Doctors doubt, but it gets results

By ART CAREY

Source: The Philadelphia Inquirer

Within days of beginning treatment, Mike Wire noticed changes. His pain eased. His mood brightened. His sense of smell returned, sharper than ever.

A retired millwright, Wire, 60, is among thousands of rescue workers, firefighters and police officers who developed an array of serious ailments after the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York. Wire spent 2½ weeks at ground zero helping rig cranes to remove a precarious fallen girder.

Wire’s symptoms — shortness of breath, depression, aching joints and feelings of doom — surfaced later. And he found little relief until he began getting treated at the New York Rescue Workers Detoxification Project, a Manhattan clinic that follows a protocol pioneered by the late L. Ron Hubbard, controversial founder of the Church of Scientology.

The Scientology link spooked Wire a bit, frankly. But he and hundreds of Sept. 11 responders were desperate for help. What they got has left most of them amazed.

Set against these believers are skeptics who emphasize the need for an independent review of the center’s detox regimen. They question whether the program’s reported benefits are real or purely psychological. The harshest critics call the method quackery.

But many independent medical experts who have visited the center and talked to patients say they are impressed by the experiences of Wire and others. They are also mystified: This clinic seems to be doing something good that is helping heal those who came to the country’s aid, but what it is, no one fully understands.

Dirty work, dirty places|

Mike Wire is a big man — 6-foot-6, 260 pounds. He had spent his career building and fixing industrial machinery. It was dirty work conducted in dirty places.

Last winter, Wire, who lives in Richboro, Pa., was feeling bad.

He had trouble breathing. He couldn’t sleep. Bile was backing up in his throat — acid reflux.

He went to see a pulmonary specialist. He went to see an allergist. Meanwhile, his symptoms were getting worse. His joints began aching; his mood turned sour.

“He became short-tempered and began snapping at the grandkids, which was really unlike him,” says his wife, Joan. “He didn’t have a whole lot of zest. He wasn’t as lighthearted as he once was.”

Wire was already somewhat depressed. He was still reeling from the death of his brother, Frank. A fellow millwright, Frank was robust and physically active until acute myeloid leukemia was diagnosed in the fall of 2004.

He died, at age 62, in May 2005, leaving his wife, three sons and a grandchild.

It affected Mike deeply.

“It may be down the road for me,” he remembers thinking. “Do I have to go through the same agony?”

Then, in March, Wire got a call that changed his life.

On the phone was Jan Stewart, the wife of his cousin Bobby Stewart. She wanted to tell him about the unorthodox detox center in Manhattan that was achieving remarkable results helping Sept. 11 rescue workers who had symptoms just like Wire’s.

Supported by actor and prominent Scientologist Tom Cruise, it opened in September 2002 and is housed on the fifth floor of a narrow office building on Fulton Street, a couple of blocks from ground zero. She urged him to look into it.

A toxic storm|

The collapse of the twin towers produced an unprecedented dust storm of hazardous substances. For weeks, the fires that burned in the debris sent all manner of poisonous gases into the atmosphere.

Since Sept. 11, thousands of rescue workers, firefighters, police officers and residents of the area have developed a persistent hacking cough and other ailments, such as asthma, chronic sinusitis and gastrointestinal distress. In a May interview with the New England Journal of Medicine, Robin Herbert, director of the World Trade Center Medical Monitoring Program, warned that ground zero health problems seemed to be occurring in waves of escalating gravity: coughing and respiratory difficulty, then chronic asthma-like lung disease, and now cancer, especially cancers of the blood and lymphatic system, such as leukemia and lymphoma.

Free program|

Herbert and her colleagues were seeing conditions like multiple myeloma in young people, something they had never observed before. “That’s been a really unusual and troubling experience,” she said in the interview.

The Manhattan clinic offers its detox program free to all who were involved in the rescue effort and do not have medical issues, such as a heart condition, that would make participating unsafe.

It is also strictly nonreligious and engages in no proselytizing for the Church of Scientology. But it is affiliated with the Foundation for Advancements in Science and Education (FASE), a Los Angeles research and education nonprofit rooted in Scientology and backed by leading Scientologists.

The clinic’s president is Jim Woodworth, 46, a Scientologist. Personable and enthusiastic, he has ties to FASE and moved to New York from Sacramento, where he had been involved with a similar detox program.

So far, 838 people have completed detoxification in New York, and in nine out of 10 cases, symptoms have disappeared or diminished substantially, Woodworth says.

A half-dozen people who reported similar dramatic improvements were interviewed by The Philadelphia Inquirer, as were several union leaders, who spoke enthusiastically about the program and said scores of their members had benefited from the treatment. While more than 400 members of New York’s fire department have sought treatment at the clinic on their own — on average it lasts 34 days and costs about $5,000 — the department does not pay for the care. “It is not an approved medical-treatment program,” department spokesman Tony Sclafani says.

