Alcoholism brought her to death's door at 31. Now she's helping others recover through hospital peer coach program

Nov. 5—Some days, Chassity Lemuel tells her story six or eight times. But she says she never gets tired of recounting the harrowing journey that brought her to death's door at age 31.

"There's always somebody that needs to hear that hope," Lemuel says.

In fact, she believes God saved her from an early and preventable passing for that very reason: to repeat again and again what happened to her, to help save others from suffering a similar fate.

"I think God had a purpose for me, and I had to go through all of this and share my experiences with others," she said. "I would never take back anything I had to go through because it all had a purpose."

Before her medical meltdown, she didn't think she had a purpose.

At 37, Lemuel sees her path clearly now.

She's the health care program manager for Springs Recovery Connection, which is changing its name to Serenity Recovery Connection. The nonprofit organization in Colorado Springs trains former alcohol and drug addicts to walk alongside others who are trying to live in a sober state.

From homeless people and manual laborers to professionals and executives, from young adults to grandparents, those who rely on the program's trained companions who understand what they're going through are more likely to attain sobriety, officials say.

"Peer-to-peer is the equalizer between us," Lemuel says.

She began drinking alcohol at age 11 and didn't stop until 20 years later, when her liver and kidneys began failing to the point that doctors told her she had just a few weeks to live.

"I would get totally annihilated for no other reason than I couldn't stop drinking," Lemuel said. "I didn't think there was any hope. I thought I was going to be an alcoholic all my life."

Drinking was accepted in her large, Hispanic family, she said. So, nobody noticed when her alcohol use got out of hand.

She would have one or two drinks in public settings but worked her way up to ingesting at least a half-gallon of vodka or whiskey a night, mostly in private.

At age 27, Lemuel, who at the time worked as a histology technician studying tissue at Penrose Hospital, said she noticed her eyes were yellow, indicating jaundice.

At the emergency room, a doctor told her to quit drinking. Lemuel took an eight-month hiatus before starting up again, first with beer, then malt liquor, then shots, then her go-to vodka and whiskey.

After she met her husband, Lemuel said she tried to conceal her habit and would intentionally pick fights so she could be alone and drink.

In five years, her weight ballooned to 300 pounds, and her liver began giving up, followed by her kidneys. The irony was that Lemuel had stopped drinking one month and one day before full-blown organ failure occurred.

"The doctor said if her kidneys come back, her liver will come back," she said.

Some doctors were compassionate, others not so much. She was sent home from the hospital under hospice care, and one physician told Lemuel's mother to start making her funeral arrangements.

"My mom said, 'I need to tell you something. I have faith. I know my daughter is a fighter. I'm going to take her home and do everything I can, and the only one who's going to tell her she's going to die is the Lord.'"

At home, 31-year-old Lemuel was chairbound, and her husband had to feed and bathe her.

She refused to sign a "Do not resuscitate" order because her husband told doctors, "We believe in God. She's going to make it."

After 12 weeks, Lemuel was kicked out of hospice because of her physical improvements.

And she was deemed healthy enough yet sick enough to qualify for a liver transplant.

She went through a "rough and scary" evaluation process to be put on the transplant list at UCHealth's Anschutz Campus hospital in Aurora.

Two years later, as the coronavirus pandemic arrived, Lemuel no longer needed a liver transplant but remained on the list in case she got COVID.

When a godmother in recovery invited her to an event at Springs Recovery Connection, Lemuel went and listened to other people's stories.

"I just knew I had to be sober," she said. "I had never worried about my recovery, just my health."

She volunteered for a year as a trained peer coach before being hired for a new program.

UCHealth in Colorado Springs started a grant-funded pilot project in 2018 for Springs Recovery Connection to provide peer support coaches at Memorial Hospital Central.

The hospital's behavioral health team works with five peer coaches, who approach patients identified as having substance use disorder, a mental condition that leads to the inability to control one's use of legal or illegal drugs, alcohol or prescribed medications.

The success of sending trained peer coaches, instead of clinicians, to talk with patients has transformed the hospital's practices, said Andrea Wood, behavioral health manager for UCHealth in southern Colorado.

When clinicians ask patients about their substance use, it's often a difficult, unwelcomed conversation, she said.

"It's not fair for people to be so ashamed and stigmatized that they'd rather die than tell people they have an addiction," Lemuel chimed in.

With peer coaches, "The impact is so much more than a clinician that doesn't have that experience," Wood said.

"Our help (with clinicians) can only go so far," she said. "Once someone like Chassity shares their story, it's like a lightbulb goes on."

Instead of just handing someone a brochure about sobriety and recovery, Lemuel relays her personal struggles with a positive outlook.

"I say, 'I don't know how you feel now but I've been there, and I can feel you know I feel it.'"

Learning how to live her life without using alcohol or drugs seems to have made Lemuel wise beyond her years.

With a sympathetic ear, she asks patients about their troubles and whether they might want to talk to a support coach on the phone or in person, or find a doctor or a program to assist them in getting sober.

Statistics prove that Lemuel and other peer coaches deliver a message of hope that's inspiring, Wood said

"If I refer somebody, out of 100%, only 30% make it to recovery," she said. "With Springs Recovery Connection peer coaches, 80% make it to recovery."

The program also has resulted in a "significant reduction" in people returning to the hospital, Wood said.

Of 80 nonduplicated patients in October, only one self-reported that they had returned to the emergency department, Lemuel said.

"We know coaches are bringing more people to sobriety, and they're staying sober longer," Wood said.

Follow-up calls or emails are part of the process.

Many patients with substance use disorder are homeless and can be connected with mental health counselors, medically assisted treatment to quit using substances and sober-living programs.

The community's lack of affordable housing and residential treatment programs for Medicaid-insured patients can be barriers, though.

Colorado Springs does not have a residential treatment facility for Medicaid patients, so they're referred to centers in Pueblo or Denver, Wood said, where waiting lists can be one year or longer.

Peer support coaches started in Memorial Central's emergency department and now are available on every floor of the hospital, Wood said.

The program has moved from pilot to permanent status, and UCHealth plans to add peer coaches at Memorial Hospital North and Pikes Peak Regional Hospital in Woodland Park.

"I've seen the difference it makes," Wood said.