Getting Back to the Business Of Living

Yesterday morning I found myself overwhelmed with life.

I was aggravated, until I realized that was actually a good thing.

I've been overwhelmed with death for so long that dealing with the frustrations of what consumed me just a few short weeks ago was a break, really. It was a sign that perhaps I really am going to survive this. It was the first time in a long time that I've felt annoyed enough with the mundane to feel like I was really living and not at some level forcing myself to go through the motions.

I'm still struck, however, by the image of a storm damaged tree with a large limb broken away and a ragged wound left behind. I know that if the wound isn't properly managed and the tree heals badly or fails to heal, the whole tree can die. Even if I'm living and moving again, I must still tend to the wound of Ethan's death.

Still, yesterday it was good to be simultaneously reading about SPD while trying to decide if it were warm enough to walk dogs, debating times for a doctor's appointment for the baby that I would need to attend, and juggling the rest of my day's activities (including my commitment to this blog).

Darn, I caught myself thinking. If everyone would just leave me alone a few minutes!

But wait.

The telephone messages, the calls, the doctor's appointments, babysitting, dogs and chilly walks were what my life was made of four short weeks ago. This is what life used to feel like.

Instead of getting frustrated, I took a deep breath and realized it felt good.

After figuratively sitting on a shelf for what feels like far longer than four weeks, it felt good to be pulled in a lot of different directions. I was like a toy that the children put away and forget, then rediscover and everyone wants to play with it at once. What would I do first?

Well, first, I wrote a few words because I hate to face an empty computer screen first thing in the morning and I wanted to remember how I felt.

Then I threw on an extra sweatshirt, dug out my gloves and walking shoes and went out to take in the day and make a few dogs really happy. It was, dare I say, cold, until I got about halfway down the road. But I didn't consider turning around, not that the dogs would have let me, but it was good to hear the sound of farm equipment, see the mud on the road and feel both the warmth of the sun and the chill of the air. It was good to feel my body moving again in an old, familiar beat.

After the walk I was rushed to get to Mount Airy and the pediatrician's office where I spent a singularly aggravating hour waiting for an appointment for which we were the designated 15 minutes early. Most of that time I was holding a snotty-nosed baby and keeping an eye on two Kindle-driven preschoolers who were at least not bouncing off the walls and touching everything in the room, unlike the other children. Finally the doctor and a diagnosis of RSV -- oh, joy, oh, bliss. It's been three years since we went a round with that particular nasty virus and I recall we were all sick and E2, who was born during that time, got to spend a week in the hospital. I can only hope we all still harbor some resistance to the bug so we're not quite so ill.

A late lunch, disrupted nap time, dogs and cleaning, a futile attempt at dinner, the roar of a bounce house in the playroom, a dogfight at the back door and one of E1's meltdowns that you have to experience to believe.

Life for most of the day yesterday consumed me and carried me along like the hero of a football game, lifted up on the shoulders of his teammates. I felt swept off my feet and lifted up, enjoying the sensation while it lasted and so tired when it was over that there was no time to feel like the person who has inhabited my body for weeks. I felt relief for a quiet house, instead of dread that I was finally alone.

Yes, I still miss my son and I still had my morning cry, along with random moist-eyed moments through the day. But living isn't all about mourning or grieving. It's about slipping back into old routines that feel a little awkward at first. It's about meeting the needs of each new day as it comes.

It's apparently time for me to get moving again as well and to be quite truthful, it feels good.

Was There Something Everyone Missed?

Among all the "what ifs" and "should have beens" that have swirled around me for the last four weeks, a new one was added to the mix last Tuesday.

After four years of believing our little E1 was just a bit more moody and sensitive than we expected, perhaps spoiled, perhaps just immature, a trip to Winston to see a specialist resulted in a diagnosis of Sensory Processing Disorder and a plan to begin therapy.

It also opened a whole new door of "what ifs," especially when a friend who had lost a family member to drugs told me he had struggled with SPD, as it is called for short, and been unable to cope or find a successful treatment or therapy regime; especially after my daughter mentioned there was often a genetic link, if not to a parent then to a close family member.

What if all the many things we always thought of as "just Ethan" were really symptoms of a disorder we had never heard of that could have been treated? What if when he said the drugs silenced the noise around him so he could concentrate, he really wasn't talking from purely an addict's perspective? What if Ethan had been born 15 or 20 years later when the Internet gave a concerned parent the research tools to try to find out what might be wrong with their child?

Among the many what ifs, this is one I couldn't change. But it is one I have to ponder.

