The last time I had breakfast with my father was on Thanksgiving Day, 2001. I was just 19, having recently graduated from high school. We chose a small café close to his home. Although he had been released from jail 18 months prior, he still hadn’t regained his driving privileges. He made an effort to appear presentable, wearing a bulky green sweater and shaving his face. We opted for breakfast because no other family members wanted him at their Thanksgiving gatherings.
Dad had no teeth. They had been removed years earlier, likely due to his Vicodin addiction. As I settled at the table, his smile revealed dark pockmarks on his gums, remnants of teeth that once were. His skin bore the chalky pallor typical of long-term drug abuse, with black hair streaked with gray and matted with grease. His eyes were sunken, pupils a striking blue-green surrounded by nicotine-stained whites. Standing at just five feet seven inches and weighing no more than 100 pounds, he looked frail, his skull protruding through a thin layer of skin and sparse hair. At 49, he appeared much older.
This was the thinnest I had ever seen him. The hefty meal he ordered and the sweater he wore were all part of his facade to convince me he was healthy. This was just one of many attempts to mask his addiction. We discussed a few topics that morning—my mother, my job at the hardware store, and the college I was attending. When he asked for money, I hesitated, knowing he would use it for doctor visits to obtain more painkillers, yet I handed it over because he was still my father. I eventually drove him to his fourth ex-wife’s house for Thanksgiving dinner; she was the only one willing to include him.
He died the following month, ten years after a series of work-related accidents led him into the grip of prescription painkillers. From what I gathered from family and old friends, my father was a decent man before those injuries. He had been a contractor, owned his business, paid his bills, and took care of his family. However, the introduction of prescription opioids by our family doctor marked a turning point for both him and me.
I recall the moment he drove off the road while taking me to a youth wrestling match. I remember the way he staggered around our home, dozing through the day, and visiting one doctor after another, always leaving with a new prescription. I witnessed him abandon my mother when she sought help for his addiction and saw him drift from one relationship to another. Towards the end, he rarely unpacked in the run-down apartments he rented; he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be evicted.
One of my most vivid memories of him was during a visit to the county jail. We spoke through a bulletproof glass barrier, each of us holding a phone connected to heavy steel cables. I was still in high school, and he was facing charges ranging from DUI to forging prescriptions. He rubbed the phone with his thin, spider-like palm, his jaw working side to side, tongue searching for teeth that were no longer there.
“I don’t want you to end up here. You can avoid this… You’re better than me.” In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of compassion for him. He had lost control over his life and body, and he didn’t want the same fate for me. But that’s the grim reality of the opioid crisis.
I was just eight when his addiction started, and I watched the transformation until his death at 19. Over those eleven years, he deteriorated from a supportive husband, father, and business owner to a frail and confused addict. This all unfolded nearly 15 years before the opioid epidemic gained public attention, at a time when few questioned a doctor’s prescription. My father’s addiction infiltrated our family like a toxic gas, eroding his credibility, ruining his career, and impacting my childhood and understanding of fatherhood in ways I still grapple with.
Initially, I don’t believe my father sought out drugs. He was prescribed painkillers by a trusted doctor, and as more prescriptions were given, he found himself unable to stop. Eventually, doctors became akin to drug dealers, all with legal backing.
He passed away in a one-bedroom apartment, alone, surrounded by little more than a few worn-out clothes and a family photo from a time when he was healthier. In his cabinets, there were enough prescription bottles to fill a large garbage bag. I remember my older brother showing me the bag while I knelt beside my father’s mattress, looking at that old photograph.
“Each of these was prescribed by a different doctor,” he remarked. “Isn’t that wild?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s terrifying.”
The opioid epidemic may resonate on a societal level, but when it touches your family—your son, daughter, mother, or father—it becomes painfully real. When my father died, I didn’t shed a tear while clearing out his apartment or telling his mother of his passing. I didn’t cry when I read his obituary or attended his funeral. It wasn’t until a year later, in the shower, with the water running cold and knees drawn to my chest, that the tears finally came. They weren’t for the loss of my father, but for the realization that he would never have the chance to conquer his addiction and become the father I knew he had the potential to be.
This is the harsh reality of the opioid crisis—it robs individuals of their ability to be the parents, children, and family members they could have been, ensnared by addiction from the very hands of those they trusted. It’s a slow, painful descent, and it’s a path many unknowingly tread. We must unite to halt this epidemic. For more on this topic, you can visit this blog post.
In Summary
Losing a loved one to opioid addiction is a heartbreaking experience that not only affects the individual but also ripples through family dynamics. The journey from a thriving life to one consumed by addiction often begins with a trusted prescription, revealing the dangerous potential of legal drugs. As we navigate this crisis, it is crucial to foster awareness and support systems to help those struggling with addiction. For excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination, consider visiting this site or checking out Make a Mom.