The full cost of care is covered by the center’s fundraising efforts, with contributions coming from a wide range of supporters, including celebrities and Wall Street investment managers.

On the Internet, Mike Wire learned that the detox regimen was pioneered by Hubbard and involves exercise, body-cleansing through sessions in a sauna, high doses of the vitamin niacin, and other vitamin, mineral and oil supplements. Hubbard devised it to rid addicts of drug residues in their fat and blood.

Wire is by nature skeptical. Nevertheless, what he was learning was persuasive. Still, he wanted more proof. So in early April, he visited the clinic to see for himself.

He was astonished and comforted to learn that rescue workers, cops and firefighters who were there for treatment were experiencing the same cluster of ills afflicting him: acid reflux, shortness of breath, aches and pains in bones and muscles, depression, feelings of doom.

“There were guys in their 20s and 30s who were having these symptoms,” Wire says. “It was not just me. It was not just about getting old. This was about 9-11. The common factor was ground zero.”

Finally convinced, Wire signed up and, a week later, underwent a complete physical.

The most persuasive case for the detox regimen is made by the patients, many of whom report dramatic improvement in their health.

Critics and skeptics are leery of these testimonials, what scientists call “anecdotal evidence.” They attribute the tales of recovery to the power of suggestion, the placebo effect and psychological delusion.

“A lot of how you feel depends on belief and hope,” says James Kenney, a registered dietitian with a doctorate in nutrition and a fellow of the American College of Nutrition. “You can’t underestimate the power of suggestion and self-hypnosis in terms of mitigating people’s symptoms, especially when it comes to vague psychosomatic problems such as depression and fatigue.”

But doctors and experts with no link to the clinic who have visited and spoken to the patients are invariably impressed. The changes in appearance and health are too salient to be written off merely as wishful thinking, they say. Something remarkable appears to be happening, and it deserves thorough scientific scrutiny.

“I don’t understand how or why this particular method works,” says John Brick, a biological psychologist and expert on psychopharmacology who visited the clinic in July. “Whether it’s from some mysterious combination of vitamins or just good diet and exercise, I can’t say. But the bottom line is that it helped the patients I talked to.”

The validity of the program should be verified by an independent, disinterested party, Brick adds. “As a scientist, I like to see data. To the best of my knowledge, no one has clearly demonstrated a causal relationship between the treatment and the outcome.”

The mainstream medical establishment looks askance at the Hubbard detox program. Over the years, some doctors and scientists have denounced it as unsound and dangerous. Critics say the program is based on physiological fallacies and is unsubstantiated by science and credible studies.

In the 1980s, Bruce Roe, a professor of biochemistry at the University of Oklahoma, was asked to examine the rationale behind Narconon, a Scientology-linked drug-rehabilitation program that employs a similar detox protocol. After studying a stack of published material, Roe called the method “pure unadulterated cow pies.”

It’s “a scam,” he said, based on “half-truths and pseudo-science” and “as medically valid as using copper bracelets to cure arthritis.”

Keith Miller, president of FASE, the Los Angeles nonprofit that supports the Manhattan clinic, says his organization has long sought a partnership with other institutions to produce “an independent, university-based research study” of the detox program.

Indeed, one of the experts FASE approached is David Carpenter, a research physician whose professional focus is the effect of environmental contamination on human health.

After FASE contacted him, he twice applied for grants from the National Institutes of Health to evaluate the detox regimen, but was turned down both times. He is committed to trying again.

A professor of environmental health and toxicology, Carpenter is director of the Institute for Health and the Environment at the State University of New York at Albany.

“I’m convinced the program has beneficial effects,” he says. “The question from my perspective is: Are they mainly psychological, or is it really ridding the body of nasty chemicals?”

Medical science has yet to discover a way of removing contaminants from the body, especially fat-soluble contaminants stored in fatty tissue, Carpenter says.

“But before we get too excited, it must be demonstrated that it clearly does work through an objective, totally independent, rigorous analysis.”

Asked to explain why the NIH has yet to fund any studies of the clinic and the Hubbard detox method, a spokesman says: “It is the science that drives NIH funding, and so we cannot discuss projects that were not funded. The privacy of applicants is protected in that way.”

John Howard visited the Manhattan clinic in 2006, was also impressed by the “great testimonials,” and believes the NIH should fund a formal study of what is happening.

Howard, a physician, is director of the National Institute of Occupational Safety and Health and coordinator of World Trade Center programs for the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. NIOSH has been funding the screening, monitoring, and recently the treatment of those whose health has been damaged by Sept. 11.

“What I’d love to see are some controlled trials that would address the question: Does the treatment really work?” he says.

Commuting by train, Wire underwent detox sessions at the clinic day after day, with no breaks. As time went on, the detox sessions grew to five hours, with more spells in the sauna. The dosage of niacin was steadily increased — eventually to 5,000 milligrams, way above what conventional medical authorities deem safe.