We might never have found a diagnosis for E1's occasionally odd behavior, had it not been for the Internet and a mother determined to know. Although she was slow to talk, she was within the realm of normal. Although she forces her world to follow a schedule, her mother was a firm believer that being on a schedule was good and doesn't handle disruption too well herself. Although she is prone to meltdowns, she's only 4 and we don't really expect her to be in total control of her emotions.

Most of the world only sees E1 as an outgoing, bubbly little girl because most of the time we, meaning her parents and I as her secondary caregiver, have learned to manage her. Her physician said she was extremely bright. Her Sunday school and Awana teachers are delighted with her intelligence and eagerness to learn. No one outside the inner circle suspected there was anything different about her.

But her parents and I saw a little girl sometimes reduced to hysterics by the temperature of her food or her inability to do something she thought she should master. We saw a little girl who derailed from her schedule by an overnight trip or an extended family outing might take days to get back to herself. We saw a little girl who sometimes said "I can't" when asked to do a simple task, and who was consumed by her inability to do so.

Her mother was determined to know if we were doing something wrong, or should be doing something differently. If it wasn't us, then she wanted to know what it might be, especially if it were something that needed to be treated. Occasionally we bounced ideas off one another, but nothing in the spectrum of emotional disorders we had heard of seemed to fit. Then while searching the internet she found SPD and began reading articles by adults who have the disorder left untreated, she began looking at checklists and finding that E1's behavior ticked off a lot of yes answers.

Although I don't think anyone else was convinced, she called her pediatrician for a referral for SPD testing. In the meantime, Ethan passed away and our concerns for E1 were both secondary and more meaningful. In that, I meant we sort of forgot that the evaluation was looming, but were determined that if there were anything to be done for her it would be done because some part of me will always worry that there was a diagnosis no one made for my son.

I cannot look at E1 and say that Ethan was like her as a child. Of course, his preschool days were nearly 20 years ago, but they are characterized in my memory by an easy going little boy who never liked to be alone, not the demanding preschooler that E1 has become. His schedule was flexible, he could sleep anywhere. If anything, one would say he was her polar opposite.

On the other hand SPD is a condition in which sensory information is incorrectly organized or misinterpreted by the brain, so it can have different manifestations. From the present, I cannot go back and evaluate a checklist to find out if his behavior might have also resulted in a lot of affirmative answers, because I simply cannot remember.

Yet there is a similarity I have noticed, a hesitation in how to respond sometimes to a new situation and sometimes to something that you would think they would have been familiar with. I can see it in their smiles, captured in posed photographs of two very different small children, who both look a little uneasy and uncertain. It's a similarity that goes beyond curls and blue eyes, beyond the tiny pearls of baby teeth and one that had, even before Ethan's death, occasionally sent an icicle of dread through my veins. Each time I glimpsed that similarity, I was filled with determination to do anything to save E1 from Ethan's pain, even before his life ended.

Now we have a diagnosis and a path to follow that will in all likelihood lead to a happier future. And I'm wondering if the same path might have saved my son, had I, his doctors, his school counselors, or even the counselors he saw later, been more familiar with this disorder. I wonder how things might have changed if by the time we were concerned about him, he had not learned to mask his differences, fake normal and bullshit his way through any psychological testing. I wonder about the little boy who didn't fit in and had only a few close friends and how we accepted that was just Ethan, when perhaps there was more going on. Perhaps this wasn't the disorder that drove Ethan, but what if it was and it was just a matter of no one knowing and no way to find out. Even today's literature says SPD is often misdiagnosed, although it occurs in somewhere between 1 in 20 and 1 in six children.

Thanks to the internet, today's parents aren't limited to the knowledge of their peers and doctors or even what they can find in a library. They have the whole world at their fingertips and it requires only time and determination to pursue a solution when something doesn't seem right. I didn't have those tools and I won't blame myself for what we may have missed in our ignorance.

I will, however, urge today's parents and grandparents to be open to the possibility that your child isn't a bad kid or just a different kid, that sometimes there is something else going on. If you feel like they're having trouble coping or fitting in, look for answers and keep looking until you find a definitive yes or no. Maybe they are just unique and there's nothing wrong with that, but if they don't like who they are or they aren't comfortable in the world we as we know it, it could be that by looking for an answer you wind up saving a life.

I cannot go back and change the past, but you may be able to change the future.

Denial Doesn't Work for Me Any More

Some people specialize in denial.

A family member read one of my early posts about Ethan's death and his response was "Why did she have to say he was an addict?" Seriously. He hasn't been encouraged him to read any others and he's not going to brave the computer on his own. To him the subject is probably closed.

