I Gave Him Life. Twice. And then he yelled at me.

I gave life to my only child, my beautiful and much loved son, twice.

Once on August 8, 1994, and again on May 24, 2011.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard the sound.

The sound of a body falling hard to the floor in the bathroom. I knew. I instantly knew it was him.

Without missing a beat I ran to the bathroom, yanked the bright green plastic key "bracelet" (so very, very fashionable) that I have become accustomed to wearing and tried to find the right key to the bathroom door. (Tips for parents or spouses or lovers of drug addicts: change all the locks on your doors so you can lock UP your possessions as well as get INTO the room -- especially bathrooms -- from the outside. Privacy is no longer an option.)

My hands were shaking so bad as I tried to find the right key while calling out his name over and over and over again. Silence. So weird because only 5 minutes before he had very clearly asked me to make him some of his favorite chicken nuggets. Yes, he still continues to eat like an innocent 5-year old. And do drugs like a hardened 35-year old. Now, minutes later, just silence.

I am also calling 911 on the cell and forgetting to call the Santa Monica Police Department directly which is always faster on a cell. (Another tip for loved ones of addicts: if you only use a cell phone don't call 911 but rather have your local Police Department number programmed in. But of course in a crisis situation the mind goes blank and 911 is automatic.)

Ok, I get the door open to find him slumped over in an odd almost yoga like position face to the floor, butt in the air sort of wedged between the tub and the toilet. It's a very small bathroom and now my sweet little puppy is in the room with us curious and scared but getting in the way. I try to get him out while trying to save my son's life.

The 911 operator is asking me all these questions and I'm trying to be calm but it's so hard when you see your only child blue and unresponsive, a black shoelace tied around his arm, a needle next to his lifeless body.

She tells me to turn him over. He's so small and light normally but now he seems so heavy and in the small room it's nearly impossible but I do it and his head hits the floor with a loud thud. If the heroin didn't kill him then I am now sure that I have just done him in with a major head trauma. She keeps telling me to put his chin up but all I hear in my mind is "put a towel under his head so he'll be comfortable." Of course that's not what she's telling me to do but I do it anyway. I am confused by the head and chin instructions she's giving me. I really wish I had taken that CPR class.

She instructs me on what to do: "Tilt his head, lift his chin, 2 deep breaths, flat palms on his chest between his nipples, push, count with me to thirty -- 1,2,3,4,...." and on it goes. I remember seeing on some talk show (Dr. Phil?) that you need to push down on the heart to the beat of the Bee Gees song "Stayin' Alive" which somehow seems very ironic. But I guess it's not ironic if it works. His chest puffs up with air and then nothing. He's still silent, not breathing, blue.

Finally, after what seems an eternity the paramedics arrive. They pull him out of the tiny bathroom and drag his thin, white and blue lifeless body, into the living room, re-arranging furniture as they go about the business of trying to bring my baby back to life.

I don't know what do but I pace and cry and dramatically scream and yell at him "not now, not now, not yet." I guess all those movies actually portray the character with a loved one dying in front of them, pretty accurately after all.

I thought I was prepared for his death because intellectually that is what I knew would happen very soon but when faced with it, literally as I held him in my arms and breathed air into his dead lungs, I wasn't ready. My heart, my soul, my being, was not ready for him to die at 16.

The cops arrive. They quickly escort me outside where I now see the entire neighborhood has lined up to watch the circus. Police cars, ambulance, fire trucks line the small street. The cops are nice but I have no idea what they are asking me or saying to me.

I realize later they pulled me outside so I wouldn't have to watch my beautiful boy die in front of me.

5 seconds, 5 minutes, or 5 hours later. The fire captain comes out. "We finally got a pulse. He's going to be fine."

(He's alive but not "fine.")

The fire captain hugs me. Such a nice gesture and one that I most needed at that moment. The human touch can be so very powerful.

They wheel my son out and put him in the ambulance. He looks at me, confused.

When I go to the ER 45 minutes later, he's screaming at me, angry that he "made ONE mistake" and now I want to send him to rehab again, which will only "make things worse."

I hope that one day he will actually thank me for saving his life. The doctors, nurses, paramedics told me that it was about a minute difference of him being dead or alive. I am very glad I decided to wash those dirty dishes aT that moment. I know that a guardian angel was looking over both of us that night. And continues to watch over us now.

Next steps are coming. Very soon. If he can survive just a few more days....things are looking up.

Guardian angel can you hear me? Just give us 2 more days please?