My story is based on my experience as a mom with a child who suffered from an opioid addiction; a mom who fought beside her son as he desperately tried to overcome his addiction; and a mom who ultimately lost her son to the battle.
I tell my story so that you can feel it, and I hope it gives you a deeper understanding of the pain and loss that comes from substance-use disorders — for both the person struggling and the family.
I tell it so you may gain an awareness of the circumstances of addiction. I hope that my son’s story generates change in perception that will ultimately help someone.
My son had struggles — as you will read — not only with his opioid use itself, but also with the stigmas of addiction and medication-assisted treatment.
Stigma matters! Stigma is experienced by patients in health care settings and it impacts opioid addiction and recovery.
P
arker was a sweet, normal child, doing all the same things that other children do. He was a very loving child and was very much loved. Parker kept people laughing and was a joy to be around. He loved the outdoors, especially hunting, archery and duck calling.
On Aug. 28, 2018, I got a call from my husband. He told me that the sheriff was at our house to tell us that Parker had been found unresponsive in a nearby motel room and was taken to the hospital. When I got to the hospital, I found him on a ventilator and soon learned that he had suffered an accidental opioid overdose.
Parker was found alone in the motel room. He had lain unresponsive on the floor, deprived of oxygen long enough to have extensive brain damage. He would not survive the overdose. I knew that I was going to have to say goodbye to my son and I knew that his struggle was over.
There’s so much I can say about the 24 hours that I spent at his bedside.
I wasn’t shocked this happened. In fact, Parker and I had discussed the possibility of him not making it through this disease.
He even told me that a film he had watched in rehab said that people suffering from heroin/fentanyl addiction had a 5% chance of survival. He then said, “Mom, if I’ve only got a 5% chance, I’m gonna do whatever I can to be one of those 5%.” Parker wasn’t on fentanyl at that time, but I knew he had previously progressed to smoking it and I knew that fentanyl was on the streets. If he relapsed, overdose was possible.
We’d had many talks about death and dying. I had prepared myself, much as would someone whose child was battling stage 4 cancer. I remember one day having a tough time wrapping my head around it and thinking, “There are a lot of parents out there with young children battling cancer and they somehow manage it, so I can too.”
The difference is, those parents don’t have to worry about the stigma and judgement of their children’s illness and treatment. I decided, if they could freely talk about their children’s illness and get open support, then I would talk about Parker’s disease in that same context.
What would I do if he had cancer? I would fight alongside him. So that’s what I did. As long as he wanted to fight, I would stand beside him and fight to help him get the treatment he needed.
P
arker had fought hard. He entered rehab for the first time as a senior in high school. He went unwillingly — I sent him with hopes that he’d get ahold of this early on.
After finishing the 90-day, residential treatment program, he came home, graduated high school, and got a landscaping job making good money. But It wasn’t long before he was using his money to buy drugs again.
I told him that I knew and that he should seek treatment again. Later, he told me he wanted to try the opioid treatment drug Suboxone. I told him I would agree to that only within a good treatment program that required accountability and counseling.
I knew about a local program and suggested it. Parker agreed and enrolled. He was doing well on the medication-assisted treatment but mentioned not wanting to be on Suboxone for the rest of his life.
He shared with me the things people had said to him, such as, “You’re just trading one drug for another,” and “It’s harder to get off of than heroin.” I hated hearing these instances of shaming stigma as I knew he was making progress and really liked his counselor.
Parker started weaning himself off the treatment and decided to go to work on a farm. He loved farming; my father was a farmer and I think it was in his blood.
He enjoyed it and was good at it. Plus, he made really good money. The problem was that the farm was 2 hours away and Parker found it difficult to make drive necessary to continue in the recovery program. So, he quit the program.
It wasn’t long before he relapsed, and this time it was really out of control. Parker overdosed and survived, and told us that he wanted to reenter treatment. I think he knew he’d die if he didn’t.
So, he went into a residential addiction and treatment center in Rayville, Louisiana. He finished in less than 90 days, entered a sober-living home and continued with intensive outpatient treatment. He did well for a short period of time.
But Parker relapsed and overdosed again. He was given Narcan and survived.
He drove himself home from the ER. When he told me that he’d relapsed, he said he needed to go back into treatment to find out what he was missing. He cried and cried. I saw a broken, scared child who did not want to be this way.
He told me that he wanted to be the child, the brother, the uncle and the grandson that his family deserved. I saw that day the fear in his eyes, the shame and the guilt that he carried. He didn’t know how to overcome this but really wanted to.
W
hat people don’t understand is that the stigma around this illness is rooted in a misconception that a person struggling with an addiction has control over it and is to blame for it.
When my son was given the Narcan prescription, he was told, “Get this filled, you’re going to need it.” I realize that our health care workers see many of these cases, but a more sympathetic point of view might have been, ’This could be the overdose that sends him straight to recovery and rehabilitation, ultimately saving his life.’
The final time Parker overdosed, I wasn’t taken seriously by ER staff. I was initially told that my son had overdosed on cocaine and I knew better. I knew that the ER’s drug screening wouldn’t have picked up what he was using. I had numerous conversations with the attending physicians, begging for further screening.
When they finally relented, opiates were found. I then asked for specific testing for fentanyl, but that was never done. It was important to me to know exactly what killed my son.
Another time, I brought to the ER a woman who needed treatment for drug use. She was treated differently and so was I, because I was there with her. The woman wanted help but was spoken to dismissively. Little eye contact was made.
She was first told the ER couldn’t help her. After I persisted in asking for help for her, staff were able to get her into detox. But if she needs to get help again, the shame that she received during this incident may keep her from going back.
