Heroin.

Just read my post from April where I mentioned that at least my son wasn't using heroin.

Cursed myself I guess.

Turns out he was smoking it since February if not earlier. About 5 weeks ago he called me at work, very upset. Said he needed to get help. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that," I grumbled to him while people swirled around me asking for more turkey. Man, these people can really put away the turkey. More pleading. From the son, not the employees for once. "Help me mom." I could hear a sincere sense of panic in his voice. Well, maybe this is finally a bit of good news! Hurrah! I had always heard that until they want help they won't change so this is it, the magic moment, the street paved with gold, the rainbow at the end of a violent thunderstorm, the half-off sale at Freddies! (aka Fred Segal.)

I ran home from work to find him pale and upset. I held him tightly, told him it was going to be ok and he would get the help he needed. We just hung onto each other and had a very rare pleasant rest of the day and night, watching movies (my go-to for all things that ail you).

He said he couldn't stand the thought of going to another residential treatment center, and certainly not back to UCLA, so we decided to pursue the intensive outpatient therapy which is what he was supposed to do after the rehab. (Didn't quite work out. Read older posts to enlighten yourself about the post-rehab drama.) Anyhow, feeling optimistic! Found a place in West Hollywood that would take him for the 4 month program -- every single night I would need to leave work early and drive him there for the first month -- then it tapered down from there. I was willing to do it because I am a great mom who really tries to look at the glass half full: while he's in the outpatient therapy I can sit at the Coffee Bean next-door and work on my lastest script. All good! He asked for help so he would get it, even if I had to take a second or third job. (God, I love this economy. That was said in a very sarcastic tone of voice by the way.)

Well, the next day he sent me a link to a website for a medication called Suboxone. I had no idea what that was. Hmmm..... He even called me at work to ask if I had gotten the email. No, I told him, I was busy washing dishes (don't ask) and hadn't found the time to make it to my office to check email but would do that soon. He made me promise to call him as soon as I read his email.

So, Suboxone is the current version of Methadone which is what they give heroin addicts to help them through the withdrawal and detox of one of the most addictive drugs known to mankind. Well. I guess he's trying to tell me something. (Insert sarcastic voice of my mother: "You think?") Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Heroin? And here I thought it was "just" pot, xanax (which the kids snort apparently. really?), ectasy, hash, acid, cocaine and well, everything else but black tar heroin.

Again, I ran home. (Yes, the employers have been very understanding.) Yes. It's heroin. But, good news! He hasn't "yet" gone to the needle "just" smoking it. But his "friend" Damian, the one that introduced Max to drugs, who Max always blames for everything (not ready to take responsibility yet) is "SHOOTING UP EVERY DAY." This is also the kid that threatened to kill me (or beat me up, can't remember because it was in a text message that I quickly read on Max's cell when he was in the shower) when his mom called me to ask for advice on rehabs since Damian needed to go to one since he just got arrested and it would help his case if he sought help. Thank GOD Max is not hanging out with him anymore.

Ok there is still time to save my kid! He's not hanging out with Damian; he hasn't gone to the needle yet! Off to the latest doctor to get a prescription for Subxone. Ok, that was handled. Now off to see the IOP. Good, found it, the meeting went well. So well, that while in the meeting we get a call from a very FAMOUS COMEDIAN that the kid loves and that I wrote to earlier in the day once I found out he doesn't drink or do drugs (and has dated some super hot chicks, made movies and has a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and is still very edgy and cool and popular with the college crowd -- someone my son can actually look up to in Hollywood, wow.). He is giving us tickets to his show and wants to meet my son. Wow! Faith in humanity has been restored.

Ok, go to comedy show. Meet another famous dude who is now sober (amazingly so) with a 3-D movie coming out the next night. (Ok, it was Steve-O.) He and son bond, take photo. The other famous comedian (ok, it was Dane Cook) shows up in the VIP room where we were whisked to by the owner of this comedy club on Sunset (ok it was Jamie Masada), and stops by and says hello. Kid is so happy. Comedian couldn't be nicer (and quite hot if I do say so. [Note to self: need boyfriend SOON. One date every 12 months is not healthy. Or right.] Dane Cook does his set, comes back and spends more time with us. All is good! Dane even said I was a cool mom. Did I mention how great he is? Life is great! Another photo op. Kid is going to be a-ok.

