Drawing a line in the sand is not easy for any parent of an addict. It simply means even though you love them deeply, you have to take a stand against their self-destructive behaviors. The consequences are clear and irreversible unless a change is made. Unlike the television shows chronicling an intervention, ours was not elaborate, but it worked.
Taking My Head Out of the Sand
The subtle changes like a whisper rarely caught my attention. My son worked long hours, which explained the 55 pounds he lost over the course of a year. The straws I found in his pocket were from work. When I followed him to the mechanic to get his car fixed, the weaving on the road was due to texting while driving. Everything had an explanation, my slow fade into denial.
My dreams spoke louder than my reality. I dreamed of lambs appearing in my front yard. A few minutes later wolves hovered and lay down with the lambs. Deception was their game until they were ready to move in for the kill. He ran out the patio doors to the front of the house and taunted the wolves. One bit off his toe. In my dreamscape, I told him he could have been killed. My subconscious pounded at the front door as the wolves of drugs tried to destroy my son.
On Easter Sunday, in 2010, I watched my son barely able to keep his eyes open during our family celebration. Not one morsel of food entered his mouth. He simply moved his fork back and forth across the plate. When I questioned him later, he told me not to worry about it, but I did worry. I couldn’t shake my discerning heart telling me he would die if things didn’t change. I questioned his girlfriend, and she admitted he did cocaine in the past. I could tell by her demeanor she knew more than she let on. He was on drugs. My eyes finally opened to the harsh reality of my son’s addiction.
I may have had my head in the sand, but once reality barged into my conscious world I knew things had to change. I sat on my deck twirling my hair over and over again contemplating the expansive lot behind my house. Deer often roamed the posted land knowing their freedom from hunters. They may have been free, but how could I dodge the bullets firing against my family? Against my son? I found myself praying for a miracle. Playing his savior had been my role for far too long. I fought his battles at school and with his father. I made one plea into the heavens: “Do whatever you need to do, but please spare his life.”
The Intervention
Planning a drug intervention required an act of faith, an assurance that didn’t cause every nagging doubt to the surface when I tried to imagine his frame of mind and how he would respond. His anger, when set in motion, could crumple the most hardened criminal. I knew what we were about to do would either destroy our relationship with our son or set him on a path to recovery. Either way, it had to be done!
When my husband called our son from his bedroom in the basement, the anger in his eyes as he slumped in the chair revealed our compromised plan. I told his girlfriend to make sure nothing interfered with the intervention. Unfortunately, she was her own disease. I shot her a stern look and she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“ Do you know how much we love you?” I asked.
“Yea. Just get on with it Mom. I know why we’re here.”
An emotional boundary formed the beginnings of the line in the sand. He needed to make the decision to change his own future. Saying “I love you, but…” required not only our love for our son but a strong backbone as well. What he said next nearly broke my resolve to continue.
“It’s your fault Mom, all your fault. Not mine. You enabled me. You came to my defense when you should have been a mother who disciplined me. You should have kept me under your watchful eye and protected me. You didn’t.”
His words stung. I taught my children freedom with responsibility. I taught them to use their freedom wisely. He couldn’t blame me. He was eighteen, not a child.
I took out the letters we wrote to him, letters of love and not judgment. His oldest sister told him she feared getting the dreaded phone call that her baby brother died. She reminded him of the promise she made to him at his birth. She would always be there for him, and his drug addiction didn’t change anything; in fact, she realized how she needed to be his ally, his cheerleader and his prayer warrior. His younger sister told him how our family never did anything the traditional way; we all fell flat on our face at one time or another, but his worth was far greater than his mistakes. Hearing words of affirmation made him fidget, but none of our letters hit him as hard as Ethan’s, his 15-year-old nephew. When I read his letter, tears broke through crumbling down his castle walls. He knighted him his role model, and even in this dark situation he looked up to him and loved him.
Although I thought we made some headway with the letters, he was broken but not ready. He was remorseful, but not willing to change. My husband and I drew the line in the sand even further. From a mother who would die for her child, the deeper line nearly destroyed me. It was no longer a choice; it had to be done.
“You will go to rehab or you will lose your phone. You will stop doing drugs or you will lose your car insurance and your place to live. It’s your choice, son.”
“I am leaving.” He walked through the basement doors slamming it behind him. Within five minutes, he packed a duffle bag and walked out the door. His car screeched out of the driveway leveling the line in the sand we created, one I questioned at the moment whether we should have drawn.
A knock came at the door at 2 a.m. His girlfriend told me my son was in trouble. Nothing more needed to be said. Six hours had passed since his last fix and withdrawal pummeled his body as he fought the desire for drugs. Agitation and nausea settled over him like waves as he told me over and over again how sorry he was for hurting me. I took him to the emergency room. What a joke! They monitored him until 4 a.m. and sent him home with a list of names to contact. Unfortunately for all of us, we were heading into Memorial Day weekend. The battle raged against my son the following morning. The full assault against his castle raged and we had no line of defense. Alone on the front lines, we fought nausea, diarrhea, and tremors. His labored breathing made me hold my own breath. He writhed in pain and I said prayers. What else could I do? I even questioned if I remembered CPR, just in case.
During the grueling 72 hours we spent together, I learned my son mainlined three times the lethal limit of Oxycontin three times a day. As he lay on the couch, I saw one of his legs creeping out from under the blankets. A mass of tender twigs and broken wings now took the place of my former football player. Occasionally he would say, “I am a nothing,” and I would remind him he was strong; he was special; he was still my baby boy.
We finally found a rehab facility for my son His final words before he walked through the doors removed all doubts. “Mom you loved me unconditionally and all I ever wanted was your approval and I now know I had it all along.”
The drug counselor put him on Suboxone, an opiate inhibitor. It hasn’t been an easy journey, but he has been drug-free for six years. He has helped countless others with his story and has experienced the pain of losing friends to their drug addiction. Building the line in the sand helped him to rebuild his castle walls and they are stronger than ever.
I am a firm believer we should make beauty from ashes, so I have worked to help other families in the same predicament. I have stood with them as they fight to bring their family members or friends up out of the ashes. According to statistics from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention’s Web-based Injury Statistics Query and Reporting System (WISQARS) (2014), drug overdose was the leading cause of injury death in 2012, killing more than motor vehicle accidents. Heroin addiction deaths have increased five-fold since 2001. It’s time to do an intervention and draw our line in the sand.
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