The last time I shared a meal with my father was on Thanksgiving Day in 2001. I was just 19 and had recently graduated high school. We met at a small café close to his home. Eighteen months prior, he had been released from jail, but he still hadn’t regained his driver’s license. He made an effort to present himself well, wearing a thick green sweater and having shaved his face. We chose breakfast together, as no one else in the family wanted him at their Thanksgiving dinner.
Dad’s smile was revealing—he had no teeth. They had been extracted years earlier, likely a consequence of his Vicodin addiction. As I sat across from him, I noticed the dark pockmarks in his gums, remnants of what used to hold his teeth, now filled with food particles and grime. His skin had a chalky pallor, a result of prolonged drug use, and his hair, once black, was now streaked with gray and greasy. His eyes were deeply set, with pupils a blue-green hue, surrounded by nicotine-stained whites.
Standing at just five feet seven inches, he weighed no more than 100 pounds. At 49 years old, he appeared significantly older than his age. This was the thinnest I had ever seen him. The large meal he ordered and the bulky sweater were mere facades to convince me of his well-being, a tactic to mask the severity of his addiction. Our conversation meandered through topics like my mother, my job at the hardware store, and my college plans. He asked for money, and despite knowing it would go toward more painkillers, I gave in, as he was my father. I then drove him to his fourth ex-wife’s home for Thanksgiving dinner, the only person willing to welcome him.
He passed away the following month, ten years after a series of work-related accidents led to his addiction to prescription painkillers. From what I could gather from family and friends, my father had been a respectable man before those surgeries. He was a contractor, a business owner, and a caring husband and father. However, the introduction of prescription opioids by our family doctor marked a turning point in both his life and mine.
I remember the day he drove erratically while taking me to a youth wrestling match. I recall him stumbling through our home, sleeping excessively, and moving from one doctor to another, always seeking prescriptions for his pain. His relationship with my mother deteriorated as she sought help for his addiction, ultimately leading him to abandon her. In his later years, he rarely unpacked his belongings in the shabby apartments he rented, fully aware that eviction was imminent.
One of the most striking memories I have of him is during our conversations through the thick bulletproof glass of county jail, using phones tethered by heavy cables. This was just a year before his death. He rubbed the phone with his frail palm, his hand resembling that of a spider, his jaw moving side to side as he searched for teeth that were no longer there. “I don’t want to see you here. You don’t have to be like me. You’re the good one,” he said. In that moment, I felt overwhelming sympathy for him. He had lost control of his life, and he didn’t want the same fate for me. Yet, this loss of control is emblematic of the opioid epidemic.
My father’s addiction began when I was just eight years old, and he died when I was 19. During that span of 11 years, I witnessed his transformation from a devoted husband and father to a frail, confused addict. This all occurred nearly 15 years before the opioid crisis became a topic of public discourse. Back then, few questioned the authority of a doctor’s prescription. My father’s addiction seeped into our family life, much like a toxic gas that eroded his credibility, destroyed his career, took his life, and left a lasting impact on my childhood and my understanding of fatherhood.
Initially, I don’t believe my father sought out drugs. He was prescribed painkillers by a trusted physician, and as prescriptions multiplied, he found himself unable to stop. In time, those doctors became unintentional enablers. Ultimately, he died in a one-bedroom apartment, surrounded by little more than worn clothes, a few dishes, and a single family photograph from a happier time. His cabinets overflowed with prescription pill bottles—enough to fill a large garbage bag. I remember my brother showing them to me as I knelt beside my father’s mattress, looking at that cherished family photo. “Each of these was prescribed by a different doctor,” my brother remarked. “Isn’t that wild?” “No,” I replied. “It’s terrifying.”
The opioid crisis is significant on a societal level, but when it strikes close to home—affecting a loved one—it becomes all the more profound. After my father passed away, I felt no sorrow as I cleared out his apartment, informed his mother of his death, or even read his obituary. I didn’t shed a tear at his funeral. In fact, it took almost a year for the reality of his loss to hit me. It was during a quiet moment in the shower that the floodgates opened. I finally cried—not for the father I had lost, but for the man he could have been without addiction.
This is the stark reality faced by many within the opioid epidemic. It robs individuals of their potential to be present as the parents, children, or partners they could have been, leading to the slow demise of those we love. It’s a trap that many unknowingly slip into, and it is imperative that we unite to combat this crisis.
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In summary, the experience of losing a loved one to opioid addiction is devastating and multifaceted, encompassing personal loss, societal implications, and the urgent need for awareness and action.