Insert sound of super fast car slamming on the BRAKES......SCREEEEECH.

Not. So. Fast.

Max "declined" to go to the outpatient therapy a few days after the visit. Not sure what happened but he came up with a "better" plan. Just find a bunch of doctors and do it that way. Can't say I'm not disappointed but at least he's still asking for help.

So there's a therapist, a psychiatrist, a pain management/anesthesiologist that prescribes the Suboxone, and Al-Anon (and blogging) for me. So we're on the right track. However, he's still angry and hostile and miserable but at least he's not hanging out with any of his "old" friends and he's getting off the heroin.

Insert dramatically depressing music here. Insert dark rain. Wet streets.

Every frickin' Sunday I have to do laundry ... at the laundry mat (again, don't ask) and come home today to find a bike on the front porch. Front door locked. Sneak around to the back door which is open. Quietly walk through the house.

Max hears me not so stealthly approaching his room, the door is open. He jumps up out of his chair and physically tries to block me from entering his room. When DAMIAN jumps off the bed and says, so coolly, "hi, how are you? Not sure if I am supposed to be here but thought I'd just drop by."

Cool as a cucumber. My kid is clearly upset, keeps saying "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I leave, take the puppy on a very long walk in a much nicer neighborhood (hearing the voices of the other Al-Anon parents chanting 'disengage, disengage, disengage') but come home to a peaceful, yet empty house. No note. No text. No email. No call. Feel guilty because he's not here and I'm enjoying the peace. But know that this turn of events is, mostly likely, not a good thing.

He just called. He's at Damien's house now. I asked for Damian's mother's phone number. He said he'd text it to me. That was an hour ago. Nothing. But at least he let me know where he was. Right?

I am sure this story is to be continued. One way or another.

Urine.

So, I just had to report that today was spent being assaulted by urine. So frickin' gross. It started when I tried to wake up the son (at 11) but he wasn't budging. I just stood there and stared at his greasy hair, thin, pale body, and felt...well nothing oddly enough. Then he woke up. Was fairly pleasant but informed me he had dropped his cell phone during the night and could only find the battery and cover. This is one of many cell phones I have purchased since he was 8 or 9. Yep, he was an early adopter as they say in the tech industry. Or more accurately, he was the early adopter and I was the trendsetting parent, always giving in and making sure my kid had whatever he needed to feel special and not "left out." I truly wish he felt left out now, then maybe he wouldn't be a drug addict.

Anyhow, after being informed that he only has parts of the $350 cell phone that is constantly being dropped and lost and "broken" (it is less than 4 months old)I drop to my knees like a good/bad parent and start the hunt. It is so dirty on the floor! Dust bunnies the size of Godzilla, stale tortilla chips, popcorn, pretzels, dirty black socks that were once white, rolled up pieces of paper, matches. Ah! What is that I see? Oh, just a piece of foil. I don't make a big deal of it but wonder if it is from the heroin days or is that related to pot? Sometimes I wish I were more experienced with drugs then I wouldn't have to spend so much time on Google. (More about the heroin use later -- which is the newest bump in this already bumpy road.)

Wait! I see the phone! It's by a film canister. Wow, haven't seen one of those in a long time. Remember when we actually had to take the film out of the camera -- "oh, I hope I got it out ok" -- and bring it into a place to get developed and then .... the waiting, waiting, waiting, for the photos? "Oh. I hope they came out ok. Especially that one of me and Dalai Lama / David Letterman / Meryl Streep / The Pope !" And then the day arrived, the photos were ready! You rush over to the local Walgreens, pay, get the nice fat pack of (hopefully perfect) photos. You take them out to the car in the parking lot and of course, thumb through them before driving home. Ah, the disappointment. The sadness. The anti-climatic ending to what should have been a great journey. Most of the photos are of my thumb. The others are undistinguishable. Is that a ghost? The white shadow in the background? "No, that's Grandma." Oh. I had to pay for each of these? Shit. But I digress. So, I take the film canister and without missing a beat open the cap....look in.... see some liquid. Liquid? In a film canister? Naturally put it right up to my nose and INHALE as deeply as I can before I hear the sounds of my son saying "No! Don't smell it!" Too late. It's urine. Urine that's in the process of fermenting. "It's pee. It's over a year old. I told you not to smell it."

