It's Just Medicine, Right? What's Wrong With That

Sunday evening I'm going to talk about my son's addiction at my church.

I sit down and try to think of what I'll say, and I feel like I don't know where to start, or how I'll get through it. But I know it's too important of a chance to pass up, because if just one kid understands the danger is real, or if just one parent or grandparent recognizes the threat, then it will be worth any emotional upheaval. It is part of who I need to be to go forward. Part of my purpose as Ethan's mom is trying to keep other moms off this same path.

I'll be following the local police chief who will be talking about the dangers of medicine abuse, but beyond that I don't know what he'll be saying. I just know I'll be putting a face on what, with him, will be something a step removed for most people.

But what do I tell them?

What were the first signs of trouble? What can they look for that I wish I'd seen? Will knowing make a difference?

I have to hope it will.

I still wish with every breath I breathe that I could put my finger on the moment things went wrong and change it somehow.

Was it the sad, wild little boy that quickly became one of his best friends in the second grade? Should I have looked at him like the rest of the world as a little boy whose daddy struggled with depression and whose mom tended bar and eventually left him and his dad for another man? Instead I saw a little boy who was lonely and who we could let into our lives sometimes, as long as he knew we had rules that he didn't have at home. We took him to the circus and let him stay over sometimes. When they were older, they went down the path of drugs and alcohol, huffing gas and petty crimes together.

Was it something in his behavior that I should have seen and sought therapy for when he was small even though he never had any problems before high school? He was just a smart, quirky boy, and I'd been a smart, quirky girl and I thought he was like me, fine with being the person that he was.

Was it his other best friend from a "normal" home? The boys were back and forth so much that I know there were times we felt like one extended family. His parents probably thought Ethan was the bad boy in their quiet, shy son's life. They went down the path of addiction together and only one made it out alive, and I've never had the nerve to ask whose idea it was to begin with, because I'm afraid it was my son's. And I would never blame the other boy if it were his, because they were just children really.

Was it when I let him not go to church because my parents had dragged me to church for almost 21 years? After I got married I didn't darken a church door except for Christmas and Easter because I resented my old church where all that was ever preached was salvation and once I had that, I didn't see the point. Ethan knew God, he was radiant on his baptizing day when he went below the surface in the cold mountain river on the first day of winter and emerged a new boy. I couldn't tell him there was more, because I had never learned it either.

Was it when he was caught shoplifting cough syrup and I practiced "tough love" because he was already out of control? The officer thought it was for the alcohol, although there wasn't enough to get drunk. If I had only known it was dextromethorphan and that it wasn't just medicine, it was a drug. Instead of a weekend in jail, would counseling have helped? But I didn't know about DXM then and what it could do. We both learned the hard way.

Was it me? Did I not try hard enough to give him boundaries while at the same time giving him wings? Because I never had wings, only a safe cage when I was a child and I so badly wanted him to have a different life. I didn't want my children to feel like they had to flee home to grow up. I wanted them to make their own decisions and sometimes make mistakes while they had a safe place to land.

Was it because I'd already dealt with addiction and realized it was beyond my control? So I never sent him to rehab when he didn't want to go. I never went through his room or his pockets and tried to destroy whatever it was he was using. I stood helpless on the sidelines as his life fell apart because I had prayed until I felt God was tired of hearing my supplications. I left it in His and Ethan's hands, because once it took root that's where it was all along.

Was it because even when I found the blister packs, when Ethan was virtually crippled by seizures from chronically overdosing on an over-the-counter cough medicine that he was shoplifting, I still didn't realize it was how addictive it was? I thought that once he'd pushed himself to a point where he saw a problem, he was still rational and intelligent enough to stop. I thought the seizures and the car wrecks and the psychotic breaks were bad enough that my smart, capable son would be able to quit.

Was it loving him too much? Always answering the phone even if he was in a rage and I was in tears when I hung up, or even worse in some ways when there was something so wrong that he was in tears and I couldn't understand what he needed; trying to treat him like he was normal and celebrating the good days and special times like we were still a real family.

The fact is that there was no one moment, but all those moments together. Things I couldn't have known would be a problem and things I couldn't or wouldn't change. At the same time, with more forewarning, I have to believe that people can make better choices and be more proactive. We cannot count on our children to avoid a danger we don't even know exists.

