What's Your Story? Submitted Stories
Don't Let Your Friends Die
Who among us that has lost a child through any circumstance thought they would be in this predicament? I never did, but here I am. I lost my child from a heroin overdose.
How do I continue to live my life without my child? When this happens to a family it is so devastatingly personal. On a world-scale her death is insignificant, but to me, her father, brother, and all our family and friends, the pain is insufferable, unimaginable, and, at times, unbearable.
My daughter, Alison, was a special spirit from the very beginning. She was always strong willed and determined to go her own way. As an extremely creative child, she began playing the piano at the age of five. Her hands flowed over the keys. Ali continued studying through high school and then began composing music. One of my fondest memories of Ali was when she would come home late at night and play the piano. It was truly music to my ears. Since she died, the piano has been silent.
As a little girl Ali did all the usual things – tennis, ice-skating, soccer, and skiing. The world was at her feet. We were looking forward to her going to college and pursuing whatever career she might like.
All that changed the beginning of her sophomore year at the University of Arizona when she came back home suddenly. She had not been feeling well, was tired, and her joints hurt. She was very concerned about her health. We spent a good two years trying to figure out what was wrong. Ali was finally diagnosed with chronic fatigue and fibromyalgia. Back in the mid-nineties few people had heard of either of these diseases and both were thought to be psychological. Now both are recognized, but there is still no cure. This began our medical journey. Ali was depressed and had meds to deal with both her depression and her pain from the fibromyalgia. She was under constant medical care and was unable to go back to school or work full time.
In 1998, Ali was feeling stronger and more self confident that she could now live on her own. She had always loved warmer weather and she felt it would be better for her health. In January, she moved to San Diego. She was thrilled to be on her own and got a job as a receptionist at the Deepak Chopra Center. We were equally pleased and proud of her accomplishment. We felt confident that all would be well now. However, soon after starting her new job, the center scaled back and was forced to cut back one-third of the workforce. Being one of the most recent hires, she was included in the layoff. After several months of interviewing, Ali was unable to find a challenging job and thus, made the decision to return home.
The summer of ’99 was difficult summer for Ali. She was now back home and stopped taking one of her anti-anxiety meds because it made her feel more “clear-headed,” as a result of stopping the meds, she developed some erratic behavior. The summer months were a virtual roller-coaster ride. Her efforts to return to her career were severely hampered as she continued to focus inwardly and be consumed by self interest. She had always loved music, dancing and the club scene. Now 25, she felt ready to start socializing again.
Ali sometimes used poor judgment in choosing her friends. We believe this lack of judgment contributed to the circumstances that led to the fatal night she overdosed on heroin. Ali met some friends one Friday night and went to a club. She did not come home that night. nor the next day. After leaving numerous messages on her cell phone throughout the day on Saturday, we went to the local police station and reported her missing. At about midnight, the police knocked on our door, Ali had just been admitted to the hospital with a possible overdose. I can still hear the police officer asking if we wanted a ride. However, I was so thrilled to hear that she had been found, that I never really thought about what the officer was saying. My little girl had been found and that was all I cared about. Of course, everything would be fine. Plenty of people take drugs and recover. We would face this as we had faced her other illnesses. When we arrived at the hospital, Ali was unconscious and hooked up to a breathing machine. I thought okay, she’ll wake up, she’ll be okay.
I was wrong, Ali was brain dead—nothing could be done. She was dead. She was whisked away from our lives. Ali would never come home again.
We buried our child. This is perhaps the greatest pain a parent can endure. Even to this day, there is still an element of disbelief. In our dazed state of mind and spirit, we spoke with the friend Ali had gone to the club with and asked how this could have possibly happened. Ali’s friend said that after the club closed, they talked outside for a while and were invited to another party. Even though, Ali’s friend decided not to join them, Ali headed off with a much older guy that she had known for a number of years. At the club and even immediately after it closed, her friend stated that Ali had not been drinking or doing drugs. We struggled to understand and to gather the truth, but we could never track where the party was or who attended it. What we do know is that Ali ended up at that man’s apartment.
We will never know the true story of what happened that night. All we know is that at some point, while at this man’s apartment, Ali passed out. He did nothing, thinking that she would just sleep it off. Around midnight his roommate came home and noticed that Ali was turning blue and hardly breathing, and that was when they took her to the hospital. It was too late. If 911 had been called and an injection of Narcan administered, she would most likely be alive today.
Ali would be so very angry that her life ended this way. She was excited about her future and her goals to help others. She had helped one of her high school friends get off heroin. We were told that she was helping the man she was with at the time of her death get off drugs as well. We feel traveling in that circle cost Ali her life.
In her honor, my husband and I are learning as much as we can about drugs and alcohol abuse. We have attended seminars, spoken with various doctors, participated in town study groups, and given talks at local high schools. We thought about which aspect of drug and alcohol abuse could we tackle? We realized that there really is a lack of information available to teenagers and college students as to what are the symptoms of an overdose. In talking to young people, the answer generally is ‘oh they will be fine once they sleep it off.’ The average teenager does not realize that heroin will slow your respiration down to the point that it deprives the brain of oxygen. Eventually, your breathing stops, the brain dies…AND THERE IS NO COMING BACK.
Part of being a friend is taking the responsibility to look out for one another. Some kids use a designated driver when they know they will be drinking so they can drive safely. This approach helps to protect them from an accident, secondary to the innate risks associated with intoxication. More importantly perhaps, being friends when alcohol or drugs are present brings with it the responsibility of having a designated advocate, in other words, someone who will refrain that evening and can, under unexpected services, save lives.
Sometimes parents are the last to know that their child is abusing drugs or alcohol. Their friends do know. Most friends care about one another and if they know the warning signs will come to the aid of a friend. As a result of our tragic situation, we developed the “Don’t Let Your Friends Die” information sheet and card that clearly explains what the symptoms of an overdose are and how to respond. It is our hope that this information saves lives. This card is now being distributed by The Brent Shapiro Foundation for Drug Awareness (for more information and a copy of the card go to: www.brentshapiro.org)
Death is forever. Your friend can be robbed of their future. The death of a friend will deeply affect the rest of your life as well. More importantly, the saved life of a friend will bring you joy each and every day. Don’t Let Your Friends Die. Someone let my daughter die. This is my story.
usan S., Massachusetts © 2006 The Brent Shapiro Foundation for Drug Awareness. All Rights Reserved.
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