By now I have run to the bathroom, no! Don't dump in the sink! (Don't know why I did't think of flushing it down the toilet, the rather logical thing to do, but I was in a state of urine induced insanity. Run to the kitchen. NO! Not in the kitchen sink. Run outside, throw it on my lovely purple lavendar plant. Poor plant. Fully expect it to be dead tomorrow. WTF? Why would someone have a film canister filled with year old urine? Oh. Right. Drug testing. Apparently it came from the body of the kid -- 4 years younger than my son -- down the street. Wonder what he got out of it?

So, that's how the day started. I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and trying to get the lingering smell of urine out of my facial vicinity. I could not get that smell out of my mind.

Did I mention we have a new puppy? (There is a connection to the urine induced insanity, I promise.) Yep. The puppy is super cute and I love him more than anything but sadly my son is not the most able when it comes to cleaning up urine-soaked carpets. So, the pee smell in our tiny house just won't-ever-go-away. Of course when I am not working at the day job, the son doesn't really take the puppy out for walks (even though he is now technically home schooled via an online high school) unless it's to go a block away to purchase or sell drugs. Although he, the son and the puppy actually, are getting better at housekeeping chores. The sad fact remains that I have thrown out three carpets that were beyond redemption but the few remaining ones have this horrid odor that just won't go away. Well, that's not true. The smell does go away, so I get tricked into thinking I have managed to save another carpet. But of course, the odor always creeps back. It seemd especially strong today but it was probably my early morning urine experience that has me quite obsessed with pee on this lovely Saturday. So, the rest of the day was spent sprinkling rosemary-lavendar powder on the carpets and vacuuming. Didn't work. So I performed a combination of pet odor stain and smell remover along with a liberal dosing of Fabreze and soy candles. Didn't work. Went to the hard-core stuff: "Urine Be Gone" (as seen on TV) heavy dudty spraying on the carpets then checking with a black light for spots. So gross. (Note to self: stop using black light. Will drive me insane.) I guess I just need to throw out the rest of the carpets and start over. I always feel like I am starting over.

Urine. The smell that won't go away. Just like my son's drug habit.

Long and Short Summer

So it's been a while.... after he got out of rehab and I got tired of running away to cheap motels and trying to just avoid him, I came up with a better plan: I sent him to El Salvador. The country with the most violent and dangerous city in the world San Salvador, and home of the notorious MS-13 gang. Desperate times call for deseprate measures, right?

So his absent dad bought some property down there and agreed to take him for a week or so but I was able to get 5 weeks out of it. Yeah for me! All of July to myself... no more hiding out in cheap motels. Had a bit of a challenge getting him his passport (rush! more money!!) and then onto the plane. He was going to go. He wouldn't go. He would go. Sat in the car in the parking lot at LAX then I got out. He sat. I kept walking. He got out. He almost didn't make it past security. I pretended that I wasn't with him,but then he made it through. The plane was delayed naturally. Had to sit there for over an hour and I thought I had it timed out just so that we would get to the gate and he would get on, no more time to delay or wait. But no, the plane was delayed. Ok, he passed out in waiting area by the gate. I don't even care that people are staring but I do care that the cleaning lady keeps rolling her super loud cleaning cart back and forth in front of us. Doesn't she know that we don't want to wake the sleeping monster??? Holding my breath. Afraid to move because any slight movement might wake him up and then he freak out or refuse to go or something worse. Boarding the plane. Strangely it's super quiet now that the cleaning lady is gone. Maybe all the passengers can read my mind. Keep still. Keep Quiet. Don't make any sudden moves until the monster is on the plane in his seat where he can hopefully pass out again.

He got on the plane and made it to El Salvador. Miracle. I avoided most of his calls except for the one telling me he was bringing home a puppy from San Salvador. Great. However, it's the cutest dog I've ever seen. So sweet and tiny and just a good little pup. Maybe this will the cure?

More on how things are progressing now. Good and bad mostly bad. But the dog is still alive and lovely and now sleeps on my bare feet his white fluffy fur keeping my bare feet warm. I never thought I'd love a dog more than my own son. Oh, that's harsh. Not true but sometimes I feel that way. Is that wrong?