Instead of being concerned about my style of writing or if what I have to say is post worthy, I'm just going to write as though this is an entry to my journal. Style, formatting, and eloquence doesn't seem to have a place here when I'm talking about my son's addiction. There is nothing stylish or eloquent about addiction.  Nothing.

I lost quite a bit of my innocence last year, April 2008, to be exact, when my husband and I discovered my 20 year old son was hooked on heroin. When my son casually announced his addiction last year, while  waiting in the emergency waiting room with him, it didn't even hit me what he had just admitted to. Why would it? The only thing I knew about drugs, even pot, was what I had read about....what I had learned about when I was a high school student. It was the topic of discussion for each one of my six children as they were growing up. You know, the warnings, the scares and the "just say NO" talk..... the subject that I didn't think would ever become a household concern in our home. The subject whom everyone of my kids would innocently and assurredly say, "I know Mom, you don't have to tell us about this." Compared to studying about drugs academically, learning that one of your children is addicted to drugs has a whole different effect. It's like the difference between studying about ancient Greece and actually standing next to the Acropolis with it's magnificence a foot away. Except there isn't anything magnificent about learning that your son is a drug addict.

Yes, the reality of his revelation rocked my world....my sheltered  suburban neighborhood world...the world where I was happily homeschooling and raising a family of six. The world that over all seemed so typical and balanced, with just enough imperfection to make it normal...whatever "normal" means. My definition of "normal" changed last April 2008 in that emergency waiting room where my husband and I sat quietly exchanging words only when necessary, in between looking at our son who was happily nodding off with an occasional few minutes of conscious awareness before he'd fall back asleep again. It was during one of his more alert minutes that he confessed his addiction. He never actually said the word, he just called it the "H" drug. My husband pretty much knew instantly, it took me a little longer to figure it out. After all, things like this don't happen to families such as ours. We were a good Catholic family who was in the thick of life,  involved and doing our best to be good parents raising happy and healthy kids. I mistakenly thought that drugs, especially heroin, only monstered their way into broken homes, homes where there isn't a Mom and Dad....homes in the ghettoes where the poor and uneducated dwelled.....where drive by shootings are expected. I didn't know that heroin will invite itself even into homes where Dad "goes" to work and Mom stays home putting her energy into making a house a home.

Before we finally went home, my husband and I, once more, sat in a small room, this time without a TV and others nearby. It was the room where preliminary questions and health statistics were taken....as though this wasn't a big deal....as though they were accustomed to seeing drug addicts daily. Perhaps they were. It was all new to my husband and me. While waiting for the man in the white coat, my son slept more on the sterile hospital examining table. He looked peaceful, my son, whose body was filled with drugs...my son,  who once was a fun loving young boy who brought laughter to our home. Being his Mom, I saw my son, a handsome young man, who not that long ago was  a little boy whose  booboos I could kiss and heal. My husband's view was slightly different. He saw a bedraggled drug addict on the table.... whom he both loved and loathed at the same time.

Even though I didn't want to leave my son, David, in the hospital, addicted and alone, I felt a glimmer of hope as my husband and I walked to our car that morning around 3:30 A.M. After all, David was now in the hospital, in the care of professionals who had all the answers. He was going to get help. David was going to get better. Needless to say, we were exhausted, drained and emotionally void of any feelings. Stunned might be the better word. This was a new experience for us...one that I wasn't sure we were capable or prepared to handle.

As soon as I got home, too tired to sleep, I googled information about heroin addiction. I wanted to see what I was up against. I wanted to become more informed so that I could prepare for this new battle we would be fighting. Who knows, perhaps it wasn't as bad as it sounded? With a determination to arm myself with knowledge, I started reading the first site that popped up on my screen. As I skimmed down the page, my hope took on a different shape. Right before my eyes, this hope that touched me as I was leaving the  hospital, metamorphasized into fear....the kind of fear that cannot be kissed or hugged away or soothed with any comforting  words. Tears started filling my eyes. For the next five minutes or so, I unabashedly bawled like a baby, with my only company being the screen in front of me informing me about heroin addiction....one of the worst of all addictions. My world as I knew it, turned upside down. Not willing to accept defeat, I slowly with zombie like steps, walked upstairs and crawled into bed where my husband slept quietly.

To be continued.....