accept, as I had a relationship with the chief that I did not experience with my real father.) Back to the roof collapse incident. I suffered burns on my left hand, legs and buttocks. Relatively minor injuries, all things considered, but they still cov- ered enough area to hurt like the devil. Finally, the ER doctor came with the pain medicine, and I don’t recall ever feeling such a sense of ease and comfort. All I could think was: Wow where have you been all my life? hereafter, I experienced one thing after another that started me on a slow, downward spiral. For instance: My best friend’s father died; my Treal father died, (which created more resentment); my mother died; several dogs were put to sleep; I suffered several more injuries that required pain management; and a multitude of bills were looming. Simultaneously, I lost my privilege to drink openly unless I felt like being glared at and nagged. I felt I was being unfairly judged: “You don’t understand it, you would drink too if you were in my shoes!” I was now drinking for all the wrong reasons, because I had to. It was becoming tougher to get to sleep and stay asleep without some assistance. During these years, I made several attempts at get- ting sober. 30 days here, three months there, and yet on each attempt, I was more miserable and more depressed. I cannot count the number of times I informed my loved ones that I wasn’t going to do it again, and I was sorry that I embarrassed them, and I promised to stop drinking. I was sincere when I said these things. Somehow, I managed to retire. I was able to schedule my retirement to coincide with my son’s high-school graduation. That day was bittersweet. One day I was a firefighter, and the next day I was not, if that makes any sense. My

29 B SHIFTER wife and I had worked hard; we had big dreams about sailing off into the sunset. However, my alcohol issue had not been resolved, and it was not long until I became a daily retirement drinker. In just eight months, it all came crashing down when I caused a serious accident while impaired. I am unable to fully describe the hor- ror of that day. Truly the shame and guilt were overwhelming to the point of outright terror. I disgraced my family and reputation, and I dishonored the noble profession of firefighting. I could actually imag- ine what was being said around the firehouse dinner tables.

I would not wish the alcohol detoxification process on anyone. For the first three days, I did not sleep.

Immediately, the thought popped into my head that I could not or would not be able to endure this for very long. My first reaction was to drink into oblivion, to quiet my mind. I hoped beyond hope the Grim Reaper would come and take me out quickly. Perhaps with a massive heart attack. At least there would be some honor in that. Utterly destroyed and unwilling to sit up straight, I drooped on my back patio, reliving my situation over and over. Finally, my loved ones had seen enough, and they arranged for my immediate admittance into a 30-day inpatient treatment facility. “Treatment for what?” I screamed. In my current state of mind, I couldn’t care less. Hell, maybe they were taking me to the morgue. Why not? In my opinion, I was not worthy of one more day on this earth. Upon arrival at the facility, I noticed a sign to proclaim the name of this place. The last word caught my attention: hope. I flipped the sign the bird, for I was hopeless. I would not wish the alcohol detoxification process on anyone. It is absolutely nasty. For the first three days, I did not sleep. I think I attended some groups during the day, and I vividly remember pacing the grounds throughout the night, becoming quite friendly with the graveyard security officer. Moreover, I was scared to death, my mind was racing without control of my thoughts, and I was absolutely cer- tain alcohol was my best hope. Somehow, I did not venture down to the neighborhood liquor store. Day four changed my life forever. My counselor escorted me to the business office to discuss a billing issue. The business manager said I was on the hook for about $12,000 if I completed the 30-day inpatient treatment. I blurted out, “Yeah, right! See ya!” Abruptly, my counselor intervened, almost as if she anticipated my response. She said, “Please, Mr. Griffin, don’t leave. The money is not an issue.” Once again I remarked, “Yeah, right.” She stated, “We made a phone call to your buddies over at United Phoenix Firefighters.” I unloaded and yelled, “You what? Why in the hell did you do that? And what did they say?” Casually she responded, saying, “They told us to send them the bill. Jeff Griffin is a good man.” How could she have fathomed what my thoughts were these past 10 days? That act of human kindness literally dropped me in my tracks. I buckled at the knees and fell out. In addition, something in the room was different. My head was up and I saw the tears stream- ing down her face. She experienced it too, I reckon. That was Feb. 7, 2012, and I have not had a drink or mind-altering drugs since then. Of paramount importance is this: I made a decision to do whatever it was going to take to never feel like that again. My treatment team suggested I be willing to follow a few simple rules, specifically as it pertained to participating in my treatment plan.

VOLUME 8, ISSUE 2 30 HERO TO ZERO

What choice did I have? None. At that time, my head was still foggy, and this recovery business was not making any sense. Suddenly, I became aware that advancing a hoseline into an involved structure did not make sense either. Inter- esting concept; perhaps I was on to something. However, I had to go deeper. I started to look for similarities between fighting fires and fighting alcoholism. First, alcohol and fire both provide us with a sense of warmth and comfort. Second alcohol and fire provide us with a certain ambience. Furthermore, both have no respect with regard to age, skin color, financial or social status, and both want us dead. If not respected and use as directed, we are in deep trou- ble. Why could I not employ the same attitude toward fighting alcoholism as I did fighting fires? I listened once, perhaps I could listen again. The only thing in the way was me. ventually, I was arraigned. Because this was my first offense, the state allowed me to stay free on my own recognizance. However, this privi- Elege came with some court-ordered sanctions. Specifically: My civil right to bear arms was revoked; I was to stay clear of bars, dance clubs and casinos; I was to submit to random alcohol and drug testing; I was to check in once a month and after each court session; and I was told not to drink and drive. Unbeknownst to everyone involved, it took over two years and at least two dozen court sessions to convict me. My wife and some friends accompanied me to most of these sessions, only to see their husband, father and friend be judged and subjected to scorn. Not a pleasant experience for a retired, highly decorated firefighter. But I had stayed sober throughout the process, and I was not guilty of violating even one court-ordered sanction. In conclusion, my survival is predicated on sobriety, and my goal is to stay sober, no matter what. On July 14, 2014, three years after I retired and just about 2.5 years after the accident, I was formally sentenced to serve 4.25 years in prison. I am not going to comment on my criminal justice experience, except to say: They wield all the power. Besides, how was I to put up a legitimate fight when I was guilty? I believe prisons and emergency scenes are the same. In other words, I have to be constantly aware of my location. Conditions could change in a nanosecond, and I better have pre-planned an escape route. Last, so many wonderful people have written to me and come to visit me that I get emotional every time I think about it. To date, I have earned 45 college credit hours toward an associate’s degree in addictions and substance use disorders. Equally important, I do not judge others. Who the hell am I to judge another, after the way I behaved? Come on man, I am wearing an orange uniform with “ADC” stenciled on it. I hope I never forget that I am just one bad decision away from thinking I can have a few drinks, like I see many folks do from time to time. For me, I need to get busy paying it forward, with hopes of preventing someone from going through the hell I have experienced.

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