I worried and fretted, when my eldest child was brought to the intensive care unit three days ago, that the nurses and doctors might treat him differently, maybe even give him substandard care once they knew why he was there. That's because he was admitted not after a car accident in which he was blameless. Not due to some mysterious, unknown fever. No, he was rushed to the hospital, nearly lifeless, after a massive drug overdose and a brutal physical assault related to his involvement with drugs. But I was wrong to worry about this; in the time since we began our bedside hospital vigil - could it really only have been three or four days ago? - every single medical professional on the staff here at the hospital has been wonderful - skilled, compassionate and just plain amazing.
This wasn't the first time I've been concerned about what people would think if they found out. In fact, I've been worried about what would happen if our family's terrible secret "got out" - that my son suffers from a life threatening drug addiction - for several years now. I mean, some people DID know - the people closest to us. And as someone who has been writing essays and blogging about her family life for many years, I had alluded to the issue obliquely here and there since about 2008 - so I am sure some readers had their suspicions. However, until this week, until H overdosed and ended up on life support in the ICU, I had never said it clearly, proactively,without obfuscation or minimizing.
But I am saying it now, out loud, in public, for the first time: I am the mother of a drug addict.
My beloved, firstborn child suffers from a terrible disease, addiction, and he has been struggling with it for several years. It started with early juvenile experimentation with marijuana at about age 14 and has progressed to where he is now, addicted to hard street drugs and as a result, lying in a critical care hospital bed, dealing with a horrific brain trauma along with various other physical injuries that are the direct result of that disease.
He has been to drug treatment (almost a year, inpatient), 12 step meetings, jail and on the streets. I have cried, begged, threatened, prayed, and beat myself up every way a mother can possibly beat herself up. I know I made mistakes in raising him. My first and biggest mistake - and one that I implore other parents reading this not to make themselves - was to minimize and rationalize my child's earliest drug use as the kind of "experimentation" that "lots of kids" try when they are adolescents. In fact, however, this "experimentation" was an early warning signal, a huge, blaring, shrieking, flashing early warning sign, and I chose not to see or hear it for what it really was. It was akin to early stage pediatric cancer and instead, I treated it like he had made a "D" on his report card or something similarly inconsequential.
When he was admitted to the hospital earlier this week, they warned us he might not make it. He has pulled through the critical first few days, and we are now looking at weeks and months of neurological and physical rehabilitation to bring our son back. I will fight like hell to get him where he needs to be, but then what? Then are we right back where were were at the beginning of this week, before the overdose? Back to a place where a beautiful, brilliant, sensitive, amazing, loved-beyond-all-reason teenage boy can't see past his next fix? Can't or won't stop careening down a one way path straight to hell?
I don't know. I don't know what our next steps will be. But I know this: I am no longer willing - or ABLE - to keep this secret. Maybe people will judge me. Maybe they will label me the bad mother I fear that I am to have ended up in this place. Maybe they will shun me, my son, my family. I don't know. But I do know that the disease has now declared itself to such a degree that it's no longer possible to keep it a secret, even if I wanted to.
I am the mother of a critically ill child. He has a terrible, pernicious, mystifying disease. And I am now officially outing myself, once and for all.
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