It should have been a typical Monday night in mid-January: I was seated at my desktop, running through edits, and sipping coffee. An hour passed when I thought, It’s time to hit the gym. I hesitated. I was not alone in the house, yet it was quiet… too quiet.
Quietude, although mostly welcomed, has its own language; it doesn’t speak words, it conjures scenarios, heightens intuition, and elevates awareness. And thus I crept up the stairs and tapped on Andrew’s bedroom door. There came no reply. I twisted the door handle only to discover it was locked. It marked an anomaly, as Andrew rarely, if ever, locked his door. I rapped louder. Still, there was no reply. I called out, my voice echoing loudly enough to stir anyone, regardless of how soundly they were sleeping. Before long, rapping became pounding, which matched my screaming. And then I kicked the door off its hinges. Next, I dashed to the bed. Three slaps to the face proved no more effective than my yelling and pounding, nor did my twisting Andrew’s nipples to send a message to the pain center of his brain. When I realized he wasn’t breathing, I dragged him onto the floor, opened up his mouth with one hand, and called 911 with the other. Seemingly, within seconds, I was standing amid a cluster of policemen and EMTs. One of the policemen, Randy, a neighbor six houses away, was kneeling at Andrew’s head and administering Narcan. I heard Randy desperately urge, “Come on, Andrew, breathe!”
I was standing in the hallway, peering over the shoulder of a policeman, when I heard Randy ask an EMT the time. My knees buckled as I thought they were about to call time of death. It’s amazing all that can flash through a mind in a mere second. Among those thoughts was what my life would look like and mean without my son in the world. Finally, the EMT told Randy, “Forty seconds,” which was the time that had elapsed since Andrew last drew a breath. A minute later, Andrew was fully awake, able to ambulate, but disoriented. Meanwhile, I had learned about fentanyl.
Earlier that day, we bought Andrew’s books for the last semester of his sophomore year at Rowan University. By then, we had put some difficult times behind us. But all addicts think they can have one last party, one last time to dodge self-destruction, or cheat death. That night was the eye of the storm, for it was the closest Andrew came to death. There would be other brushes with death on the horizon.
That night in mid-January was the midpoint of an eight-year perdition. Nowadays, Andrew won’t even take an aspirin. He heads a material science lab in Burlington County, New Jersey.
Often, when I have difficulty sleeping, my mind travels back to that dark night and how it might have turned out differently. What if I had gone to the gym? My wife, Kathy, who was military, claims I have a touch of PTSD. If that’s the case, it’s a very small price to pay for our family still intact, sober, and thriving. What got us through those eight long years? We are not extraordinary. We are not special. What we are are parents. And like most parents, the deepest well has got nothing on the depths of our love and hope.
If you have an addict, never give up, and don’t let shame get in your way. A hundred people will take a drink. One will become an alcoholic. That person isn’t bad; they just drew the short straw when it came to mixing with substances. Most of us can take one drink, one toke, one hit, and place one bet and walk away. The addict cannot. But an addict doesn’t realize they’re an addict until they’ve tried, and once they’ve tried, it’s too late. You will walk no harder a road than watching a loved one destroy themselves. You will not prevail with threats or anger. Your only hope is that they choose to love themselves as much as you love them.
Michael's Corner 
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