“I don’t feel good,” he said as he crumpled to the floor, attempting to find comfort. His white undershirt, now soaked with sweat, was sticking to his body. Droplets of the same were trickling down his forehead, presumably stinging his eyes. The hollow, dark spaces beneath his eyes giving away the pain he was probably feeling. Earlier in the week he had doubled up on his methadone dosage, meaning that it was now Sunday and he had missed his Saturday dose and wouldn’t be going to the clinic for another two days. The extreme nausea and insufferable diarrhea would be setting in by now, the beastly, deep, aching bone pain would be coming soon. It’s the kind of thing that I now tell myself I won’t ever have to deal with again, but I say so with the kind of knowing that makes my stomach knot into terrible, twisted pieces. I can’t ever say with any certainty that I won’t be in that predicament. I can only know that the next twenty-four hours are safe. I’ve armed myself with all the tools and spiritual principles that will allow me a one day reprieve. If I don’t do what I can now, who knows what will happen next. (File that one under Obvious Foreshadowing.)
I must be careful with the way I respond to him. I don’t want to set off the kind of hysteria that will surely end with a needle in his vein, but I am scared. Besides methadone, there is only one thing that will keep this kind of sickness at bay. And that was when God decided to answer the first of several times that day. I looked down at my feet, trying to regain some sense of right, and that was when I saw the spike. It was half filled with the amber liquid of destruction, more specifically, my destruction. This was not something I was expecting to see on the floor of my bedroom while holding my tiny son in my arms. This is not the family I have. I live in a nice house, we drive nice cars, my child goes to a good school. This is not the way things are supposed to be anymore.
And I was filled with a blind kind of rage that I have never before had when seeing a needle filled with my death of choice. Whenever I have made the decision to pick up again, I am usually filled with some kind of relief that subtly overpowers the fear I have of what a crushing disappointment I am. Seeing the needle that will inevitably bring this relief always fills me the a warm, dreamy, euphoric recall of the Good Times. (What little there were of those.) Not this time. I am angry beyond words. How could you do this to me? To him? To us? We have become respectable. We are believable, good people. That will destroy everything.
I am holding the needle behind my back. As if to create some wall between it and my son. He will not be this. He will not see this. He will not be a child of this. I breathe and become right again. I begin to understand, to remember, the kind of monstrous sickness that eradicates any ability to differentiate between right and wrong. The kind of sickness that will justify bringing that in the house to help him feel better. I am no longer speaking to him. I am speaking to the beast that has woken up after months of hibernation and he’s starving. Whatever it is I decide to do now had better include feeding the beast or at least finding something to pacify him.
And it comes to me! There is always treatment! And he needs it! Taking methadone is like throwing a rawhide to the beast: it may not be a raw and bloody steak, but it’s good enough. I’m tired of good enough. It’s not really living. It’s like walking through life with a blanket wrapped around one’s brain- it dulls the sharp edges and nothing really gets through. It’s like sex with a condom. He tentatively agrees to go, but not for five more days. Five more days which feel like an eternity. And all we have to do is make it until Tuesday, which seems like forever. And what does he do until then? How is he going to make it?
The answer: He does whatever he has to do. He quiets the beast and then bitch slaps him back into his cave. He smothers that fanged creature with pillows of poison and clubs him for good measure. I would love to say that I’m not really sure how I made it through, but I know. The cherubic faces of my children, their eyes wide with innocence, were my foundation. Brick by brick I lay it down using the desire to keep life as normal as possible for them as cement. I will fight to the death of me, clawing my way with fingers broken and bloody, in an attempt to keep myself sane. That needle doesn’t sing the same siren’s song that used to lull me into stupidity. At least for the next twenty-four hours. Until I reload my gun, aiming directly for the beast’s head and blowing it to smithereens.
For a while, I left. I went to my parent’s house. The safe cocoon feels like my mother’s womb. That, or a plug where I can recharge. I also build my wall with my family’s love. God knows they may be crazy, but they only want the best for me and my children. I won’t be another victim of this disease. I won’t allow my children to become victims of this disease. We are more fighters in a war against it. We won’t stop until this disease lay bleeding at our feet. Now we have one more joining our army. Proud would be the wrong word. It’s more like inspired by his bravery, honored by his fight, and appreciative of his self-respect. It will be a difficult few weeks, but the results will be fantastic. I can’t wait to see what unfolds. Two more days.