So as parents we have to be vigilant, even if things go wrong and ultimately we feel guilty and wish we'd done something different or something more. We cannot throw up our hands and watch a generation consumed by our society and its desire to escape reality with video games, drugs and paradoxically "reality" TV. We have to try to save our children, one by one, knowing that we may make the wrong choices and that ultimately what happens is up to them and God. We have to make sure they have God in their lives so that, perhaps, they will recognize that it's not just on them to straighten out all alone when things go wrong. And because if there is no healing for whatever is broken on this earth, we as parents can try to accept that they can find peace with our heavenly Father.

Beyond all that we have to know our enemies. They come in so many forms, so many lures that will take our children away from all of the bad times and let them forget who they are for just a little while, until they've forgotten for so long that they cannot remember. We have to know that they come not just in the wrappings of crime and bad neighborhoods, not just in dealing with people that they recognize from an early age are not folks they want to call friends. They come in the guise of friends, who offer them a safe escape. They come from the shelves of pharmacies, grocery stores and discount chains. Our newest enemy comes from our own homes and we give it to our children or take it ourselves not recognizing its potential for harm. It's medicine, prescription and over the counter, and we think it's safe and good. So do our children.

Somehow, in the end, that's what I have to say.

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.

Why Did He Have to Die? Searching For Meaning

I remembered to feed my house dogs last night.

I'm not sure if anyone fed them the two days before or not. Maybe my husband mentioned it. Although my hens and outside dogs all are part of a routine that I've stumbled through blindly this week, the three little dogs who cuddle around me when I sit down are used to having food dropped in their bowls whenever they are empty. I honestly hadn't even looked at their bowls.

Of course, Monday I didn't even remember to eat until someone from my Sunday school class came with a box of food. I had started a pot of soup, because I knew in my head that we would need to eat. I had even forced my granddaughters to sit down and eat at lunch time, but food wasn't something that I wanted.

Once upon a time the death of a family member would have filled a home with visitors and food. Not too long ago, the phone would have carried the word from place to place. People would have stepped forward to make sure you ate and do what needed doing. Now I can't even think of what I might need when people do call or ask. There's no drawing together because life is so demanding that if you're not the one blindsided by the loss, it's hard to pull yourself free to do more than express condolences.

Now it's this glowing box that draws me like a moth each morning. Not long after I received word, it was Facebook where I turned to let my friends know. It's this blog where I poured out my feelings in an effort to find healing for myself and to try and wrap my head around the the way my life had suddenly changed. It's Facebook where I've found my friends and Ethan's friends reaching out and sometimes sharing memories, pictures, their pain and their prayers for us all. It's my infernal cell phone that I struggle to keep charged because of the texts and calls.

I've had so many people tell me I'm strong, but I don't feel strong. I get up in the morning and heat a cup of coffee, then sit by my computer for as long as I can stand. I write -- not everyone's response to what I'm going through, but what I feel like I have to do -- and I read and I cry. I do the same thing again at night after the children leave and my husband goes to bed. Those are the times when the house is absolutely quite except for the hum of the electric heater in this room and the click of the computer keys.

Part of me wants to stop the blog. Part of me says it's my lifeline. And then every day I look at the statistics on it and wonder if I've helped just one of the people reading it. Sometimes a stranger sends me a comment that makes me know I have and as I search for some kind of purpose in what God has chosen to work in the lives of my son, and I and all of our family and friends, some part of me believes this is it.

I prayed for so long that he would find sobriety. I realized it was not a gift I could give him, or something I could force on him either, so I prayed that God would do it. Every time he stumbled down another long hole that I never expected him to live in -- months in jail, a month in the hospital, months in physical rehabilitation, living in a homeless shelter -- I prayed that someone he might not have otherwise met would be able to say the words he needed to hear and show him the way to another life.

I pleaded with God, argued with God, tried to accept that there was a reason that he had to suffer so much. Although Ethan sometimes argued that he was happy with his life, with his drugs and addiction, there was often pain in his voice, his body was damaged from the drugs and accidents. He could never see it was his choices or seem to see a way to change, despite months of sober living, support groups, the kindness of strangers, and the deep well of love of his family and friends that as often as not he would turn his back on.

