2 - Heroin, now was our Son's Drug of Choice

     Within minutes the rumbling of the engines was heard, and my husband and I were taxied down the runway at the Los Angeles Airport. After minutes of waiting, the engines revved up. Vroom, we were up in the air.  I sighed as I watched the waves crashed to the shore and wondered how many sea creatures and empty shells whirled around like a tornado, stuck in the undercurrent, unable to escape.  Alan, my husband, clasped my hand tenderly and said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”   Our 30th wedding anniversary was just around the corner, so Alan had decided to make it extra special.  We were on our way to Vancouver, Canada, scheduled on one of the most important trips of our lives, one of survival, the survival of our marriage.

     Once our son began driving, our house turned into a house of fear.  By the age of 22, Kyle had been in about 12 accidents, totaled three cars, and received two DUIs.  Often, I would wake up with a start and walk to his bedroom, praying he had already arrived home, asleep in his bed. When he wasn’t there, I crawled back into bed, imagining all types of horrifying scenarios: he and his car were wrapped around a light pole, or he had driven around the ‘S’ Curves in Topanga too fast and had plummeted over the edge, and no one was there to help him.  The irregular heart palpitations or forgetting to breathe had become the norm for me.  
    Alan would yell and say hurtful things to his son in regards to his Kyle Petty need for excitement and speed. And I would step in as the savior who attempted to calm down their testosterone. Except, I don’t think a counselor would raise his/her voice.  Kyle was named after Kyle Petty, a famous race car driver. Somewhat ironic that our Kyle was always speeding, don’t you think?) 

    I used to cry and raise my voice, telling Kyle to slow down, be more careful. One day I actually accused him of wanting to kill himself. Taking the car away for a few days, a couple of months, half a year, making him take a Defensive Driving class after he totaled the second car, nothing worked. One day as we were driving to a movie, I had to pull to the side of the road because an ambulance or a cop car was screaming by. Alan sniffled away a few tears, “Every time I hear a siren, I’m sure it’s my son, dead from a car accident.” That’s when it hit me why Alan yelled at his at Kyle. He was terrified that he was going to lose him.

   After so many years of having my worry button stuck on fear and worry, my body and brain were exhausted. If I wasn't worried about Kyle, I was worried about Nicole, who seemed to have excommunicated herself from her friends about in the middle of 10th grade. I oftentimes could feel her disconnect even though she told me she was okay. And yet, I didn't have the energy to force her to go to counseling. I knew she was not okay even though I'd ask her. I walked around in a glossy daze feeling like I was stuck behind a pane of lead glass, the scene distorted.  I could barely remember my students’ names even though I had some of them for three years. I struggled to remember what I had taught the previous day.  A boa constrictor had taken up permanent residency in and around my lower and upper intestine, squeezing the organs hard or stretching the small tubes to fit its body through. And then by magic, we had a respite for about 4 to 6 months, no more car accidents.  We were ecstatic! We finally remembered how to breathe normally.

    But that peace was not meant to last. In the middle of his second year in college, Kyle had a breakdown. He was 20. I remember my initial fear when I heard him talk about some weird stuff, Oh, my God, my son is crazy… but then the thought zapped out of my brain like so many things did.  The habitual feeling of floating above a scene watching me try to function as a mother, wife, and teacher happened so often that I thought nothing of it.   Alan and my buttons were set on denial for a few months, hoping that he’d snap out of it if he slept long enough. But one day, our daughter, Nicole, walked up to me and said in a very adult serious voice, "Mom, you need to really listen to what Kyle's saying." 

     Immediately, I walked up to Kyle, wondering why Nicole was so intense. Kyle had his foot up on something and looked at me in a bizarre way and said a few things that I can't remember, but then he said, " Mom, did you know my toenail is farting out, Jesus?" I sighed, realizing that I had been hoping so much that Kyle was okay that I couldn't see the truth; our son was mentally unstable. (How our daughter could maintain an 'A' average and remain sane in this house still astounds me.) It took about a year for the juggling of the meds to finally work. His paranoia, speedy speech, scratching, and twitching had disappeared.  We were positive the breakdown was due to heavy partying and drug use. Kyle, of course, swore that it wasn’t. 

Paraphernalia for smoking Heroin

Once, while vacationing for three days in Vegas, attempting to remind ourselves that we were still a couple, that Alan and I did have things in common, that we did love each other even though we've said hurtful stupid things out of frustration and anger.  Nicole had already escaped living her own life. Kyle called me on my cell to tell me he was smoking heroin.  He sounded so grounded, so adult.  Then he asked to talk to his father. Honestly, I thought Alan would freak, but he stayed calm and listened. Finally, Alan and I realized Kyle was on his own road, and no matter how much we worried and struggled to help guide him, he was the one who had to navigate his life, not us.  We had to start living our own lives. It’s so frustrating as parents to realize that we have such little control over our children. We can be there for them, listen, help guide them, discipline them, but ultimately they make their own choices. w

   About four months after Kyle had finished his stint in Kaiser Permanente’s walk-in drug rehab, he walked into our bedroom while I was folding clothes, and our 22 years old announced, “Mom, I need to go back into a Drug Rehab Program.” He took his sock off to show me where he was now shooting the heroin.

Source

    “What the hell happened to ‘I’d never shoot that stuff into my veins, mom?' ”   I was surprised that I didn’t feel anything. Yes, I was disappointed, but I was calm, if that makes sense. There was no judgment behind the words, just surprise.  It’s amazing how years of trauma makes one numb. The fear, the worry…. None of that existed at that moment.

    Yes, even though Alan’s soft, warm fingers entwined into mine, an invisible hand ripped through my rib cage, tearing my heart in half.  I wanted to kidnap the plane and force the pilot to fly back to LAX. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, "Turn back! Give me a parachute!  I have to be home with my son!"  Thank God some type of sanity slowly seeped in. I know that Alan and I have to rekindle this relationship, or we won’t survive. He used to be my rock. I wanted to remember how that felt. I needed to remember. Slowly, my heart slowed down as I continued taking more deep breaths. I reminded my mother’s heart that our 22-year-old son was on his own road, and we can only be there to help guide him, support him, love him, and give him encouragement.  Yet, sitting on the back burner is this unspoken fear that Kyle was still lost.  

If you wish to write a personal message to me, my email is: tbboivin8@gmail.com    I will attempt to respond in a couple of days.