Before Ethan died, I avoided using that term in conversation with anyone who didn't already know my son. I talked around the issue in a lot of ways. Ethan had problems. Ethan lacked motivation. Ethan couldn't find a job. Ethan just hadn't figured out what to do with himself. There were a lot of phrases to cover up what was really going on his life because even hinting at addiction made him angry. It hurt him, and I didn't want to cause him more pain, so I avoided it.

Ethan, however, could read through my words and would take offense. When my 30 days of thanksgiving included appreciation for him and the lessons I had learned from his less than perfect life, he was angry that I had told everyone he was an junky. I had not mentioned the exact nature of his problem but he knew what his problem really was and felt that I had shouted it out. We had not spoken for weeks after that incident other than the angry text messages that followed in the evening after reading my post. That post appeared exactly one month before I learned of his death, a fact I had not realized until I went back to hunt it.

The truth cannot hurt Ethan now, but I think it may free me and perhaps others.

I know that only by being truthful about what his life and mine was like will I be able to find any peace with the past. It is only by being honest about what I'm feeling now that I'm able to work through my emotions, try to find a way to move forward and possibly help someone else as well.

I'm honest because I don't know any other way to be right now.

I think for some people real honesty, especially about their own emotions, is as impossible as reaching the moon from their front porch. They may see it as protection, perhaps for themselves and those around them, or maybe as a kind of strength. It is neither, because it denies reality and in avoiding pain causes a different own kind of hurt. The best way to get better, to get through, to heal, even if it is a healing with scars, is to be honest.

Some days the hardest thing in the world is to be honest about what I feel. A random thought will cross my mind with all the emotions it triggers and I wonder how I can share that. Yet my choice is a simple one.

Do I pretend I don't feel that way? Do I lie or just gloss over reality?

If I did that, would my words have any meaning? Would I feel any better? Could I reach anyone who is hurting and be able to help them if I denied my own pain?

Since the phone call four weeks ago today telling me that my son was dead, I've discovered an ocean of pain and I've found that I'm far from the only one who is walking near it, being splashed by its waves, and occasionally struggling to get my head above the water and make my way back to shore. The love and support I've received from this group of fellow sufferers, lost parents who are struggling to move forward with a life that doesn't quite have the meaning it once did, has been tremendous. Struggling with my emotions, I've found I'm often grappling with something they are feeling as well and it's only by being truthful that I help any of us, especially myself.

Many days, knowing we're not alone with the anger, pain, fear and questions helps us to be the person we need to be that day. Just as it may be a random message or phone call that carries me through the day, I hope by being truthful in my grief, I can help someone else through their day as well.

Some people specialize in denial because its easier than facing hard truths about who they are, what they've done, how they feel.

Stripped of our unspoken dreams, our roles as parents unfulfilled, our children missing like the limb of a storm-damaged tree, we tend to lose that veneer of civility that makes us say the right things. Unable to deny one of the hardest truths we'll ever face, I think we find a more honest person less able to tolerate the phoniness of so much of the world. I know that's what I've found huddling in the shell that used to be me.

I no longer take today or tomorrow for granted, realizing at any moment for anyone this could be the last time. I cling harder to those around me and work to nurture the friendships that have survived this storm and those that have been born out of it. I have more compassion for the struggle in everyone's lives and respond with kindness instead of looking the other way. "I love you" is becoming a staple of conversation with not only family, but friends as well.

For some people, facing the truth is something to be avoided at all costs because the truth is painful, the truth touches a core that they don't want disturbed. There have been times when I was part of that group, avoiding the truth about a marriage gone bad, a family problem, a health issue I didn't want to discuss. There have been times when it was easier and didn't feel like a lie to say, "I'm fine."

That's no longer my truth and a lie I can't quite swallow any more. This pain goes so deep, I've found no way to avoid the reality. There may be times when I say nothing, but when I talk about this pain I can only speak the truth.

Can I Really Forgive Him for Dying?

Pushing myself through the rituals of Friday morning, thinking about Ethan, I had an unsettling thought.

Forgiveness.

Last year my goal for the New Year was to find a way to forgive someone in my life that I was struggling to love or forgive because the pain that person inflicted was ongoing. Through a lot of prayer, I was able to do that by focusing on the positive things in my life that were there because of them -- even if those things happened years ago.

When I saw someone's post on Facebook earlier this week about forgiving someone to achieve peace, I thought, yes, I nailed that one.

Then, yesterday morning out of the blue I realized I still have a lot of forgiving to do and at the top of that list right now is Ethan.

Although I learned a lot of lessons about love from him over the last seven years, I had not yet embraced the lessons of forgiveness.

