You leave the hospital AMA, fine. You and your family are scared of any of this being on your record, our job finding out; I get it. You go to your parents, great.

I’m okay.

Was it the adrenaline? You were blue. Why didn’t it seem real? Your fingertips were pale white. Why wasn’t I flooded with emotion?

I wake up and check on your mom, and drive to the house to wake you up. I make you move over and let me hold you. You apologize. You’re not sure you actually overdosed. You did, A. You were blue. You weren’t breathing. I am not someones who exaggerates. You ask me not to tell your family it was heroin, this was only the second time you tried it. Okay. You went to therapy, and I went home to search the house for drug paraphernalia with AT and get rid of it. You can’t keep using drugs.

Your therapist tells you that you need to consider inpatient treatment. When we get back from our trip you need to go to inpatient treatment, I insist. The getaway will do you well. Be out of this town, away from our overwhelming jobs, away from the triggers and drugs.

I thought I was okay.

P had his white coat ceremony. You went away with your family, as planned. Another distraction, wonderful. You looked beautiful in every photo.

While you were gone, I realized I wasn’t okay. Maybe I was, and something changed. Your family loves you, you love them. You always say “I feel better when I am with my mom.” Your family getaway is good for you, but not for me.

I worked the entire weekend, which was good and bad. It kept my mind occupied, I had other lives in my hands. Everyone asked where my other half was. You were on a quick family getaway for P to start med school. My affect was noticeably flat, but beyond my control. I put on the best face I could. Texting you every moment I was awake, I needed to know you were okay. You weren’t okay, I knew that. I needed to know you were alive. Breathing. Heart beating. You were gone those 3 nights. Thursday night replayed in my head on repeat. I needed you to come home. I needed to hear your heart beat and listen to you breathe. I felt like the mother of a newborn. I was terrified to be away from you.

I went to sleep. Your mom never comes over at 11pm. You would’ve been on the floor for hours. Maybe I would’ve gotten up a few hours later to pee, not likely. AT would’ve come home from work between 4-6am. It would’ve been far too late. Your brain begins to suffer irreversible damage after approximately 6 minutes without oxygen. We would be planning a funeral. Your funeral.

You used drugs every day you were gone, you hadn’t been sober since the overdose.

I laid in bed every night you were gone, needing to hold you. If your mom hadn’t come over, I would never hold you again.