Wiggins - From Heroin to Hope

FROM
HEROIN
TO
HOPE

Making Sense of
the Loss of a Child

Marsha I. Wiggins, Ph.D.

From Heroin to Hope
Copyright 2018 Marsha I. Wiggins, Ph.D.
Written by Marsha I. Wiggins, Ph.D.

All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Published by KoruSpirit, LLC

Cover and book design
Copyright 2018 John H. Matthews
www.bookconnectors.com

This book is dedicated to my beloved son
Brian Cameron Frame
November 20, 1986-August 9, 2013
May his life be cause for thanksgiving
And may his memory be a blessing.

PREFACE

To lose a child is heartbreaking. To lose a child as a result of a drug overdose increases the pain exponentially. For parents who experience this type of loss, the silence from others is deafening. The stigma and shame can be debilitating. When I lost my 26-year-old son, Cameron, to heroin, I was devastated. I kept telling myself that as a mental health professional with a Ph.D. and an experienced clergyperson, I should have been able to do something to prevent his tragic death. After all, I had tremendous knowledge, training, experience, and faith. And none of it was enough to turn the tide of my son's heroin addiction.

In this book, I provide research-based information about the grief journey and illustrate these concepts by sharing my experience of losing my son, Cameron, to a heroin overdose. This book is written for parents who have lost their children to a drug overdose or other addiction, and for others who have suffered similar losses. It is for mental health professionals who assist grievers in managing the pain of loss. It is for clergy and other spiritual leaders who help mourners make sense of the loss and come to terms with the religious and spiritual aspects of grief. This book is for anyone who wants to understand the tremendous consequences of the heroin epidemic and how it affects families who lose loved ones to an overdose. This book is the story of moving from heroin to hope.

Marsha Wiggins, Ph.D.

May, 2018

West Palm Beach, Florida

I would give anything not to have had the horrific experience of losing Cameronthe experience that resulted in the writing of this book. Although this grief has been deeply personal, it has not been private. So many people have also carried the pain that resulted from Cameron's death. And so many have been present for me and offered the love and support that enabled me to speak from my heart about this incredible loss and the ongoing healing journey.

I am grateful to Imara for offering the inspiration and vision for the project. I am indebted to my special friends Sue Giullian and Liz and John Harvey who provided hospitality and a dedicated space for days of uninterrupted writing.

I appreciate the skill and wisdom of those who read, critiqued, and edited the manuscript: Pam Cahoon, Jenn Cook, Liz Harvey, Elizabeth Mallonee, and Ruth Possehl. Special thanks go to my 93-year-old mother, Laura Wiggins, who, despite failing eyesight, edited the entire manuscript. Kudos to Tammie Striggles who provided Mom with technological assistance. I am grateful to Christopher Hoffmann for proofreading and to John H. Matthews and BookConnectors for the cover design and production.

Thank you to my readers. May these words provide strength, encouragement, and hope for the journey.

In the early morning hours of August 9, 2013, I received the phone call I had dreaded would come, the phone call somehow I knew would come, the phone call no parent ever wants to receive. On the other end of the line was my son's dad, voice trembling, choking back tears, informing me that our precious 26-year-old son, Cameron, was in the ICU on life support as a result of a heroin overdose. After a few seconds of conversation, I realized I was being asked if I would support the doctors' recommendations that they remove the life support. Cameron's brain was so damaged, and his breathing so shallow, it was next to impossible he would ever be able to function apart from the machines and tubes. In the midst of my shock and horror, unable to fully take it all in, I remember hearing my hollow voice speak these words, Then, we will have to let him go. And every day since I uttered those heartbreaking words, I have been on the journey of letting him go.

I put the phone down and sat in bed, wailing, waiting for dawn to break, aware that suddenly my life had changed forever. I wondered how my sweet, smart, affectionate, compassionate, fun-loving boy-child had become so lost. Still, I could not grasp the fact that the young man who cared for me so much that once he walked off his job to fix my flat tire could become possessed by the powerful force of heroina demon that took his health, his home, his heart, and ultimately his life.

Daybreak brought with it fear, panic, waves of nausea, rage, and shame as I began to make phone calls bearing the devastating news of Cameron's death to family members and friends. The agony and desolation in loved ones' voices as they received the dreadful news led me to this desperate prayer: Please, please, let me wake up from this horrifying nightmare. These words would become my mantra in the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

After the phone calls came innumerable arrangements: flights from Florida to Colorado, housing for myself, family, and friends, transportation, meals, appointments with the funeral director, talks with the church pastors and staff, a memorial service. And then there were the gut-wrenching conversations with the people involved first-hand in the tragedy: Cameron's girlfriend in addition to the young woman who found him alone, near death, in a vacant garage. My heart was seared again as I learned my son had been shooting up with a buddy, who, when he realized Cameron had overdosed and was in trouble, fled from the scene. I was enraged that this other young man, also an addict, could not even call 911. Instead, he left my beloved son alone to die. For Cameron, and all those who loved him, death was the last scene in his ongoing drama of being caught in the grip of heroin.

Adopted at birth, Cameron enjoyed many privileges. He was the only child of parents who were fortunate enough to be able to provide him with a stable home, high-quality education, opportunities to learn a variety of sports and skills, summers spent at camp in the Colorado mountains, domestic and international travel, connections with extended family and friends, a supportive church community, boundless love, and a tenacious commitment to parenting him. As a result of these factors, Cameron had less risk for abusing substances than most adolescents. Nevertheless, his father and I learned quickly that despite each of us having a doctoral degree in a mental health field, many years' experience counseling others, and my being an ordained minister, we were no match for the formidable monster called heroin.

Cameron's sense of unworthiness and feeling less than must have started in middle school. He struggled academically in elementary school, and his early adolescence was marked by experiences of being bullied, though he was extremely outgoing and had lots of friends. His transition to high school was rocky. He was getting by academically, but he never found a niche in his flagship high school of over 3,000 students. He refused to get involved in extracurricular activities. He gained weight. He started smoking at 14. We tried everything. We hired tutors. We considered private school and military school, and finally settled on a smaller, local, public school. We sent him to counseling. We went with him to counseling. We marshaled support from our friends. We insisted he stay involved in the youth group at church. We set boundaries and curfews. We negotiated family contracts. We enforced consequences for breach of contract. Nothing we did seemed to help Cameron gain traction and move forward in his life.