Yesterday I got the dreaded call. As the mother of a recovering addict, I expect it daily. I am continually on edge. The past two years have taught me more than the previous 50 about the ins and outs of drug addiction, including the heart-wrenching fear of loss. My son and his wife are long time users. They were functioning addicts. Any musings on my part would be met with “Ah, but they are so ….(fill in blank, wih an adjective not attributable to an addict… helpful, loving, easy-going, etc.).” I thought I was imagining things. But after the tragic accident of my younger son, the sheet hit the fan and my eyes were peeled open, by a horrible outside force. SEE! LOOK! UNDERSTAND! The force said. My life turned upside down. Maybe I don’t WANT to understand. But I had to.
Months of drug rehab, outpatient meetings, counseling, etc followed. Things were looking good. My son and daughter-in-law were re-integrating to society. But oh, the needle calls. The sting, the prick, the floatiness. (So I’m told.) Talk of triggers, and coping, and being real. Still, the needle calls. Someone confided, ‘when I hear of a fellow addict’s overdose, my first reaction is jealousy.’ Because s/he felt the prick, got the high.
Yesterday’s call was not just about someone. Or anyone. It was a call from the mother of my (ex) daughter-in-law, the mother of my beloved only grandson. “She’s gone.” she said. My brain can’t decipher. “Where did she go?” I asked. “She died.” Still I refuse to accept the words. That’s impossible! I just saw her 10 days ago! We were at the playground, we talked of concrete things like soccer balls, chicken nuggets, and winter coats. She did not SEEM to be a heroin addict. She was Ashley, my grandson’s mom. Chatting with another young mom, following the pack of children darting across the asphalt like little otters. Stopping only to lace up a shoe or get a Kleenex.
But Ashley, for whatever reason, made the fatal decision to feel one more sting of the needle. She fell from the bathroom to the hallway. Her own son, not even 5 years old, found her there, saw her turn blue, wailed at his inability to help her. Such deep pain. Such trauma inflicted on such a young soul. Eyes that have seen too much.
My own eyes won’t stop crying. Tears fall incessantly, while I make the plane reservations, pack the bags, feed the cats. I am sick and tired of this! Sick of tragedy, death, pain. Young people dying preventable deaths! A young mom, not the best mom, but not the worst. Offering a warm lap, a big hug, a ride home from school. A mom who knew the names of stuffed animals. “Do you want Racky Raccoon tonight, or Skookum?” I am so tired of drugs and their insatiable hold on our youth. Tired of death. ENOUGH I say!! Broken hearts litter our world like fallen leaves, getting kicked around in the commotion of living.
We must gather up. Gather together. End this tragedy. Only by naming our enemy will we triumph. One life saved is victory. Talk about it! Name the demon! Anxiety, depression, addiction: we are watching you! If you feel sad, reach out. Talk about it! If a family member or friend suffers from any of these feelings (and most of us do, at least at some point), listen. Be there. Care. These are the tools. Low tech. Simple. Available.