Mike came into my life like a whirlwind. He had a lot of chaos and sadness, but he was still loving to animals, kind to me, and refreshingly honest. I knew this person was meant to be in my life. He told me about his past with addiction and I thought it was just that–in the past. But some demons get ahold of you and refuse to let go.
We spent most of our days together, but eventually, I had to go out of town for a work trip. A sense of dread hit me while I was away. I didn’t hear from him. His phone was off. I started texting numbers of people I hoped knew him.
Three days later, Mike called me from the hospital. It felt like a ghost was calling me. What happened? “Fentanyl,” he said. He apologized for making me worry. A near-fatal relapse triggered a blood clot and a month-long stay in the hospital.
I went to the hospital every day to be with him. We watched reruns and talked. Mostly, I was there so he wasn’t alone. But I couldn’t be there when he got discharged. And chronic pain was not conducive to staying clean. I don’t know if he lasted more than a day out of the hospital before he was back in full-blown fentanyl use.
I didn’t see it at first because I didn’t want to see it. How could this person who has been hurt so much by fentanyl go back to using it? He started dozing off while just sitting outside, I found little orange caps on his bed. It became so blatant that I gently confronted him. I told him that I was scared for him, that I worried every day, that this only ended badly if he didn’t stop. He told me that he agreed but was too dumb to be scared, that he had stopped before and would stop again, but that the pain in his leg was too much.
I saw him on a Saturday and it almost felt normal. We went for a drive, watched a movie, and cuddled. Until then, we hadn’t been affectionate because I had been in supportive friend mode. But I knew it wasn’t normal. In the three weeks since the hospital, he had dropped so much weight. He scratched himself raw on his back. For the first time, he looked extremely ill. He didn’t sleep all night. I think because he was trying not to use while I was there and the pain woke him up.
We texted all Sunday and he asked me for money. I told him I didn’t trust him and was afraid for his life. He said he understood. I offered to send him dinner and come over the next day. We agreed. I woke up to two texts: one saying “thanks for the food xoxo” and one telling me he had passed some time in the night.
I wake up crying every day. It all feels so senseless and preventable. I look back on the timeline and wonder if I should have–could have–intervened more. I think about how he re-instilled a confidence in me that I had completely lost. That him liking me exactly as I was healed scars I didn’t know I had. That no matter what else happened–I loved him.
I dream about him often, and I see him everywhere. In the birds that he loved and could name by song, in the water where he loved to sit and look out. In the old graveyards that are everywhere around here that he loved photographing. I would have done anything to save him. He changed my life. I wish I could have changed his.
