These aren’t my words, but the words of another bold and courageous individual that inspires me. Because I know him, I wanted to read his story, but as I read my focus was drawn from his first person account of an overdose to how he saw his mother during that life and death situation.
He. Noticed. His. Mother.
In some strange twist I envisioned Hagen in that hospital bed watching me....noticing me, and in that I found great comfort. Mommas, our babies DO/DID see us. They may not have been able to show us how deep their love for us is/was because their pain is/was much deeper, but they do/did.
Christopher Dickie’s words brought back so many happy memories of Hagen’s childhood and for that I am so thankful! I now desperately want to hug him and his momma, and hopefully will someday soon.
Mommas, if you’ve said goodbye, know they saw you. If you are watching the self destruction and are so tired and desperate for it to stop, they see you and there is HOPE. This is Chris’s story.
My overdose story.
I found myself in a scary situation. One time after drinking and using, I started convulsing in my car. I don’t know how long I was there, but it was right there out in the open. A lady, a passerby (I do not know who, but she was my guardian angel that day) called 911 and I was taken to the hospital. The same hospital where my mother was currently employed.
As I lay there in ICU, I could see my mom raging in disappointment and agony as she tried to explain the situation to a colleague of hers. I could see the pain, I could see the frustration and I could see that she could hardly take it anymore. I could see that she was losing the hopes she had for a son she loved. This little boy she used to drive around with singing in the car, acting silly together, the little boy who helped bake cookies for Santa and color Easter eggs for the Easter bunny, the little boy who was supposed to grow up and share in all the world's possibilities was laying on a hospital bed fighting for his life. These are the things she would say at my funeral.
All the potential lost. Constant thoughts like these orbited my mother’s mind. She would be forever trying to reconcile the little boy who grew up to be a destructive man. It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. We are not meant to live in this kind of darkness.
This was a major overdose. There was a trauma team trying to save my life. I had died. They fought for my life and luckily for me, they won that day. My thinking at the time had many excuses why this happened. I seemed to think I was invincible or like I made a minor mistake with my dose. I still thought I was in control. I didn’t intend to overdose. But like many who don’t get to wake up, today I can see how close I was to my own funeral.
We live in a time where over 64,000 Americans died from an overdose in 2016. And over 70,000 in 2017. That number is large enough to almost forget that these are people with families. Hurting people with hurting families. I did not fight harder than those who have passed. It is truly grace that I am still here. What I am not going to do is let the people who are losing their life, die in vain. I recover out loud so people don’t have to die quietly. 💜