Truth Tale #15: 7 Years of a Progressive Disease

This came from Morning Pages this morning:

7 years. A progressive disease. Never better; always worse.

The last 8 months in DC, to include a 24 hours gone missing scare, which looked like this- calling all of the local emergency rooms, the morgue, the police department to file a missing persons report, searching the back allies in his neighborhood. The waiting. And waiting. Not knowing what was to come.

He came back. Tested positive for every single drug on the panel. He lived. A miracle. My friend did not. She was found floating in a river, dead. Same day. Same disease. Different outcomes. This time.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas I watched the most rapid decline I had seen thus far. I knew it was coming. I could feel its fast approach. And felt the gravity of its strength, like an ominous undertow. The period right before the quick sand takes hold is unbearable.

There is an intersection that I drive through multiple times a week. It’s the stop sign where, if I turn left, I go to pilates, a form of self care and physical therapy in one. If I go straight, I will end up at the hospital. Pilates and the ER are equidistant from this spot. There were many times I sat at that stop sign, screaming sounds unrecognizable, not knowing which way to drive. Left- my routine of going through the motions, with my brain on fire. Straight- arrive at the ER to say, “I can’t do this; I don’t know how to live like this.” At which point, they could check me into the psych ward (which honestly sounded appealing at the time), or have me escorted out of the building. I didn’t care which. I just didn’t know what to do anymore.

The holidays brought with them a new level of sick. Remember- it is a progressive disease; if active, it ONLY gets worse. And here was this awful disease, proving this to be fact.

Thanksgiving. My 2 other kids were here from out of town. On the way to taking them to the airport, we drove them to say goodbye to him. They ran up to his place, and my husband and I waited in the car. I looked at him and said, “This could be the last time they see him.” That painful lump in the throat. And tears.

By Christmas, I was in a stand off I never could have imagined….trying to evict him from the apartment, refusal to leave, cops, EMTs, more cops, and learning the tenant laws of DC in the midst of this crisis.

Looking around this trashed apartment that used to be such a perfect, sweet place to live, now looked like a scene out of Dexter (no joke), but replace blood with mud. Don’t ask. All you need to know is that what proved to be more dangerous than heroin this go round, was a very sick girl with so many untreated DSM diagnoses (watch Inventing Anna to get a whiff).

After hours of unimaginable insanity, I watched my son be escorted in handcuffs into a paddy wagon in 10 degree weather, to be taken away to God knows where. What you should know is, our nation’s “system” is so incredibly broken, that he walked back in the door of this apartment hours later, while we were cleaning the chaos off the walls.

Believe or not, because I still do not believe it, I had to call the cops again. Another stand off, ending with the cops telling me and my husband we had to leave, he gets to stay, and a feeling of complete defeat and fear.

Fast forward- days of him with nothing in the apartment- no food, no clothes, no nothing, except the option of, “The only thing I can do for you right now is take you to treatment.” He won’t go. Days go by. I picture him alone, hungry, sick. Until he asks for help.

Nothing is ever smooth, nothing simple when it comes to this, but at the end of a day of driving all over creation, to do crisis assessments, intake process, etc….he does NOT meet the criteria for any of the programs where we were. Broken system. I was in shock!

We are given a number of a place they say will take him. By 4:00pm that afternoon, I say goodbye to him, as he gets into a car with the clothes on his back and a small paper bag containing tissue, a journal, a mask, and a water bottle, to be transported to a treatment facility.

I won’t even go into how horrible and disorganized this place was (and believe me, after having dealt with TEN treatment programs (not to include medical detoxes, prior to this, I know bad when I see it), because really it was just a safe place to go for 36 days, and to try to figure out next steps.

Now for some uplifting stuff….I just have to say, to all of those who have cared for my son over the last 7 years, who have loved him when he could not love himself, who have kept me afloat, who are STILL here for him and for me..I thank you from a very deep part of my heart! You know who you are, but here are their first initials- L, G, E, D, A, M, J, E, Dr. R, Dr. S, S, S, A, L, L, R, B, E, R, S, M, K…and I know there were more. So many incredible souls, helping so many frightened people. There is actually a lot of connectedness in the above people, regardless of being in DC, NJ, CA, NC, UT, AZ.

A particular connection is what got my son to where he is today…One of the above mentioned life-savers texted me, saying he thought that a certain program would be good for him. I actually cry when I get these texts, because the depth of caring is overwhelming. So many of these kinds of supportive texts from all of the above mentioned…all along this 7 year journey!

So from that magical text, Aidan is now in a place that, if I could have created a program myself, it would look like this- structure, slow moving progress, community, accountability, and parent support. This parent support I talk about, is next level. It has been life changing for me, and he has only been there a little over 2 weeks. There is a Monday night Zoom parent meeting, which is filled with parents of current clients, as well as parents of those who have been through the program. 54 people were on this call, to be exact! I was amazed!

My heart melted, my nervous system restored itself when I joined this call the first time. I had tears of relief streaming down my face, looking into the eyes of all of these parents, knowing they know exactly how horrible this is. When they say, “My son…..” I feel I know their son…because I know my son. I see their pain…and I know their pain. Their stories, their tragedies, their fear, their love, their resentment, their shock, their hope..I know it, because it is mine too.

I have finally found my people, in terms of being a parent of a son who has substance use disorder. I can’t explain how much I look forward to Mondays at 7:30pm!!!!!!! Seriously, it feels as important as oxygen right now.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU….ALL OF YOU!!!!!!!