Several years ago when I found him sleeping in his car in my driveway one morning, God drove home to me a lesson about love. Ethan was screwed up and not living the life I envisioned he would live; he wasn't living life to its full potential; he was wasting the gifts of talent, intelligence, love and support. Yet I still loved him with every fiber of my being. In that moment, I realized how the love we read about in the Bible -- the love that God feels for us when we mess up, sin, don't choose the path that He lays out for us to a full and happy life -- is real. There is such a thing as unconditional love, even when we aren't close to one another or denying its existence.

I loved Ethan unconditionally and did my best to make sure he knew it.

And time and time again I forgave him for the things his addiction made him do. I forgave him the physical and emotional havoc he left behind sometimes, because I loved him. Even while I did my best to limit his ability to cause physical pain, I didn't expect an apology after he called on a rant or neglected something that was important to me. I accepted that was the way he was and I was just glad he called again. I accepted and forgave every emotional blow in the hope there would come a time when things would be better and we could put it all behind us.

Until the other morning, it felt like I had done enough forgiving.

Then I realized I have to forgive him for dying. Even though he's beyond all need of anything I can ever give him, I have to forgive him for me. I have to forgive him every stupid mistake and bad choice that put him on the road to dying alone in his apartment. I have to forgive him for shutting us all away so often that no one missed him for days. I have to forgive him for squandering the life I fought so hard to give him.

Just as, at some point, I have to forgive myself for any way I may have failed him (a bridge I'm not ready to cross, and yes I know I did my best), I have to forgive him for things that ultimately slipped out of his control.

I have to forgive him for becoming an addict, because I know that once he found the drug that spoke to him, it was as powerful and insidious as Satan in the Garden of Eden. It whispered to him in lies and promises about special knowledge and gifts, special visions and experiencing the world in a way he could not without it. It made him feel things the real world didn't deliver. I cannot understand addiction and that desire to escape and I'm glad, but I have to forgive him for being overwhelmed by it.

I have to forgive him for not fulfilling the potential I saw when the doctors pulled him from my abdomen and placed him in my arms, a big, healthy, beautiful baby boy. I have to forgive him for disappointing my dreams, for not being able to find himself again and for not sticking around to take care of me when I get old.

Where time and again I've felt some version of survivor's guilt because of the families grieving a lost child who had done nothing wrong, who was caught up in some horrible tragedy of time or place or birth, I have to forgive him for no longer dodging the fate that had for so long been waiting. I have to forgive him for involuntarily choosing not to be part of our lives when he could have been, because now he cannot choose.

Ethan often said he wished he could die, and I have to forgive him for those thoughts and for finally having that wish granted.

I have to accept that he was doing his best to make his way through a world that was more painful to him than it is to me, a world that somehow didn't make his heart sing the way it sometimes does mine. I have to accept that while having people who love and need me is sometimes enough to get me through a day, it wasn't enough for him. I have to accept that he didn't always feel he had a purpose and that being without a purpose leaves you vulnerable to things you cannot control.

So today, in writing this and acknowledging the things I hadn't forgiven, I'm taking what I hope are the first steps toward letting those hard feelings go. Not because he needs me to do so, but because in order to live and breathe freely again, in order to have peace in my heart, this is what I need to do.

Already I feel lighter and I think the journey toward forgiveness is underway.

A Dog Would Be Easier, But I Still Choose Children

Like most parents, there have been times in my life when I've struggled to understand couples who choose not to have children.

Of course, with previously poor picks in husbands, there were times when the only reason I could see to be married was to to produce a child within bounds that my family found acceptable. Once I found a true partner, I came closer to understanding the choice some people make to remain childless. In fact, there were times when I could find the same tinge of envy they might feel (or not) when looking at someone else's baby's pictures.

Those little voices that whisper in our minds about different choices we might have made often chose different sides of the debate.

One little voice might envy them their ability to travel, to decorate without worrying about how fragile or sharp an object might be, to have time to explore their hobbies, to sleep at night without worrying about a child's needs, not having to worry about someone else's future.

Another voice would remind me of the things they are missing: a child's sticky fingers wrapped around my own, smearing sunscreen on fat baby wrinkles, listening to a little one breathe at night, watching a child with my eyes perform at a band concert or walk across a graduation stage, seeing a person who grew inside me fall in love, get married, and produce little people of her own.

Regardless of those voices, I know I chose the path I sought without any regard for all the pitfalls. Even knowing where it has taken me, I would not go back and undo my decisions. Although the family I have will always have a piece missing now, the pieces that remain bring me enough joy to offset the pain.

