I should have been able to handle the health crisis that addiction and withdraw threw in my face. I wanted to believe the lies. Yes, I went for the interview. No, mom, I'm not abusing my drugs. Matt lived with me the last seven years of his too short life. We battled many days. Screaming at each other after I'd come home from a hour shift to find him slumped over on the couch with white residue on his nose, his list of chores undone.
Still I denied he was that addict. Being a nurse I had contacts in the treatment world and believe me I exhausted them. There wasn't a mental health facility in Delaware that I haven't visited with Matt in tow. Unfortunately for us my state had no rehabs so it was always a fight to find him a safe place out of state.
Getting him admitted and finally being able to breath even just for 28 days felt like the weight of the world left my heart. Knowing he was safe gave me the false security that my son would also be one of the survivors. Matt coming home was always a mixed bag of emotions. Yes, I was happy to see him but at the same time I was scared to death. I had to keep a roof over our heads and that meant Matt was once again afforded the freedom to live in his world of euphoria.
When I had exhausted the resources in Delaware, we went to Maryland then Pennsylvania. Through this entire seven-year journey I never thought he would overdose. Denial became my very dear friend. Tough love didn't work for us either. I finally told him he had to go after he stole from me and then called the police on me for hiding his drugs.
You see, I was tired of the rehab stuff and was going to detox him myself at home. He left and I cried and constantly worried. I let him come home to shower and eat, I felt like a piece of dirt. Me living in a great house and Matt sleeping on whatever couch he could find for the night. Tough love just about did me in so Matt came home and the cycle started all over again. I became the mom police, checking his phone and emails. Searching through his room and things. I was becoming someone I never wanted to be.
My friends, tired of the same Matt stories started to avoid me. My life became a place I didn't want to be anymore and I would dream of selling everything and running away, but I had to save Matt. Our last Thanksgiving together was spent at Rockford, a mental health facility. We were given one hour. Knowing what I know now I would have signed him out and run like the wind. My son eating with strangers and me crying my heart out as I left him behind. He ended up there after another screaming match with me coming home and him stoned again.
I told him it was rehab or the streets. I drove him there on a Monday night and held my breath in the waiting room as the staff did their assessment to decide if he would be admitted. I praised God all the way home in joy that maybe this would be the magic time as all the books tell you, don't give up one time he will get it. I fooled myself into thinking we finally did it.
The last time I saw Matt was a beautiful day in May, so full of promise. Matt looked great, speech and eyes clear. He told me he was so happy to get the monkey off his back and was ready to start his new life at a sober living house in BocaRaton, Florida. The Boca House was recommended by Matt's counselor and was actually a place mentioned in one of the books I'd read. If only I had known what Matt was heading into I never would have bought that ticket.
He left for Florida on June 2. We spoke twice a day. He told me he felt blessed to be so close to the beach. You see, we are beach people, me and Matt. I felt good knowing he was on board for his recovery and breathed a sigh of relief. I so foolishly believed that 28 days in rehab had prepared Matt to face the world again. A world where Mom wasn't there to pick up the pieces and get him to safety. I was flying to Boca on February 10th to spend the week with Matt.
To celebrate his new life and meet his boss, as Matt finally found employment. How foolish I was.
Coping with ADD: A Mother's Point of View
With a job came a paycheck. Matt overdosed on January 3rd and my life stopped. I live in a world of disbelief. How did this happen. Every time we spoke he sounded normal, my ears, trained to pick up the changes in speech failed me. We spoke at 6: He died 5 a. My last words to him were, "I love you Matt, stay safe.
Holding them as they said goodbye to their babies who were born too soon or too sick for even the latest technology to save.
I remember crying with them feeling like I let them down by not being able to save their babies. I remember the feeling of helplessness and hopelessness as we sat together. I remember saying it will be ok. I think back in horror. How could I have uttered those words when I had no idea of the heartbreaking pain these moms were feeling as they held their dying babies. I am ashamed that I thought so little of their grief as their dreams were shattered and their lives were changed forever. I now get it. No amount of love, tough or otherwise, could have saved our kids, we know this.
Yet, we continue to beat ourselves up with the whys and what ifs. I rethink every decision ever made during my son's battle. I am an educated woman. A nurse who became more educated by attending conferences and reading everything I could get my hands on about addiction. Still, my addict son stayed in his world of chaos, deception and drugs until those demons took their final toll on his body and mind and ended his life. So now I am left behind. There really are no words to describe the toll addiction takes on the non-addict—the fixer, like me.
