- Drugs
Nightmare . . . there’s no other way to describe what it feels like to lose your beloved child. If there is a hell, this is it.
On February 11, 2011, when I found my 22-year-old son Andy, he was face down, and he had clearly been gone a few hours. I wanted so badly to hold him one last time and tell him how much I loved him, but I was terrified of remembering him that way. So I didn’t. Instead, I ran and called his father. I deeply regret this now because I didn’t get to say goodbye, just he and I alone. It seems right that I should have been able to spend some time alone with him on his way out of this world since I brought him into the world. But there is no going back now. The ambulance came, the police and the fire truck came. I waited in the living room while they went up to his room over the garage. I went out at one point and asked one of the EMTs who was outside, “Is he dead?,” to which he replied, “Well, I don’t know.” And I thought to myself, “Well, that’s a big, fat ‘YES.’” Even though I saw him, I guess I still held out hope that he was really alive and I was mistaken. The rest of the night is a blur. I remember almost nothing. I do remember when they took my baby, my only child, away. I have never felt so empty, so alone, and so full of pain in my life.
The day of the funeral, I spent a long time just standing by Andy, trying to memorize his face, not that I could ever forget that beautiful face. But I memorized it just the same. I talked to him and whispered in his ear that I loved him and thanked him for being the best thing that ever happened to me or ever would. I told him to be happy and that I would do my best to take care of things down here and make him proud. Ken and I put a few trinkets in his casket that held precious memories for us. I hugged him, said goodbye, and saw my sunshine’s face for the last time. I felt that my heart was being ripped from my chest.
We went outside and watched and waited as they loaded our beloved son into the hearse. Then we followed them to the church. As we walked down the aisle with our boy, I had to keep my head down. This was a most profound moment for me, and I didn’t want to look at or see anyone. This moment was for me and Andy alone. The service was beautiful and majestic. Many months of sorrow, shock, and disbelief followed, but I would rather spend this time telling you about my beloved son, Andy.
The happiest day of my life was October 10, 1988, when Andrew Edward Katchuk made his grand entrance into the world! I had dreamed of being a mother all my life, and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be living my dream. He was an easy baby who never cried. No baby was ever more wanted than our son. As he grew up, we took many trips together, exploring the US and Europe. Andy was a straight-A student who spent time in the Alps as an exchange student. He was loved by a large circle of friends, and of course, by his parents. He was a handsome boy with a smile that could light up a room—easy to raise, never a problem until . . .
The trouble probably started around 10th grade. There were small indications that something was wrong, but we just chalked it up to him being a teenager. It happened gradually, insidiously, so that on a day-to-day basis it wasn’t that noticeable—until it could no longer be hidden. When one of his friends died of a heroin overdose, he admitted to us that he had tried it. We tried everything we could to help our boy. We tried the hard line, being understanding, tough love, and prayer. He was in intensive therapy at the time of his death. He had been doing so well, but the demon of opiates—and this includes prescription drugs—haunts you for the rest of your life, inviting you back for “just one last time.”
Unfortunately, that “one last time” for our son was indeed the last time. This can happen to anyone. This was a boy who was deeply loved and grew up with two decent, loving parents, as did his friend who died of an overdose. Could we have done something more? My gut tells me no. Opiate addiction is a horrible demon, and the drugs are readily available to any kid who wants them. Heroin is becoming more and more common. Some doctors hand out prescription opiates like candy. Trust me on this. I’ve learned a lot about addiction since my son died, and the most frightening thing is how easy kids can get their hands on seriously dangerous drugs. And if they want to take them, they will find a way.
The years spent with Andy were years filled with love, joy, and some pain… but overwhelmingly joy. I had the best son a mother could ever ask for, and I am so deeply grateful that I got to have this handsome, loving, intelligent, wonderful person in my life. It’s so hard now, but it was all worth it, and if I knew then that he would die so young, I would still do it. Thank you, Andy, for the best years of my life. You are forever in my heart, my soul, my memory. I love you sonshine.