In a recent reflection, I recall the last time I saw my father, which was during breakfast on Thanksgiving Day in 2001. I was just 19, freshly out of high school, and we met at a local café close to his home. Eighteen months had passed since he was released from jail, yet he still hadn’t regained his driver’s license. He made an effort to present himself well, donning a thick green sweater and shaving for the occasion. We shared breakfast because no one else in the family wished to include him in their Thanksgiving celebrations.
My father had lost all his teeth, a fate I attributed to his lengthy battle with Vicodin addiction. As he smiled at me, I noticed the dark pockmarks in his gums, remnants of cavities that had once held teeth. His skin had a chalky, unhealthy pallor, his hair was a greasy blend of black and gray, and his eyes were sunken, the pupils a murky blue-green surrounded by a yellowed haze from years of nicotine use. Standing at five feet seven inches and barely weighing 100 pounds, he looked much older than his 49 years.
This was the most frail I had ever seen him. He ordered a large meal and wore the bulky sweater as a façade of health, a desperate attempt to mask the truth of his addiction. Our conversation touched on various topics, including my mother, my job at the hardware store, and my college aspirations. He then asked me for money, and though I knew he would use it for more painkillers, I gave in because he was still my father. I drove him to his fourth ex-wife’s home, the only one willing to host him for the holiday.
He passed away the following month, a decade after a series of work-related accidents had led him down the path of prescription painkiller addiction. Memories of him before addiction revealed a hardworking man—a devoted husband and father, a business owner fulfilling his responsibilities. However, the introduction of prescription opioids by our family doctor marked a pivotal shift in his life, and consequently mine.
I remember instances of my father driving erratically while taking me to a wrestling match, his struggles at home, and his habit of seeking out multiple doctors to obtain prescriptions. His addiction escalated, leading to him leaving my mother when she sought help and moving from one partner to another. As time went on, he never fully settled into the run-down apartments he rented, knowing eviction was inevitable due to his financial instability.
One of my most haunting memories is of the two of us separated by bulletproof glass, speaking through jail phones as I was still in high school. He faced charges for driving under the influence and prescription fraud. “I don’t want to see you in here. Ever. You’re the good one. Better than me,” he said, his thin hand rubbing the phone, his jaw moving as if searching for lost teeth. At that moment, I felt deep sympathy for him; he had lost control of his life, and he wished the same fate wouldn’t befall me. Yet, this loss of control is the stark reality of the opioid epidemic.
I was only eight when my father’s addiction began and nineteen when he died. Over those eleven years, I witnessed his transformation from a loving father and industrious husband to a frail and confused addict. This all transpired long before the opioid crisis was widely acknowledged, in a time when doctors’ prescriptions went unquestioned. My father’s addiction infiltrated our family gradually, akin to a toxic gas that eroded his credibility and ultimately claimed his life, leaving a profound impact on my childhood and my understanding of fatherhood.
Initially, I don’t believe my father sought drugs; they were prescribed by a trusted doctor. As prescriptions multiplied, he found himself unable to break free. In the end, doctors became unintentional enablers, and the legality of the situation did little to mitigate the devastation.
He died alone in a one-bedroom apartment filled with little more than worn clothes and a single family photo from a healthier time, a snapshot of him as a smiling young man in a bowtie. My older brother showed me a black garbage bag filled with prescription bottles, each one prescribed by a different physician. “Isn’t that crazy?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “It’s terrifying.”
The opioid epidemic is a societal issue, but when it strikes at a personal level—affecting your father, mother, son, or daughter—it becomes all too real. In the wake of my father’s death, I didn’t shed a tear while cleaning out his apartment or notifying his family. I remained dry-eyed through the obituary and even at the funeral. It wasn’t until months later, in the solitude of a cold shower, that I broke down. I cried, not because I had lost my father, but because I realized he would never have the chance to recover and become the person I knew he could have been without addiction.
This is the harsh truth of the opioid crisis: it robs individuals of their potential to be the parents and children they might have been, leading to the slow demise of someone you love. It’s a treacherous path that many unknowingly tread, and it is imperative that we unite to combat this epidemic.
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Summary
The narrative of losing a family member to opioid addiction illustrates the devastating consequences that can unfold from prescription painkillers. It highlights the gradual transformation of a loved one from a supportive family member to a struggling addict and the profound impact it has on their family. While the opioid epidemic poses a societal challenge, its personal ramifications can be heartbreakingly real.
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