At the same time, when accepting condolences from childless couples who instead have dogs, I've had to admit that the dogs are easier. That just as there has always been that little voice envying childless couples their freedoms, a little voice says "Hey, you love dogs. Wouldn't it have been easier to have dogs instead?"

Dogs, for those of us who truly love them, are much like little (or not so little) four-legged, non-vocal, furry children. For many people they become surrogate children when the human children move away from home. We lavish them with love, share our homes, praise their accomplishments and care for them in many ways like children.

But while we have to worry about illnesses and accidents and know that we can expect to outlive them, we're spared many of the responsibilities and pains that come with children.

We don't have to worry about their friends. Heck, we control who they hang out with in ways we can never control our children once they reach a certain age. Peer pressure and the desire to have the right clothes and toys means nothing to our dogs. Clothes are generally unwelcome and toys just a bonus. No need to plan ahead for college or to worry about them moving back into a nest we had grown used to having empty because they aren't going to leave home.

We can prevent unwanted pregnancies. A quick trip to the vet and they won't even have a sex drive, let alone out of control hormones. (Humping totally aside.) No awkward conversations about natural urges or birth control either.

We don't have to worry about their success or failure in the world. Their world is pretty much our home and a little bit of socialization and training can assure that they succeed. There are no jobs, bad influences, broken hearts, drugs, depression and failures to hurt them. All they have to do is listen to us and we can assure their lives are good.

Yes, there is heartache. When they are sick, no matter how old they are, they cannot tell you what really hurts and a good diagnosis and proper treatment are up to your vet. Managing a chronic condition is entirely up to you as they won't help take care of a bad leg or back.

Then there is the ultimate pet owner's heartache of making the decision to help a pet out of this life. I've made that decision too many times and know I'll do it again. I've sat holding animals I've loved for their entire life or even for a portion of it, letting them feel my hands and smell my scent as I told them I loved them while a veterinarian administered a fatal dose of medication. I've also had a dog die unexpectedly while undergoing treatment, and just knowing I wasn't there for her made it even worse.

Yet that pain, multiplied 100 times over 100 days doesn't touch losing a child.

When I've lost a dog, I've been able to go out and get another. No, they're not a replacement, but in a few months they begin to fill up the blank spaces in my life where the other dog lived. It's the natural course for loving a dog. Last May I had to help my Jack Russell Al out of this life when a sudden cancer overwhelmed his body. I held him in my arms while he breathed his last and brought him home and laid him to rest. A few weeks later I rescued another dog and Willie, while far from being Al, means there isn't a blank space where I'm used to seeing him.

There are no replacement children to be had. I can't go out and find one who looks about the same and bring him home. Even if I could, if there was some way to find that mother-son connection again, I'd face the same painful gamble that his choices wouldn't be good and his life not turn out the way he and I would have wanted.

There would still be the possibility that we don't admit to ourselves as parents, but accept the day we bring home a dog, that one day I'd be standing beside another grave.

No, I don't really wish I'd never had children. Or stopped at one and got a dog.

The challenges and heartache included, I've found parenting and grandparenting to be my choice and the choice, even if the clock were turned back and I had foreknowledge, that I would make again.

But for those who have made different choices, I will admit that sometimes I feel a bit of envy. If other choices would have made me just as happy, I could have been spared this pain.

Pushing Through an Unexpected First

Earlier this week I made a trip to Winston-Salem to one of the many doctor's offices clustered in the area near Hanes Mall.

With three little ones and the various things they are occasionally tested or treated for that involve more specialized services than we have here, that's not an uncommon thing for me to do with my daughter and the girls. It was nothing serious and we decided to make a day of it and enjoy the trip.

Then when we started talking about the address and planning the route, street names seemed vaguely familiar. When we made our turn, it was an all too familiar street.

I was plunged into one of those firsts I've been anticipating and was totally caught off guard.

After Ethan began having seizures in 2009 and lost his driver's license and ability to work, I found him a small apartment in Mount Airy and got him a referral to a treatment center that specialized in seizure disorders. I didn't understand his addiction and I thought at that time that such a serious physical consequence would make his stop using. I was trying to help him regain his life.

At least once a month we made the trip to Winston-Salem and the turn next to his favorite Taco Bell to take us to the doctor's office. Either before or after the visit we'd stop and load him up on burritos, maybe go in and share a meal. When we made the same turn by the same Taco Bell, I knew what was supposed to be a fun trip was going to be plagued by memories instead.

Those monthly trips to Winston were the most time I was able to spend with my adult son, and for the most part they were enjoyable despite the fact we were going to a medical facility.