“If it’s as toxic as they say, I should be dead,” says Wire.

In addition to niacin, Wire drank a concoction of lecithin and polyunsaturated oils (soy, walnut, peanut and safflower). According to the Hubbard protocol, this cocktail of cold-pressed oils keeps the mobilized contaminants from being reabsorbed by the intestines and helps usher them out of the body.

During his time at the clinic, Wire saw plenty of dramatic transformations. After finishing the program, many men were able to walk out with a bounce in their step for the first time in years, free of drugs and medications, he says. In a ritual, they left their inhalers on a shelf by the door, like crutches at Lourdes.

After 35 consecutive days of treatment, Wire was pronounced detoxified.

His shortness of breath, his acid reflux, his aches and pains, his gloomy outlook — all gone.

“I feel great,” Wire says. “I’m much healthier, more invigorated and involved in life.”

Since then, he has felt no need to revisit the specialists who had treated him previously, nor has he sought further medical care.

He’s looking forward to the future again, making plans to save a ranch in Burnt Fork, Wyo., once owned by his grandmother.

“He feels better. He looks better. His eyes are clearer. He’s happier. I got my old Mick back,” says Joan, using a pet name.

Wire wants to do more. He wants more people to know about the program. He wants businesses to contribute money and supplies. He wants his union, the United Brotherhood of Carpenters and Joiners of America, to patronize the clinic.

“People don’t realize that for people who are sick, 9-11 is not over,” Wire says. “The government is doing what it has to, but this is the only group that is proactive, that is actually helping people get better.

“If I had known about it when my brother was sick, he might still be alive.”

I found this on NC Times today. This is a very interesting story about the biggest Scientology center in the world!

CLEARWATER, Fla. —- Sure, says Mayor Frank Hibbard. It can be a little unsettling sometimes —- throngs of Scientologists wandering Clearwater’s streets in their blue or khaki trousers and crisp dress shirts.

Sometimes, it makes the neighbors a bit uneasy.

“When you come to downtown, no one likes being a minority,” Hibbard says.

But mostly, folks in this picturesque Gulf Coast city have come to accept that Clearwater is to Scientologists what Salt Lake City is to Mormons, what Mecca is to Muslims. Though not everybody is happy about it.

“I think there’s been a slow shift from a very strong adversarial relationship to a tolerance,” says Ron Stuart, who clashed with church officials as an editor of the now-defunct Clearwater Sun in the ’70s.

“There’s still a lot of people in the city who don’t trust them and wish they weren’t there,” says Stuart, who now works for the county court system. “But you can’t deny that they contribute, particularly to the economy. Without them, there probably wouldn’t be a downtown.“

It’s all unfolded over more than 30 years, since 1975, when L. Ron Hubbard came ashore.

The science-fiction writer and his associates, who for years operated from aboard a yacht at sea, secretly bought a historical hotel in a dying downtown with a vision of making Clearwater a spiritual home for his Church of Scientology.

The mysterious newcomers made waves almost immediately with secretive, aggressive expansion and —- according to church documents seized by the FBI —- a covert plot to discredit their enemies and “take control” of the city.

Today, downtown Clearwater is an international Scientology stronghold and a destination for elite members (including celebrity devotees like Tom Cruise and John Travolta) who come from all over the world for the highest levels of the church’s spiritual training.

The empire’s thumbprint on the downtown corridor is considerable and conspicuous, from the uniformed church workers on the streets every day to the two dozen or so Scientology-owned buildings and other properties in the low-slung skyline, many of them fully or partially exempt from property taxes.

Scientology’s gem is the new seven-story Flag Building, which covers a full city block just down the street from the county courthouse where the Terri Schiavo legal drama played out a few years ago. Also known as the “Super Power Building,” it will be the largest Scientology structure in the world when completed late next year and is expected to draw thousands more visiting believers to Clearwater.

By church tallies, around 12,000 Scientologists live and work in and around Clearwater now, the old attitudes and prejudices in town softened by the passage of time and aggressive community outreach by the church. Scientologists now sit on the boards of civic groups. They own businesses downtown. No longer is it political suicide for local leaders to associate with them.

Hibbard, mayor of the city of around 110,000 residents, can hardly forget that the church is the largest private property owner downtown. His seventh-floor offices at a downtown investment firm offer panoramic views of the massive Mediterranean Revival-style Flag Building and other Scientology holdings.

“They are a large presence,” he said. “To ignore that fact is like sticking your head in the sand.“

Hubbard established the Church of Scientology in 1954, based on theories he conceived in his best-selling book, “Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health.” Today, the Los Angeles-based church claims 10 million members and more than 7,000 churches, missions and other groups around the world.