When he died, I asked why. Not why was he dead, because lately there had been so much pain in him that I had prayed for peace if not sobriety. Peace was what he was finally given. It wasn't the answer I wanted, but it was one I felt I could accept. Instead I asked why it took so long. Why did he have to hurt so long? Why didn't he die one of the times he was hauled to the ER unresponsive from an overdose? Why did he survive an accident that should have killed him? Why did he have to keep hurting?

The answer is that I don't know. I don't know how his experiences changed his soul. While he couldn't escape his addiction, he also couldn't escape his salvation, and perhaps there were things he learned about himself and his God in those months that he had no way to share with us.

Perhaps while he stumbled through a life that was destined to end too soon, he was the tool that changed someone else's life, if not in how he lived, then in how he died. Perhaps the people who helped him, or who tried to, learned something from the experience that will make them better at helping someone else. Maybe his friends who are still stunned and wondering what happened to the wonderful kid they grew up with will remember the path he took and not only avoid it themselves, but watch for those signs of danger in their friends, siblings, and their own children.

I don't believe that his life or his pain, or mine for that matter, were in vain, even though I may never understand it. Not in this life, anyway. And when the time comes that I could gain that understanding, it won't matter any more. I'll be able to put aside this pain and anger and leave it all behind, and if understanding comes, it will only be as a brief ah-ha moment when we're together again with our Savior and celebrating freedom from this world that is not our home.

So I sit at my computer, because while God gave him pain and addiction, for years he has given me words. This process is my therapy, but maybe someone else's as well. Just as I originally committed to writing every day just to get in the habit, now I'm committed to writing because there may be someone else who needs this as badly as I do. I know that grief consumes me now, that maybe it hurts as badly to read it as it does to write it some days, and that many people will never understand why I do it. And that doesn't matter.

I know in some bright, sunny future time I can hardly imagine now while I'm cloaked in this dark blanket of grief, the things that make my day once again will be lighthearted and the ups and downs that I once knew. But through it there will still wind a thread of pain and loss that I've got to learn how to live with and accept. Thanks to this blog and my inability to be less than honest, I know there are so many other parents and families struggling with that same fate and I'm going to be here so they know they're not alone.

Goodbye, My Little Boy

Yesterday the phone rang with the call some part of me has been expecting for a year or two now. It was the Galax Police Department calling to notify me they had found my 23-year-old son dead in his apartment after being asked to do a welfare check.

It's the call no mother wants to get, but after living with his addiction for so long it was one I expected at the back of my mind. I thought I was prepared, but really, until the phone rang I always clung to hope that he would turn his life around.

I'm still struggling to wrap my head and heart around the idea that this time he really is gone. Our communication has been so spotty for years, so full of anger at times, that I'm used to not hearing from him for days or weeks. Just a week ago, he called wanting a Playstation 4 for Christmas. I told him no.

He had skipped Thanksgiving, I think at least partly because he was angry with me over a Facebook post in which I was thankful for him, despite the fact that he hadn't always been the son I imagined. I was uncertain over what Christmas would bring. Maybe that was the cloud that's been hanging over my holiday. I hadn't even bought him any gifts.

Now I won't get to, ever again.

There's a picture of him on the living room wall holding my dog last Christmas, sporting a goofy toboggan and a grin. When he was straight, he had a lethal sense of humor and was always worried about me. In my memories he is the golden haired little boy who trooped behind his older sister and worried her to death as she played; the elementary schooler who liked being smart and didn't care for basketball or karate; the middle schooler who put on weight and had braces and didn't like himself as much as he should have because I still loved his smile. He's also the sullen teen who stretched out and became tall and lean, who gave up band and skate boarding, who put his fist through the wall and wouldn't do chores. Yet on good days he still gave awesome hugs and when he managed a smile, the room would light up.

The good days, however, seemed fewer and farther between the older he got. Instead of correcting his path, he intentionally chose it, repeatedly. We argued, by text, at great length last month about all the wonderful things he thought his drug of choice did for him and whether or not he was happy. When he was high, he thought he was Death incarnate, or maybe god. He was immortal and capable of anything he set his mind to doing. He hated everything around him except the video games in which he could further escape from reality.

