The last time I had breakfast with my father was on Thanksgiving Day in 2001. I was just 19, freshly graduated from high school, and we met at a local café close to his house. Eighteen months had passed since his release from jail, but he still hadn’t regained his driver’s license. He made an effort to present himself well that day, donning a bulky green sweater and a freshly shaved face. Our breakfast gathering was necessary because no other family member felt comfortable inviting him for dinner.
Dad had lost all his teeth a few years prior, a consequence likely tied to his Vicodin addiction. As I sat across from him, I noticed the dark pockmarks in his gums, remnants of where teeth once were, now holding nothing but food particles. His skin bore the pale, chalky hue of prolonged addiction, his once-black hair now streaked with gray, and his eyes were deeply sunken, the blue-green irises framed by a yellowed haze from years of smoking.
At five feet seven inches tall, he barely weighed over 100 pounds, his skull protruding slightly through his thin skin and sparse hair. Although he was only 49, he appeared much older. The large meal he ordered and the thick sweater he wore were his attempts to give me the illusion of his health. It was one of many ways he masked his addiction. Our conversation meandered through various topics—my mother, my job at the hardware store, and my college experience. When he asked for money, I hesitated, knowing it would likely fund another visit to a doctor for more painkillers. But he was my father, so I gave in. Later, I drove him to his fourth ex-wife’s home for Thanksgiving dinner, the only family member willing to accept him.
Just a month later, he passed away—ten years after a series of workplace injuries had led to his addiction to prescription painkillers. Piecing together family stories, I remember a time when my father was a dedicated contractor, a responsible business owner, and a caring family man. A simple prescription from our family doctor transformed everything, marking a turning point for both him and for me.
I recall a time he lost control while driving me to a youth wrestling match. I remember the days when he would stumble around the house, sleep excessively, and hop from one doctor’s office to another, always leaving with another prescription. Eventually, he left my mother, who had sought help for his addiction, and moved from one relationship to another. Towards the end of his life, he never fully unpacked in the shabby apartments he rented, knowing eviction was only a matter of time.
One of the most haunting memories I have is of standing on opposite sides of bulletproof glass in a county jail, talking through telephones attached to thick steel cables. I was in high school, and he faced a string of charges, including driving under the influence and forging prescriptions. It was a year before his death. He rubbed the phone with his thin, spider-like hand, his jaw moving as he absentmindedly searched for teeth that were no longer there.
“I don’t want to see you in here. Ever. You don’t have to… You know that. You’re the good one. Better than me.” In that moment, I felt an overwhelming surge of empathy. He had lost control of his life, and he didn’t want me to follow in his footsteps. But that loss of control is the grim reality of the opioid epidemic.
From the time my father’s addiction began when I was 8 until his death at 19, I witnessed a man transform from a supportive parent and husband into a shadow of his former self. This all unfolded long before the opioid crisis became a widely recognized issue, during a time when no one questioned the authority of medical prescriptions. My father’s addiction crept into our lives like a silent, toxic gas, eroding his credibility, ruining his career, and impacting my childhood and understanding of fatherhood in ways I still grapple with.
Initially, I don’t believe my father sought out drugs. He was prescribed painkillers by a trusted physician, and before he knew it, he was hooked. Eventually, the doctors who were supposed to help him became unwitting enablers. He passed away in a small one-bedroom apartment, alone, with only a few belongings and a family photo that featured a healthier, younger version of himself. In his cabinets, we discovered enough prescription bottles to nearly fill a large garbage bag. My brother showed this to me as I sat on the floor next to the mattress where our father died, staring at that old photograph.
“Each one of these was prescribed by a different doctor,” my brother remarked. “Isn’t that crazy?” I shook my head. “No, it’s not. It’s terrifying.”
The opioid epidemic is a pressing societal issue, but when it strikes close to home—when it involves your loved ones—it becomes profoundly personal. After my father died, I felt numb. I didn’t cry while cleaning out his apartment, telling his mother about his passing, reading his obituary, or even at his funeral. I didn’t shed a tear for nearly a year. It finally hit me one evening in the shower, as I sat down on the cold tiles, knees drawn to my chest. I cried—not for losing my father, but for the realization that he would never have the chance to recover and become the father I believed he could have been without addiction.
This is the harsh reality of the opioid epidemic. For many, it strips away the ability to be the parents, children, and partners they could have been. It means witnessing the slow demise of someone you love, a trap many unknowingly fall into, and it’s crucial that we all join forces to combat this issue. For further insights on family dynamics and challenges, you might find our article on artificial insemination engaging. Additionally, for a deeper understanding of related topics, check out this resource on pregnancy and home insemination and learn more about this critical issue here.
Summary
The article explores the devastating impact of opioid addiction through the personal story of a son reflecting on his father’s struggles and eventual death. It highlights the broader societal implications of addiction while emphasizing the importance of awareness and preventive measures.