Scientologists believe spiritual enlightenment is possible by ridding your mind and soul of the accumulated, unwanted effects of this lifetime and innumerable previous lifetimes through an intense counseling process called “auditing.” Auditors use a device called an “e-meter,” similar to a polygraph.

Parishioners pay hundreds and even thousands of dollars for the auditing services and progress through various levels of “Operating Thetan.” Those seeking to achieve the highest “OT” levels come to Clearwater, where the church inhabits the 80-year-old Fort Harrison Hotel and a cluster of other beautifully restored buildings.

Hubbard chose Clearwater, the church says, because it was accessible —- the Tampa airport is a half-hour away —- and warm year-round. There is also a story, perhaps apocryphal, that he liked the name —- “clear” is the state of being Scientologists strive to attain, and Hubbard loved the sea.

About 1,400 members of the church’s elite staff —- known as the Sea Organization —- work in the buildings, church spokeswoman Pat Harney said. They live in former tourist hotels and motels around town that have been bought and refurbished by the church.

Despite the church’s longtime presence and outreach efforts, Scientology is still mysterious and intimidating to many in Clearwater. The church’s own polling in 2003 showed that a majority of local people who had no previous contact with the church had negative opinions about it.

And some sources approached for this story declined to talk on the record, citing fear of harassment by Scientologists. Hubbard urged his followers to “attack” the church’s enemies, and many in town believe that the policy didn’t die with him in 1986.

“There’s an aura of mistrust still,” said Ray Emmons, a former Clearwater police detective who investigated the church in the 1980s and still lives in the area.

By many other accounts, though, the Church of Scientology has made huge strides mending fences in Clearwater.

The saga began when the church bought the Fort Harrison Hotel under an assumed name. Then, according to evidence seized later by the FBI, church officials plotted to discredit their “enemies,” including the mayor and local newspaper reporters and editors.

Suspicion grew in the late ’70s when Hubbard’s wife and 10 other top church officials were convicted in Washington in a plot to steal federal government documents.

In the 1980s, the city held hearings to explore allegations that Scientology is a cult, but no action was taken. Clearwater residents protested the church. Church members protested right back.

In 1995, 36-year-old Scientologist Lisa McPherson died after being cared for by church staffers for 17 days in the Fort Harrison Hotel. A wrongful death suit by her family was a public relations nightmare for the church for years until it was settled in 2004. Charges of criminal neglect and practicing medicine without a license were filed but later dropped.

Attitudes started a slow shift in the ’90s.

Local politicians, recognizing a sizable voting bloc, started showing up at Scientology-sponsored candidate forums. Scientologists shored up their image by getting involved in many civic groups and community improvement projects. Outsiders were invited into the Fort Harrison Hotel.

A local watchdog group that dogged the church after McPherson’s death moved out in 2002.

“Little by little, the barriers just disappeared,” said Mary Repper, a political consultant who advised local candidates in the 1980s and ’90s. “Now if you go to one of their events, you see more business leaders, more community leaders, more elected officials than any other event in the county. They recognize the church’s value now, they see it was an integral part to the solutions of Clearwater.”

Pinellas County Commissioner Susan Latvala was one of the first local politicians to warm up to Scientologists in the early 1990s and remains friendly with church officials.

“They’ve become part of the community because they reached out and made an effort,” said Latvala, who got a $250 campaign donation from a Scientology-affiliated political action committee last year. “It’s really changed in the last 10 or 12 years.“

Said Harney: “We’ve done some growing up, we’ve gotten to know people, we’re better understood. I think it is more understood that we are people from all walks of life.”

With a new causeway to the beach rerouting tourists away from downtown, Clearwater leaders are desperately trying to figure out how to fill the many vacant storefronts and attract a mix of people to the city center.

Meanwhile, Scientology continues to spread out in Clearwater, turning a former assisted-living complex into an upscale hotel for visiting Scientologists, fixing up a run-down apartment complex to house more staff and opening a new parking garage.

Though many of its buildings are tax exempt, the church paid nearly $900,000 in taxes on its properties in the city last year. And a church consultant in 1999 estimated that Scientologists pump more than $80 million a year into the local economy.

Still, there is disagreement about whether Scientology’s large presence has helped the redevelopment of downtown Clearwater or hampered it.

New condo buildings are rising on the harbor and a long-awaited streetscape face-lift is in the works, but some people wonder if a diverse downtown culture is possible with a Scientology building on nearly every corner and church staffers on the streets every day.

“When you have a mystery, people stay away,” said George Kelly, owner of the landmark Downtown Newsstand.

Not everyone agrees. Omar Alexander, 21, who sat sipping a frozen coffee drink at the downtown Starbucks recently, said he isn’t bothered by the ever-present Scientologists and doesn’t believe they keep other people away. Every Scientologist he knows is a good person, Alexander says.

“ They’re working hard, doing what they need to do ,” he says.