I know he had dreams -- of being a video game designer, of having a family and being a dad. He told me he wanted to be a good dad, which was so sad because his dad was such a deadbeat, and he was great with children. His nieces adored him. But he poisoned his chances at all that when he started using drugs, when he chose repeatedly to keep using them. In many ways, I lost my son when he and his best friend started getting high. He was never the same after that; moody, angry, scary and demanding.

He always thought that since it wasn't an illegal drug, or even one he had to obtain illegally, that it was OK. Dextromethorphan is a cough suppressant and central nervous system depressant. It's sold over the counter and safe in recommended dosages. Taken a whole pack or more at a time, however, it mimics the effects of PCPs. It causes psychosis, seizures, organ damage, and potentially death.

He left home for nearly a year when he was 16, loading his belongings in a rage on the day my grandfather died. Even when he didn't live with me though, I gave him a phone to keep in touch, came to his rescue when he needed me, took afternoons off work to deal with a broken heart. He came home the next summer because they didn't have room for him any more and I wanted him to finish school, which he did. But frankly, I was afraid of him and his angry outbursts. He turned 18 and graduated, still with no purpose or desire to have one, and I made him move out.

He had a few jobs, wrecked a few cars, and was living in his car when one last accident ended its usefulness. By then he was having seizures. He was unable to work, so I rented him an apartment and took him regularly to Winston-Salem to see a doctor and psychologist. We didn't know that, even then, he continued to use. Then he found a roommate and they got high together, he went into a psychosis and pulled a Japanese sword on the roommate, and we found out the truth. He was in jail when we cleaned out his apartment and found bag after bag of empty blister packs where he'd been taking drugs -- drugs he stole, by the way.

I should have known by the illogical rages, I guess. But even though I knew the drugs had caused the neurological damage that brought on the seizures, I didn't know their effects as well as I would have some widely discussed street drug.

When he got out of jail, I refused to enable him any more. He moved to Virginia with my parents. He never worked again, except odd jobs at the church and for my family. When my dad's illness meant mom couldn't take care of him as well, he first rented a house, then lost his job at the church and wound up in the homeless shelter. During that time he had a horrific wreck in which he should have been killed. He was high and in a blackout, hit a parked car and went over an embankment. He was ejected and broke multiple bones, including his back, but was not paralyzed. We were all convinced that would be hitting bottom.

For months, back at the shelter, he stayed on the straight and narrow. He had to because of random drug testing. He was a house monitor, had friends and was fun to be around again. When he moved out into an apartment, the first thing he did was get high. This summer police called me and asked if I was his mom. I expected the next words to be a death notification. No, he was on the streets acting strange. He spent two nights in jail for public intoxication.

I hate to admit how seldom I've seen him since his birthday in April. He was in a downward spiral that I knew I was powerless to stop. I talked to him on the phone fairly regularly and tried to make sure he knew I loved him. Often when he called his voice was unintelligible and I would strain to have a conversation, never knowing if he were high or if were an aftereffect of the drugs. Sometimes he called in tears from emotional or mental pain. Lately there had been physical pain as well, but he would not see a doctor.

For years I've prayed for God to heal him, to make him choose sobriety, and more recently just to take away the pain that seemed to drive him. At last, Ethan hurts no more. At one level, my prayers have been answered.

There's a hole in my heart and an ache in my stomach. I'm not sure if writing about it makes it more real, or less. I know now I've had almost a day to process and I'm still not sure I'm ready to do anything else. I hate that, right now, so many of my memories are not good, but maybe that's what I need to get through the next few days. I refuse to take a photo album down and bring happier ones to the surface.

I've been touched by how many people have reached out to me and wept again when I realized how many of my friends have already, in some form, walked this path I'm on. I don't know what to tell people I need beyond time. I'm trying to go on with life and do the things I enjoy instead of trembling in a corner in sackcloth and ashes, and I know that may raise a few eyebrows but my grief won't change his death, just as it never changed the way he chose to live.

I know I'm fragile right now and I'm trying to take care of myself. I wish I could hug him one more time and remind him again that I love him, no matter what. That not being possible I want to hold my daughter and granddaughters and feel the breath in their lungs and the beat of their hearts.

I want to somehow know that he's finally at peace and that I won't ever have to feel this way again.