The death of a child is the greatest pain of all. And what is it like to watch your child die over and over at the poke of a needle? Hearing the lies and seeing the anger, witnessing the despair and abject poverty are all a part of an all too familiar life.
Watching him alternate between sleep and wake and in those wakeful states, he becomes confused and childlike. The mess of the apartment doesn’t compare with the mess of his mind. One look around to see laundry and pizza boxes, crack pipes and foil pans, yellow powder and uncapped needles and my heart sinks.
“Don’t touch that Mom! Keep your shoes on. Wear gloves,” he says
And then to see that child beg for help my heart swells with hope and happiness only to go through hell again as I watch him shake and twitch and writhe, crying out in agony. Screams that shatter my heart and kicking legs that knock over anything close by. Once while driving he had an attack. Trapped in the car with him as he cried in agony and slammed his head against the windshield and then the passenger window and back and forth again, clutched his stomach and screwed up his ravaged face was excruciating for me as well. At one point he opened the car door on the highway and I feared losing him yet another way.
Twelve long days later the sun started to shine on his cheeks, but tears welled in his eyes. Tears for depression caused by no dopamine and a passionate longing to flood his brain with the hormone.
After such a long fight to get clean it seems to be such an injustice that he thinks happiness can’t be found for a long while. A mother can only pray that she and her son can weather this storm.
So where does one start? One prayer.