Drug Addiction – not my child! – is a common refrain. Parents can’t even imagine let alone consider their child may be developing (yes, developing) or have the brain disease of addiction. This is due in large part to society’s utter lack of understanding about the nature of this brain disease, the key risk factors contributing to its development and what parents can do to halt the progression or help their child once it’s taken hold. Yet, “[a]dolescence is the critical period both for starting to smoke, drink or use other drugs and for experiencing more harmful consequences as a result. The teen brain is primed to take risks including experimenting with these substances and, because it is still developing, it is more vulnerable to their harmful effects,” according to The National Center on Addiction and Substance Use at Columbia University’s 2011 report, “Adolescent Substance Use: America’s #1 Public Health Problem,” page i.]

It is a great honor to carry this series, “Drug Addiction – Not My Son,” by Mother D, which is obviously a pseudonym for the real mom, a pseudonym still necessary, today, in order to protect her son’s identify because of the shame and stigma that surrounds this disease of addiction. To shatter this shame and help other parents avoid her family’s nightmare, Mother D has chosen to share the story of her son’s addiction and his and her own recovery journey.

Not My Son, Part II: What Next? by Mother D

During Part I of “Not My Son,” I explained how a terse sounding social worker called and told me that friends had checked my son, Ron, into the emergency room at a hospital close to their college campus. Ron was psychotic due to drug use, and she suggested that I fly out to his aid. Two hours later, that’s virtually all I knew as I flew over several states to help him.

Shifting nervously in my seat, I wondered what I would find when arriving at the hospital. I imagined making my way to Ron’s bedside where he would be sedated yet safe and attended by compassionate nurses concerned about his welfare. Eventually a doctor would meet with me to explain Ron’s condition and what course of action the medical team would pursue for his recovery. It was going to be a hard stretch, I realized, but I was hopeful that in a short period of time, with good medical care, Ron would come to his senses, contrite and remorseful for his reckless behavior.

It, therefore, came as quite a surprise when, after touch down, I turned my cellphone on and read a text from Ron. Apparently, he was waiting outside for me at the United curb. “What in the world?” I asked myself completely puzzled. Had Ron really been released from the hospital? Clearly, I thought, they wouldn’t release him unless he was stable, especially so late at night. After all, my flight had landed shortly before midnight. Maybe there was some mistake? Could they have misdiagnosed his condition? He must not be that bad off, I concluded.

Head full of questions, I grabbed my bag and wheeled it outside. From a distance I saw Ron’s dark silhouette in front of a bright streetlight at the side of the road. “Hey there!” I waved to no response. “Hi, sweetheart!” I said louder as I got closer. I let go of my bag and gave him a hug. He barely raised his arms to hug me back. Then in an almost inaudible flat tone he whispered, “Am I going to be ok?” I stepped back, and without hesitation responded, “Of course you are!” But as I saw his eyes clearly for the first time that night, an icy blast of fear hit my gut, and I wasn’t so sure. It was as though I was looking into the hollow, lifeless eyes of a zombie, and I knew right then I had landed in a nightmare.

An Early Landmine

This is where I need to break into my story and point out a landmine (as I promised to do in Part I): When it comes to mental health crises—especially if the crisis has anything to do with drug abuse—DO NOT expect the same treatment you would get in the case of a physical crisis from the medical community.

For example, I have two sisters who (both on separate occasions) received “the call” telling them to make haste to their respective son’s side at an ER. Both sons had been in accidents and were physically in critical condition. However, in both cases, teams of medical specialists rushed to the boys’ aid, evaluating their conditions, taking life-sustaining measures and counseling my sisters and their husbands regarding medical choices.

My nephews’ accidents were terrible and traumatic, and it took a long time for them to recover. I do not mean to be trivializing their situation; however, their medical treatment lies in sharp contrast to my son’s.

Whereas my nephews’ physical health crises elicited a strong mobilization of compassionate doctors who kicked it into high gear to help, Ron was given a gruff “once-over” and discharged from the hospital almost immediately. Whereas my sisters and their husbands were contacted and then fully embraced by a communicative and inclusive hospital team, my husband and I were contacted, then forgotten. (They didn’t even wait for my arrival! Nor did they include us in the decision to release Ron late at night to a scared friend, one totally unqualified to handle his condition.) And, in retrospect, I now know that when I found Ron standing virtually alone on a street curb around midnight, he was in just as life-threatening a medical crisis as his nephews had been. He just wasn’t bleeding.

Ron handed me the discharge paper from the hospital. “Psychosis due to poly-substance abuse” had been circled as the diagnosis, and there was a quick scribble to the side: “visit mental health clinic at student health center tomorrow.” That was all the information and instruction the hospital had released him with.

Ron’s friend (who had driven Ron to the airport and then waited in a designated parking area) was able to fill me in on a few pre-hospital details, but he could offer me no more information about Ron’s release than what was handed to me on the paper. We drove in uncomfortable silence to a hotel close to campus where Ron and I checked in.

The Nightmare Begins in Earnest

The rest of that night was, as I had intuited earlier, an unqualified nightmare. Ron, terrified with paranoia and hallucinations, was inconsolable, and I was not able to calm him down until a few merciful beams of morning light began to peak in through the hotel windows. Fully dressed and curled in a fetal position, he finally fell asleep. I, of course, couldn’t.

While Ron was awake, any attempt I made to use my cellphone would send him into a paranoid rave. So, it was only after he slept that I could communicate with Ron’s father, Bryan. “Find Ron a psychiatrist in the area, fast!” I desperately texted. Bryan texted me back after some time that he had made many telephone calls but couldn’t immediately make contact with anyone. He would keep trying, he assured me.

Shaky with exhaustion, fear and anxiety, I sat on the bed next to Ron and wondered what to do next. Should I take Ron back to the hospital? No, I decided. The hospital hadn’t helped and had already sent him away; plus I knew Ron wouldn’t go back. Ron was enraged about the harsh, in fact “torturous,” treatment he reported being given at the ER.

Should I take him home? I shuddered as I thought about trying to get Ron through security at the airport, given the irrational, highly agitated mental state he was in. Nor could I rent a car and make the long drive back home safely for the same reason.

Until Bryan could find help from his end, there was nothing else I could do besides wait for Ron to wake up and take him, as suggested by his discharge paper, to the student health center.

Totally alone with the weight of my son’s sanity on my shoulders, I began to cry with a disbelief and a dark grief I had never experienced before. I wanted to reach out to someone, but there was no one, besides Bryan, that I could reach out to. Unlike my sisters who had no qualms about reaching out to their community (family and friends who then sprang into action delivering meals and flowers, holding prayer circles and sending cards and letters of support), there was no one I knew who could offer me empathy and compassion about a son gone mad with too many drugs.

And, because it was a mental crisis involving drugs, I wasn’t sure if anything should be communicated to anyone besides Ron’s father. If word got out, I was certain there would be grave consequences for Ron. I was afraid it would, for example, destroy his reputation, and because Ron had already landed a post-graduation dream job, I was sure he would lose it. And what about future jobs?

No, this had to be kept quiet. Bryan and I would find help for Ron and he would get better without anyone outside of my immediate family knowing. There would be no flowers, dinners, cards, letters of support, or even prayers made for us. We were going into battle alone.

Next Post: The Lonely Battle Begins