From the Call to the Club

Like every morning, the alarm goes off, I grab my phone and stop the noise. Phone in hand, I head to the bathroom. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, on this day I notice I have a text message:

There is an instant pit in my stomach. I was just texting with Blake last night before I went to bed. I immediately call Sidney. “It’s not good,” he says. He tells me that Blake overdosed in the bathroom after smoking Fentanyl. (It maddens me that I even know how to spell that!) Someone did CPR, but they had a really hard time getting and then keeping a pulse. He apologized for the call, and I can hear what he’s saying, and I cry.

Thom is outside the bathroom. “What’s going on?” I come out and recount what I just heard. I look up the number to Cedar Sinai Medical Center and am connected to a nurse in the Neuro ICU. She is harshly honest about his condition and her expectation. It is more than I can take. I feel like all of the air has been sucked out of the room, and I am somewhere unfamiliar. I am fading away and present at the same time.

I don’t know what to do. It’s Tuesday. I’m taking the summer camp kids to Adkins Blueberry Farm today. I’ve got to pull myself together. I think about what Blake would want me to do. He wouldn’t want to be the cause of letting the kids down. So I pick my soggy self up and head to the shower. I text my co-worker and let her know what’s going on so that she knows the reason if I seem out of sorts. I also decide to drive my car to the blueberry farm instead of riding the bus with the kids.

The idea of getting to Blake doesn’t seem viable at this point. We don’t have money for unexpected travel. I have the summer program that I designed, wrote grants and did fundraising for. In addition to this being my passion and summer income, the kids are depending on me. Blake has overdosed before, and I’m hoping with everything I have, that he will fight his way back, and that this will be adios to the monster, once and for all. There is one undeniable difference though. In the past, Blake was the one to call and tell me that he overdosed.

I welcome the distraction of excited and wonder-filled children at the blueberry farm. We enjoy lunch, pick berries, explore the farm, have a snack, and pack up for the bus ride back to school. During this time, I receive a dire message from Blake’s father that he has talked with the doctor and Blake’s organs are failing. He also tells me that the hospital had my number written down incorrectly and they would be calling me, as I am the one responsible for medical decisions. This just cannot be.

Out in the blueberry field, I get a call from Blake’s nurse. She reports that he is doing a little better. The social worker is there for me to speak with. We go over family composition and I ask her if I should be there. She promises to keep me updated on if or when I should be there. Before I get off the phone, the neurologist is there to speak with me. I remember speaking to him while trying to help children get their blueberries weighed and paid for. I remove myself as he tells me about Blake’s condition, promising that they are doing absolutely everything they can to help Blake. I give permission for Blake to be put on dialysis.

After getting the youth back to school and sent home, I go home, where I fall apart. I’d like to drown myself in a bottle of vodka, but I know that is exactly what I should not do. Blake needs to hear my voice, so I find the text of “The Giving Tree,” Blake’s favorite childhood story, and record myself reading it. I also record myself singing “You Are My Sunshine.” I send these recordings to his friend McKenzie, who is sitting with him, and I’m relying on for instant contact and updates. (Here are links to the videos. I couldn’t figure out how to embed them here.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyPjKPEguQI

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7kTpL8DUmE

I somehow made it through the next two days. I had a scheduled tattoo appointment on Wednesday. I was going to have a tattoo finished that was started three weeks prior. When I arrived at the studio, I was told that the tattoo still needed more time to heal before it could be finished. In a moment of spontaneity, I asked if I could have something different done since I was there. The last conversation that Blake and I had was about the tattoo that he was going to get to finish his sleeve. He was going to get prayer hands with ‘Faith and Love’ written on them. I decided to have the words ‘faith’ and ‘love’ written in script around my wrist with infinity symbols joining them.

I didn’t know what I was going to do. I felt like I needed to get to Los Angeles to be with Blake, but I didn’t have the money to get there. We had made arrangements for camp to be covered if I should need to leave, so I felt confident about that. I just didn’t have the funds. I was posting regularly on Facebook, and so many people asked me if they could do something to help. I really couldn’t think of anything, except this, but I hated the thought of asking. I hated the thought of not being with Blake even more. With some encouragement from a close friend, I turned to my Facebook community.

The feedback was incredible! Money started pouring in! By 10 o’clock that evening, I had enough funds to purchase a one-way ticket to LAX and pay for three nights in a hotel close to the hospital. I also had enough money to purchase a ticket for the flight back, but I wasn’t sure what date I would need to fly home. There were additional funds for food and transportation. I was, and continue to be, in awe of how so many people have come together to support my family. (We have required additional financial help due to the Thom’s travel, the length of time we needed to be in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, no less, and earnings lost.)

I arrived at Blake’s bedside Thursday night. It was shocking to see him this way, but I put my ‘Mama Bear’ face on and went into action. Talking to him and playing songs for him, while of course singing along, I thought for sure he’d wake up and tell me to shut up. I was wishing he would.

From the hospital, I went and checked into my hotel room. I got a little bit of sleep and arrived back at the hospital after attending an early morning AA meeting with many of Blake’s recovery family members.