We shared music and conversation in the car. Sat down for a meal together (not always at Taco Bell) and usually stopped for Krispy Kreme donuts on the way home -- one box for him and one for me. The drive from his apartment to the far side of Winston took the better part of an hour each way and once we added in the meals, we spent a lot of time together on those days.

Yet now, they're just a dim memory of mostly good times. There's no special memory of a moment shared and nothing to cling to from that time. The seizures got better with medication, but he wasn't really interested in the therapy the psychologist recommended. We weren't surprised when she said he was far smarter than he was letting himself behave or that he had some issues he needed to work through. He never admitted he was still using dextromethorphan.

The only trip that stands out in my mind was one that also included my oldest (and then only) granddaughter, still a toddler at the time, and a bitterly cold December day. On our way home, sometime after our last stop, Ethan snapped. It was totally irrational and I blamed it on having to share what was usually "his" day with the little one. He began cursing me and wanted out of the car while still in Forsyth County, threatening to open the car door at 60 mph. Finally, back in Surry County I pulled over a few miles from his apartment and let him out. He had to walk home in dangerously cold temperatures but I could not persuade him to calm down. I know now he had probably carried some of his little friends in his pocket, dosed at some point during the outing and was high.

I'm sad that I can't remember a smile, or a song he enjoyed and instead can only summons his rage.

But I know we had peaceful times together and perhaps more pleasant memories will come in time. I can remember how he devoured whatever we sat down to eat. I can remember how he loved the fresh donuts and how we'd sit together, often outside in the sunshine, and talk about other people and things in our lives. I can almost summons a memory of his laugh and smile during one of those times. Perhaps it will be clearer in the future.

Despite the fact I wasn't driving and was with a different group, the memory of those trips cast a shadow over our journey. There were odd moments when I just wanted to break down and cry and over the course of the afternoon I became "cranky" as my daughter said. There was nothing I could do to manage that, it was just something I had to push through, something that I'm fairly sure will get easier with time and repetition. Soon new memories will push the old ones aside and as much as I hate to let Ethan fade, trips with little ones will more and more take the place of the trips I made with him.

While we had fun, and I'm glad that I made that trip with my daughter and the little ones instead of stumbling on those memories all alone, I was relieved when we were finally homeward bound. And I'm not sure but what it may have been memories as much as day-old donuts that caused me to not enjoy our final stop at Krispy Kreme (but seriously those were some stinky stale donuts and I even put one in the trash).

Without warning, I find I've survived a first I didn't see coming and I know this year will bring a lot of those, as well as the ones that I'll try to prepare myself for emotionally. I think those times, however they come on me, are just going to be a matter of survival and getting through, an effort to make new memories and find some way to cling to the good while releasing the bad.

Maybe next time I'll be able to eat a donut with a smile at a memory -- or if not next time, before too long.

What Everyone Needs to Know

Before I went to bed last night, I took a dose of dextromethorphan. I've been sick for a month and I needed a dose of cough medicine so I could sleep.

The irony is, that I wish dextromethorphan didn't exist. Whatever the medical examiner eventually decides, I know it was dextromethorphan that killed my son.

If you're lucky enough to be like I was a few short years ago, you're likely to wonder, "What's dextromethorphan?" You might even imagine it was illegal or hard to obtain. You may feel like you don't need to worry about it at this point in your life. But whether you have children or grandchildren, or simply have kids that you care about, this is my educational course.

I usually keep some over the counter cold medicine around, and I'm willing to bet most people do. Maybe just the few pills left from the last round with a cough, but a partial box at least. Check the ingredients. If your medicine is designed to deal with a cough in any way, its active ingredients probably include dextromethorphan -- probably aboout 30 mg in a recommended dosage, which may be a couple of pills or a measure of liquid.

Yes, most of us have it, take it, buy it over the counter and keep it around the house. If we went to take a dose and that partial box was gone, would we really be certain that we hadn't taken it? If we found a few empty pill packets in the trash or while cleaning our teen's room, would we react like we would if we found a roach, a bong, or a bag of suspicious powder? Probably not. I know I didn't.

Once our better cough medicines were laced with codeine to quiet the hacking, although the last time I got it I had to sign for it and I'm not even sure it's available any more. Once codeine's more dangerous properties came to light, it became virtually impossible to get. That mean pharmaceutical companies, seeking ways to help us with our ills, had to have a new cough suppressant. Along came our new friend, dextromethorphan.

