Some moments are seared on our brain forever. My discovery
of my daughter’s heroin addiction was one such moment.
I had been worried about her for years as she lost jobs, got
evicted from apartments, and became ever more distant. My fears came to a head
one night as I drove past her apartment. I spotted her parked car on a side
street and saw blankets, pillows, and some kitchen items piled in back. My heart
began to race. She was almost certainly living in her car.
I returned to the apartment house and leaned on the buzzer.
Reluctantly, her roommates let me in. I could see that they were uncomfortable,
maybe embarrassed. I asked if they knew where she was. They mumbled something
evasive. I kept pressing for details, and finally one of them said, “Do you
know your daughter’s a heroin addict?”
I remember grabbing a chair for support as the floor seemed
to collapse beneath me. Everything became fuzzy and far away. I could barely
breathe. “How do you know?” I managed to ask.
I wanted proof, although even in my shock, I didn’t doubt
the truth of what I had heard. The young woman before me was merely confirming
something that I had feared on some deep level for a long time. She went into
details about my daughter, describing bloody tissues, nodding off at the
kitchen table, and arms covered with scabs. I could barely take it in. I felt
nauseated and terrified. Among the horrible images that crowded my mind, one
thought rose to the top: I had to find my daughter and help her.
I returned to her car and waited on the dark street. After a
long time, a white car pulled up and my daughter emerged. The car was full of
young men I didn’t know. After it pulled away, I studied my daughter as she
approached her car. She looked terrible. Her hair was matted flat to her head
on one side, as if she had been sleeping. One of her heavily drawn-on eyebrows
had worn off, giving her a lopsided look. She wore short shorts and a
long-sleeved tee shirt.
I stepped out of the shadows and called her name. She gave
me a sleepy, quizzical smile. With a shaking voice I said, “Show me your arms.”
She turned and bolted. I chased her through narrow streets
in a bad neighborhood that many women were afraid of even in daylight. “I’m
never going to stop!” I called. “You’re either coming home with me or we’ll see
a cop and I’ll have you arrested! Those are your choices!”
I felt strong saying that, believing that I had taken charge
of the situation. All her problems could be fixed now that I was taking matters
into my own hands. I was wrong, of course. Her problems were far more serious
than I could possibly have known.
