Last week, I received a call I had been both dreading and expecting for over twenty years. My brother was discovered dead from a heroin overdose at the age of 44. He was found alone in his car parked outside a convenience store in Colorado. I choose to say “died” instead of “passed away.”
“Passed away” suggests a serene transition from one life to another, a gentle departure into tranquility. But there is nothing peaceful about dying from a heroin overdose. It’s a tragic end that no one deserves, a stark and violent interruption of a life that held so much promise.
As adults, my brother and I were not particularly close, and my feelings toward him were a complex mix of love, anger, and resentment. I watched helplessly as he transformed from a vibrant child who lit up a room into a man ensnared by addiction—first to alcohol, then to cocaine, and ultimately to heroin. At the time of his death, I hadn’t spoken to him in nearly three years. This distance was partly due to my inability to reach him, but also a means of self-preservation. Yet, he haunted my thoughts, often bringing me to tears. How does someone with such potential fall so far? How did my brother, who had every opportunity, end up homeless, at times incarcerated, and addicted? Why was I spared from the same fate? After all, we shared the same upbringing, including a father who left us as teenagers. I carry the weight of guilt—what right do I have to live a seemingly unscathed life while he succumbed to his demons?
In our childhood, we imagined ourselves as superheroes and football stars, navigating the creeks in our neighborhood and helping each other cross makeshift bridges. I remember forcing him to dress up as Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie during my obsession with the show. He protested, but ultimately complied for my sake. He was a gifted athlete, charming and magnetic. People were drawn to him effortlessly.
My mother often recounted a story she clung to as proof that her addicted son could conquer his struggles. She would share how he walked hand in hand with my grandfather at a Billy Graham event, declaring his faith. As the years passed, her narrative would sometimes falter, but she remained unwavering in her belief that he would one day return to that earnest boy who had once proclaimed his faith to thousands.
During his darkest days, I would scream at him to just stop. Just don’t call the dealer, don’t use the needle. I perceived it as a choice, not recognizing the all-consuming nature of addiction. Society might view his death as just another statistic—another addict lost. They don’t see the son who was deeply loved, or the impact he had on those around him who still remember him fondly. He was a talented chef who once catered for former President Barack Obama at the DNC National Convention in Denver. When he was sober, he left a lasting impression on everyone he encountered. He adored dogs and the vast skies of the West. That “criminal junkie” label doesn’t encompass all that he was.
Yet, that part of him influenced how we all reacted. We loved him, feared him, pitied him, and even cursed him. Every phone call filled us with anxiety—was it good news or bad? He spent countless hours in rehab, just as he did in jail, and always returned to the drugs that, for fleeting moments, offered him solace from his inner turmoil.
His death has left me devastated in a way I never anticipated. I thought I would respond with stoic acceptance when this day finally arrived, but instead, I find myself curled up in sorrow, mourning not only his life but the loss of his talent, charisma, and the hope I held for his recovery. May you rest in peace, dear brother.
For those navigating similar journeys, there are resources available that can provide support and information. One excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination is found here. If you’re looking for fertility assistance, you can visit this guide on at-home insemination kits as well.
In summary, this reflection serves as a reminder of the complexities of addiction and the pain it inflicts on families. While my brother’s story is one of heartache, it also emphasizes the importance of understanding addiction as a disease rather than a choice.
Leave a Reply