I felt so hopeful when I got to Blake’s side. His eyelids were open, and he seemed to be opening and closing them in response to stimulus. His pupils were not tracking, but they were reactive. There was a machine set up that tracked his brain activity, and it indicated activity when people were talking. He was in there! He would have a CT of his brain around noon, which would allow a more definitive prognosis. I left the hospital for a walk while he was having the scan done.

Walking back into his room after the scan, I knew the findings were not good. Blake’s nurse was incredibly compassionate. There were multiple people working around Blake, and when I looked into her eyes, I saw what she knew. The doctor came by within about an hour and explained that there was more edema, or swelling, of Blake’s brain than when he arrived, that while his organs’ functions seemed to be improving, his brain was deteriorating, and without brain function, he could not survive. I had to have the doctor repeat this to Thom on the phone and then repeat it to me in the hall – outside of Blake’s room.

I couldn’t breathe right; I was nearly hyperventilating. I was taken to an office, where the doctor, nurse, and social worker talked with me. I asked the doctor to make it simple for me. He said, “Your son is dying.” I could not not understand those words. I yelled, “I DID NOT WANT TO BE A MEMBER OF THIS CLUB!!!” I think I may have even said ‘f-ing club,’ using the actual word. I remember dropping a few f-bombs during this meeting. They were all very understanding, telling me how hard it was for them as well, especially given his young age. They asked me questions, and listened to me talk about him as a person. I know they genuinely cared.

A Unitarian chaplain was called for me. I was told she only had 20 minutes but could meet with me briefly before she left for the day. She stayed for at least an hour. I told her the story of Blake, how he came into the world, how he taught me so much, how I knew that if he could have achieved recovery in this life that he would have been a healer. As I was telling her about his ability to heal, it dawned on me that he had been a source of my own healing – that because of him, I was able to find strength. I told her that he was a gift to me and that I wasn’t angry. She asked me what I wanted to do – if there was a ritual that I wanted to perform for him.

I had no idea. The only personal experience I have with death and hospitals is experience that I did not believe Blake would want to be part of. I told her I wanted to bless him, to thank him for choosing me. I wanted to let him go and wish him well.

We walked back to his room, where we stood over him. The chaplain led me and two people who love Blake in a blessing. I wish that I would have recorded it. It was beautiful. I was able to say to him, while holding his hand, every thought. I expressed gratitude, pride, awe, and as always, unconditional love. Finally, I granted him peace and encouraged him to drop by anytime.

Later that night, with my cousin and her husband visiting, Blake gave us another show with his eyelids. I would talk to him and kiss his eyebrows, and he would open his eyes. Thom called via Facetime, unable to get to us until the next day, and Blake opened and closed his eyes in response to Thom telling him that he needed to get up so they could go fishing together. It gives me comfort to know that Blake knew I was there. I believe he was letting me know.

Upon my arrival to Blake’s room early the next morning, I could immediately feel Blake’s absence. There was a distinct different feeling in the room, and it was the first time I allowed myself to cry in his physical presence. I knew he had gone though, and it was too much. I read some stories to him, and sat with him, holding his hand, but I didn’t feel like he was there. The machine that had previously indicated brain activity was now indicating brain inactivity. That machine was removed by the end of the day, along with a few others that were no longer necessary.

Thom arrived mid-afternoon. When we left the room for a walk together, he told me that he didn’t think Blake was there anymore. I told him about my feeling when I entered the room that morning. Then Thom told me a story about an interesting thing that happened that morning at home before he left for the airport.

Thom came out of our bedroom, and as he was going toward the kitchen, he sensed movement in the living room. He went to check it out, and there was a bird stuck in our wood stove. Now mind you, our living room ceiling goes all the way to the top of the second story, so our chimney is about 20 feet long. The bird flew down the 20 foot chimney and then got through a closed damper, only to find itself stuck in the stove. Thinking it odd, but not giving it too much thought, Thom opened the door of the stove, and the bird flew out. He then opened the door, and the bird flew off into the sky.

“That was such a Blake maneuver!” I squealed, through my tears. “He found the only entry into the house, only to find himself stuck!” It was kind of typical for him to do things out of excitement, without thinking about the outcome. I could only imagine that, as this bird, he was upset with himself and clicking through the scenarios of possible outcomes. I don’t know how all of this works, but we choose to accept this as a gift and message from Blake. Thom couldn’t get to Blake in time, so Blake went to him.

It would be three more days before Blake was officially declared brain dead. We spent time at the hospital, and more time out of the hospital doing things and eating things that Blake enjoyed. We ate sushi and Mexican food. We had made-in-front-of-us chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. We walked and talked and laughed with Julia, a love of Blake’s who we hadn’t seen in a few years.

On the day that our beautiful boy was declared brain dead, we went to the beach that he had taken me to the summer before. I let the ocean waves wash over my body and attempted to comprehend my new club membership status.

I’m writing this on International Overdose Awareness Day. This is only the final chapter of our lives with Blake’s presence on this earth. There are many, many chapters of Blake’s life, but I write this one today, to spread awareness. The disease of addiction does not discriminate. It is a vengeful disease that destroys lives and families. It lives in the shadows because of shame. And in the shadows, it grows. When we start talking about it and shining a light on how to truly help people who are afflicted, only then will we start decreasing the number of people dying and the number of individuals and families left trying to find their new ‘normal.’ When one suffers, we all suffer.