However the same agencies that eventually recognized the dangers and addictive properties of codeine have failed to recognize that a product designed to take its place carries the many of the same risks. It sits untended on the shelves of pharmacies, grocery stores, department stores, and even dollar stores. That's despite the efforts of StopMedicineAbuse.org and groups like them. Although you may have to present identification proving you are over 18 to make a purchase, there's nothing to keep a 13-year-old from slipping a small box into a pocket other than good shoplifting surveillance -- a fact that made dollar stores Ethan's favorite target until he racked up enough arrests for shoplifting that he could not get a job and feared incarceration.

The author of one of many pages dedicated to recreational, or as he terms it ritual use of dextromethorphan (erowid.org) writes that he discovered the drug through an accidental overdose by taking twice the recommended liquid dosage for a cold. That was in 1995 and he began to explore the use of the drug and publish his findings on the internet. There is a Facebook page called dextromethorphan hbr on which DXM abusers share their tips for how much to take and sometimes their writings while on a trip.

No, despite the fact that you may not know, that I didn't know, and that the police officer who arrested Ethan for shoplifting once did not know, there is a lot of information to be had about how to abuse dextromethorphan. There are multiple pages and blogs describing the misuse of dextromethorphan (as well as virtually any other substance you might care to learn about). You don't need an accidental overdose to find out you can get high on cough medicine, just an internet connection or a curious friend who has already done the research.

What does it do? I've asked.

Scientifically, when taken in excess dextromethorphan produces a dissociative or psychedelic effect. The effect is similar to the illegal drugs PCP and ketamine. Someone who takes dextromethorphan may experience hallucinations and strong feelings of euphoria. The effect typically lasts about the same length of time as the normal cough-suppressant effect of the medication, so a 12-hour cough suppressant will produce dissociative effects that last 12 hours in high doses. An increased dose does not cause longer-lasting effects, but it will cause stronger effects.

Ask someone who has used the drug, and you may get a better idea. I've talked to some of Ethan's friends who once used with him and these are the answers I've gotten.

"We used to think it was almost like giving us the knowledge of good and evil...like we suddenly knew everything. Everything we saw was a sign to us. It didn't take much for me to get high. I would only take about 4 pills, (not sure about dosage), and I felt like I was gliding when I walked. My eyes felt like they were widened, literally and mentally. I was never hungry, so I didn't eat much. This made me lose weight. I felt like I could stay awake for days and when I was coming down, I wanted to sleep it out. I found myself stumbling from time to time and stuttering while taking this drug. It made me feel warm. I could feel my body and heart slow down. I was always ready to get out and do something, yet at the same time, I was content with just sitting around because I could be with my thoughts and questions."

"I don't understand a lot about how far Ethan went with it. The way the drug works is if you take a little bit you just get high. the more taken, the more reality you lose. It changed me. The drug took something from me I'll never get back, or so I think. I'm not perfect, by far, but it's the worst drug I've ever taken in terms of effects. Even now, I'm paranoid because of it. There's something about me that will never be the same. It's something I like to hide in my past and don't like to talk about, but I want to help you understand how powerful of a grip it can have and had on Ethan."

A 39-year-old user on the Facebook page told me this: "So for me, at 24... I had 720 and went catatonic. Laid in bed. I felt paper thin and infinitely wide. Sensory matrix distortion. Tired. Like sleep. Now, I could have 1000mg in a 12 hour period and feel normal enough to walk, talk...not drive. I know NO study of longterm use. Honestly, in 2013 since March I have used an average of at least 240 / day... at night or in the morning. I will use it around people who are stressful or jerks because I can tune them out. Like family who will seem like total asses (partly because I am irritable etc) then on dm I see a lovable side and my pain doesn't get to take 1st place... I win. It's the drug I regret the least. Alcohol kills more, causes men to cheat, drivers to crash.(Although earlier in this tale he told about crashing his car) Adding caffeine to dm makes my heart race, so I dont. Benedryll helps a little at 25-75mg to sedate. Bededryll ALONE is like dm. I don't feel damaged after 290 straight days. So I wrote poetry n shit and read it to some girls in a bar crying. They were touched. Dm has helped my writing probably like drugs help rock stars..."

When Ethan was using, he lost weight and he was delusional. Sometimes what he said would pass for a really good imagination and sometimes it really didn't make sense. Often his behavior fit with the typical teen withdrawal -- he'd rather play video games alone than hang with the family sort of thing -- but sometimes his isolation went a step further. I didn't know what I was dealing with and what the symptoms could be.

From talking with his best friend I've found the extreme emotional spikes -- particularly rage -- are also common from teens/adults who are using regularly and at high amounts.

