The last time I saw my father, it was over breakfast on Thanksgiving Day in 2001. I was 19, freshly graduated from high school, and we chose a small café just a short walk from his house. He had been released from prison a year and a half prior, still without a driver’s license. He made an effort to present himself well, sporting a bulky green sweater and a freshly shaved face, although the truth was that no one in the family wanted him at their Thanksgiving table.
My father was toothless, having lost them years before, likely as a consequence of his addiction to Vicodin. As I sat across from him, his smile revealed dark pockmarks where teeth once were, remnants of food lodged in the crevices. His skin bore a chalky pallor from years of substance abuse, his greasy black hair streaked with gray, and his deep-set blue-green eyes were surrounded by nicotine stains. Standing at just five feet seven inches and weighing no more than 100 pounds, he appeared frail and older than his 49 years.
This was the thinnest I had ever seen him. The large breakfast he ordered and the oversized sweater were attempts to convince me he was healthy. It was just one of many ways he tried to mask his addiction. Our conversation that day touched on my mother, my job at the hardware store, and my college plans. He asked for money, and despite knowing he would use it for more painkillers, I gave it to him—he was still my father. Afterward, I drove him to his fourth ex-wife’s home for Thanksgiving dinner, as she was the only one willing to include him.
He passed away the following month, a decade after a series of work-related accidents had led him down the path of prescription painkillers. From what I gathered from family and friends, he had once been a respectable man—an entrepreneur who paid his bills and cared for his family. However, after being introduced to opioids by our family doctor, his life spiraled out of control, dragging mine down with it.
I remember him swerving off the road while driving me to a wrestling match, his disheveled appearance becoming the norm. He frequently drifted in and out of consciousness at home, shuffling between doctors, always seeking another prescription. He left my mother when she sought help for his addiction, and he never settled in the run-down apartments he rented, knowing eviction was inevitable.
One of my most vivid memories is of us on opposite sides of bulletproof glass in county jail, talking through heavy steel phone cables. He faced charges for driving under the influence and forging prescriptions. I was still in high school then. As he rubbed the phone with his thin, trembling hand, he said, “I don’t want to see you in here. You’re better than me.” In that moment, I felt deep empathy. He had lost control of his life and didn’t want the same fate for me. But that loss of control is the stark reality of the opioid crisis.
My father’s addiction began when I was 8, and he died when I was 19. Over those eleven years, I witnessed his transformation from a devoted father and husband to a confused and sickly addict. This all unfolded long before the opioid epidemic became a topic of national conversation, at a time when few questioned the prescriptions handed out by doctors. His addiction seeped into our lives like a toxic gas, eroding his reliability, ruining his career, and impacting my childhood and understanding of fatherhood in ways I still grapple with.
I don’t think my father sought out drugs intentionally. He was prescribed painkillers by a trusted physician, and as the prescriptions piled up, he found himself trapped in a cycle he couldn’t break. In the end, he died alone in a small apartment filled with little more than worn clothes and a family photo from a better time. There were enough prescription bottles in his cabinets to fill a large trash bag, a painful reminder of his struggles. I recall my older brother showing it to me as I knelt beside the mattress where our father took his last breath, staring at that photo of a younger man in a bowtie. “Each one of these was prescribed by a different doctor,” my brother said. “Isn’t that crazy?” I shook my head, “No, it’s terrifying.”
The opioid epidemic is not just a societal issue; it becomes deeply personal when it touches your family—when it’s your loved one facing the darkness of addiction. When my father passed, I didn’t shed a tear while clearing out his apartment or telling his mother about his death. I didn’t cry at his funeral. It took almost a year for the grief to surface, and when it did, it hit me in the shower one evening, sitting on the cold tiles. I wept, not for my loss, but for the father he could have been if not for his addiction.
This is the harsh reality of the opioid crisis: it strips away the potential for loved ones to be the parents, siblings, and children they could have been. It’s a heart-wrenching journey of watching someone you care about slowly fade away, a trap that many unknowingly fall into. It’s vital that we unite in efforts to combat this epidemic, ensuring that no one else has to endure the pain of losing a loved one in this manner.
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Summary:
This narrative explores the profound impact of opioid addiction on a family, detailing a father’s descent from a supportive figure to a troubled addict. It highlights the personal toll of addiction, illustrating the devastating effects on relationships and the struggle to cope with loss. The author emphasizes the importance of addressing the opioid crisis and supporting those affected by it.
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