I'm a nurse; I fix people for a living. I, like so many other mothers, place the blame on myself. What did I do wrong? Why did my child become an addict when everyone else's child was living a productive life? These questions have no answers. At least none that can ease the pain that fills my heart and mind every day as I try to figure out a way to cope with this ending I never imagined.
I've read that childhood trauma can lead to addiction. Matt's father left when he was five. I often wonder if that caused him to choose a world where pills could make you forget pain. I have two sons. The other, married with a child, spent 10 years serving our country. Two different boys raised by the same mother puts a hole in that theory for me. In my wildest dreams I never thought my son would die from an overdose. Every admission to a rehab was filled with such hope.
He believed, just like I did, that we would beat this demon back to the hell it came from and become that happy family once again. Every relapse was a break in my facade that life would get better. But denial kicked in and life returned to the chaos we knew as normal. Now, he is gone and I'm told I have to accept and go on. How does a mother learn to accept the death of her youngest child? There are no magic pills that will make my shattered heart whole again. Believe me, the medical professionals have tried to shove pills down my throat.
I've been given Xanax, my son's favorite go-to pill when the going got tough.
Will My Insurance Pay for Rehab?
I've thought about taking them, then my little voice of reason says, "No way. They are just a mask. I've been told I'm depressed and need, once again, to take those magic pills to make it all go away. Really, we have become a pill-pushing society. No one wants to feel pain. Some doctors run clinics just for the purpose of keeping people pain free. They have a license to create addicts. Matt was one of their victims. I felt the pain of giving him life and I need to feel this pain of losing his life.
This pain is part of who I've become and there is no covering it up. We aren't allowed to be in mourning. People aren't comfortable when you cry in their presence. No one wants to hear your story, even though saying it out loud makes you feel like maybe you did do everything in your power to help your addict. Reliving the horror is a way of coping, knowing you went through such a hell and are still breathing is a powerful thing for us moms.
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Society wants you to get over it. Hey, my son is dead. I'm allowed to be sad. It's a way to cope. Some days are better than others. Some days, I can get through the day without too many "Matt Moments," where a memory hits hard and the tears start. People don't want to hear about your dead son. They are afraid the pain you live with will invade their world and they will become you—like addiction is catchy and you are the carrier.
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I don't expect anyone to fix me. I know there is nothing anyone can say to make this better. Every day is a challenge. I know people mean well but there are days when someone will call and offer advice. Now I haven't heard from or seen some people for months but they are just so full of great suggestions. Really, your children are alive, you have no clue.
Why can't people just call without an agenda to make me feel better? Just say you care, you're thinking of me. That's what I need. Not the "you should be Yes, you're right, I should be working, eating more, having fun. My mind turns ugly as I think you have no clue of the struggle it is to cope with my reality. My son should be alive. Throughout my journey, I have found many blessings. There are mothers, like me, who sadly get it. We have a support system that not one of us signed up for, but we are joined together by grief.
These strong women who started the journey before me have listened while I screamed, cried and told the same story over and over. They do not judge or tell me what I should be doing. They listen, they shed their tears with mine. We have a bond that will never fade. We have experienced the heartbreaking, life-shattering death of a child.
I never knew these women existed. They knew nothing about me. Yet, I feel a closeness to them I can't explain. I want to comfort them when they cry out on the birthdays that have ceased to be. When they have the gut punches that only profound grief can bring. Holidays come and break our hearts again. Together, we hold each other up. This journey has shown me who my true friends are. The women who admit they can't imagine my pain, but aren't afraid to hold me when I cry and just show up on rough days.
Every Life Matters: A Mother's Point of View
I believe God put him in my life knowing Matt would be leaving me. He is my rock. I was a smart girl; a critical care nurse who made great money. We had a great life. No money worries for us.
A mother's love, from a daughter's point of view
Today, I have no job, my smart girl brain lost in this world of grief. Mike, my firstborn, Matt's big brother.
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The inseparable boys until the demon came between them. Always there when I need him. We cry together, his only sibling gone. He shares my grief. He reassures me when the guilt seeps into my brain and I second guess every decision made during Matt's addiction. He is my voice of reason. He lived the nightmare of his brother's addiction. Comfort comes in all shapes and sizes of furry bodies and paws. My pups, all rescued, have returned the favor and rescue me every day.
No judgment when the tears are falling, just four pairs of knowing eyes all running to cuddle.