Anyone using dextromethorphan may also have trouble driving because the effects at low levels mimic alcohol, however if they are stopped by law enforcement, they can easily pass a roadside breath test. I know Ethan left my house high one day and was pulled over and passed a test. He also wrecked once while in the process of consuming the pills he preferred -- not just a double dose, but a pack or more at a time -- and frequently had minor accidents where he probably misjudged distances and struck trees, ditches, etc. When he died there was a pending lawsuit in the local courts from a collision where the other driver decided he needed money. He was without a license from blacking out while driving, striking a parked car and then going over an embankment. A toxicologist in the courtroom the day of his trial said he had a lethal dose of the medication in his system.

Aside from the psychological issues, and those associated with any addiction, there are physical risks as well. Some studies have shown there is a danger of developing brain lesions called Olney's lesions. These brain lesions affect memory, learning, and emotions. In some cases, the person will develop psychosis or epilepsy. Severe dextromethorphan abuse can lead to permanent lesions that cause permanent irreparable damage to the brain.

Ethan began having tremors and seizures more than three years ago. Sometimes the seizures were focal in that he could not completely focus or control his body and other times they were grand mal, in which he would fall in the posture we typically associate with a seizure. Although by that point I had learned that the drug would cause seizures, I also, naively, assumed once the seizures began that he would have enough sense to stop. He didn't. Had I known better the side effects, his gaunt face and continued rages would have told me that despite our regular doctor's visits to seek help for the seizures, he was still slowly killing himself. And it wasn't sense, it was addiction although many programs still don't recognize an addiction to dextromethorphan.

I didn't have a good grasp of the mechanics of addiction and still don't completely understand. However another article written by a former addict gave me some understanding. The drug of choice takes over the pleasure centers of the brain so that nothing else really gives an addict pleasure. The things you think of as good times are meaningless to them, even when they are physically with you. His writing is scientific, because he went on to become a neuroscientist, but does help explain what happens.

“... when drugs (or booze, sex, or gambling) are nowhere to be found, when the horizon is empty of their promise, the humming motor of the orbitofrontal cortex sputters to a halt. Orbitofrontal cells go dormant and dopamine just stops. Like a religious fundamentalist, the addict’s brain has only two stable states: rapture and disinterest. Addictive drugs convert the brain to recognize only one face of God, to thrill to only one suitor.” The addict’s world narrows. Dopamine becomes “specialized, stilted, inaccessible through the ordinary pleasures and pursuits of life, but gushing suddenly when anything associated with the drug comes into awareness…. I wish this were just an exercise in biological reductionism, or neuro-scientific chauvinism, but it’s not. It’s the way things really work.”

If I've scared you enough about the dangers of dextromethorphan, you may wonder what you can do. I don't have all the answers, but I do have recommendations:

Get as educated as possible. Do searches on the internet or even Facebook and don't settle for the science pages, but look at the addict's pages as well (although heaven knows they probably won't call themselves addicts). Learn the slang, the symptoms of abuse, the dangers of misuse. Be aware that most of the scientific sites seem to be out of date. There are not a lot of studies and it is wrongly assumed that young teen males are the most at-risk. That isn't necessarily true.

Talk to the young people in your life about the danger. Because it is not an illegal drug, most people wrongly assume it is safe even at dosages that exceed the recommendations.

Be careful with your attitude toward medication. Do your kids see you take double the recommended doses of anything? Like when your headache doesn't go away? If you take medication, follow the directions and make sure your children understand why. When you give medicine to your kids, do the same.

Consider keeping all medication under lock and key and explain that it is for the safety of everyone. You don't have to make your children feel you don't trust them. Maybe you have company with younger children sometimes, maybe you can blame it on protecting expensive prescriptions from thieves. You can come up with a way to manage the medicine in your house.

Watch not only your child's behavior, but that of his/her friends who may easily pave the way for your child if they get into trouble. If you're concerned tell your child that random drug tests are going to be part of your life. They could be the price for something they want to have or do, the risk of choosing friends you don't like, or you can point to someone else's loss and tell them you just want to feel better. Heck, blame me. Whatever it takes. Also be aware that dextromethorphan won't show up on standard tests but will show up on tests for PCPs and opiods. Yes, it's likely to create some tension, but it gives your kid a good excuse to say "no" when offered a little something and that tension is nothing compared to living with a kid on drugs. There will also be some expense, but compare that to seeking treatment for addiction, or perhaps the cost of burying a child.

Get involved in trying to get more people informed and laws changed. Visit StopMedicineAbuse.org or the organization's Facebook page and become a part of the movement to make a difference for our children and those not yet at risk. That means petitions, contacting congress and working to get laws changed so that this drug, at least, loses its illusion of safety and easy access.