Two years ago last month, my son-in-law was found dead on his bedroom floor from an overdose. He had a small pharmacy of drugs in his body at the time, one of them fentanyl. Few people dance with the devil and survive when fentanyl is in the mix.
White foam, the result of fluid gathering in his lungs after he stopped breathing, mixed with air as it compressed out his mouth, formed a frothy substance upon his lips as he lay there on the floor. He was cold, and already dead. But my brave husband still attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation in the hopes he was wrong. He knew that whatever was on his mouth could be washed away. But you can never wash away certain horrific images that remain burned into the mind.
It was a Sunday morning around 10 am, and the EMTs took their time responding to the 911 call. Maybe they were at church or standing in line waiting for coffee and donuts at Dunkin to account for the delay. Who knows. But I do know that it took them 10 minutes to finally arrive even though the fire station is only a 3-minute walk from the house. Another thing I know is that if my son-in-law hadn’t already been dead, that delay would have killed him, anyway.
He was supposedly in recovery.
We own a two-family house in a city with one of the state’s highest crime rates. And although we live in an upscale part of town, the occasional sound of a gunshot breaks through our delusion of comfort. Still, we feel safe most of the time.
The four-year-old of the house, the youngest and smartest of us all, was in the living room watching Ryan’s World, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in the other room. And we were painfully aware that she was just a few rooms away. We kept our voices muffled, the door to the bedroom was closed, and two TVs drowned out any sounds that could escape while attempting to save a life. For all she knew, her grandfather was sleeping late on Sunday morning. He always slept late on Sunday mornings—nothing new to see here.
Until today.
I bribed her with some blueberry pancakes and extra iPad time, and she came upstairs with me to our apartment, still unsuspecting of the drama a few rooms away. Once upstairs and safely nestled with me in the back of the house, out of view of the happenings that would soon occur at the front, the EMTs arrived downstairs. The police arrived. The fire engines arrived. Then, detectives arrived. Lastly, almost two hours later, the coroner’s van arrived. And then left with his body in the back.
His cremated remains now sit on the top shelf of our guest room bookcase. I sometimes look up at his urn when I’m cleaning the house, and stick out my tongue at the ashes his addiction made of his existence. Other times, I shed tears for him and the struggle of addicts everywhere, and say a prayer that peace will find its blessed way to them. But not this way.
Not like this.
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