Loving my daughter through her battle with addiction

“What took you so long?” My daughter asked me when I recently found her in a tent encampment in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Temperatures hovered just above freezing and she had been missing for 12 days. She had lost her car, her phone and her wallet. If it hadn’t been for the distress call she made to her boyfriend from a borrowed cell, I wouldn’t have found her.

Three-quarters of a million people are homeless on any given night in the United States, but my daughter has a home. Her current situation is not a result of discrimination, joblessness or lack of a safety net.

She sleeps on the street because of substance use disorder. My girl is whip-smart, beloved and industrious. The only thing she has ever been a fool for is heroin.

It began 14 years prior at parties thrown by South Shore teens — “Oxys, so fun!" But Oxycontin leads to heroin, heroin leads to fentanyl, and fentanyl leads to death. At least 28,000 dead in Massachusetts thus far. This particular tale of destruction is as old as Purdue Pharma’s mega fortune is new. Even I get tired of the never-ending narrative. There is enough heartache here to cripple the able-bodied. But, unbelievably, there is also unexpected love.

On day eight of my daughter’s absence, I filled out a missing person report at my local police station. Sitting among Dunkin’ cups and donated cookies, I emphasized that she was last seen with someone who had a gun and dealt drugs. I knew she had no money. I knew she was alone and compromised but unable to see it that way. My eagerness to find her was tempered by the fact that addiction is not a criminal offense, and neither the cops nor I can force my daughter to accept help.

While describing my daughter’s identifying features — she has green eyes, a sunflower tattoo — I was interrupted by a lieutenant who had helped us 13 years prior, when my daughter was 16.  He quietly asked how we all were. I made a small joke welcoming him back on the merry-go-round. He didn’t laugh; his half smile was wrung with concern. He was all business, intent on finding the tiny girl who had grown up down the street from the station. I wanted to hug him, but I figured you’re not supposed to jump up and wrap your arms around an armed officer. Still, the urge persisted.

It made me recall an earlier time, when my daughter was a teenager and an officer arrived at my kitchen door to take her to court-ordered drug treatment. Before leaving, he sat on the stoop with her and let her have a cigarette. As they walked to his cruiser, he handed her a Newman’s Own iced tea, saying, “I picked it up at Tedeschis, I thought you might like it.” This unexpected kindness remains with me, too.

In the end, it was my husband and I who found her. We pulled the car over beside a rail trail the Lawrence police had warned us not to walk. I pressed up against a cold chain-link fence and began shouting her name in every direction. A few nights earlier, a dream had instructed me to yell her name in a public place — so that’s what I did.

In reply, I heard a disembodied, “Mom?” Disbelieving my ears, I shouted her name again. And then I saw her, her face painted Kabuki style, emerging from the tree line.  “I heard you calling my name for days,” she said. ”What took you so long to get here, Mom?”

Lawrence is a town of 95,000 people; finding her was nearly impossible. Watching her scramble up the hill toward me, in strangers' clothing, seemed like a portal to an end-of-life review. How can one's heart absorb a scene at once so devastating, yet so miraculous?

Once inside the car,  I texted her boyfriend that we were en route to detox. He had been sleepless for a week, consumed with the what-ifs. Witnessing a man who can benchpress a small car visibly suffer — well, that too is heartrending. He asked if I would hand her my phone. My gut reaction was not to. I didn’t want her to make contact with the drug dealer she had left town with. So many things could still go wrong. Maintaining forward momentum was my only game plan.

As if reading my mind, he suggested I put it on speaker. He needed to tell her three things: He wasn’t mad at her. She was doing the right thing. And he loved her.

Again, I asked myself: How does one process something both so heartbreaking and heart-building? I reached back and handed her the phone. I watched her eyes scan the highway as he spoke to her. A moment later, I heard her laugh. She has the deepest, most resonant laugh.

When we arrived at detox, I went in ahead of her and my husband and warned the staff they would need to search her. Before going in, she asked for a minute to do more drugs. I have learned over the years that one last indulgence is the normal practice of those contemplating abstinence. Another scene to add to the heart’s wreckage.

When she entered the building, the staff welcomed her back. My daughter stood there, on edge, enveloped by soft lighting and paintings in silver and blue. “We are so glad you are here with us. Let’s get you settled.” I knew she was in good hands, their compassion borne of experience. 

A week later, the managing partner of the rehab texted me: I met with your little angel today.

I jokingly responded, Who could that possibly be? 

He replied with a series of laughing emojis. Followed by prayer hands.

This man has more than once saved her a detox bed — which is no small favor — and more than once paid for her care.

He reminds me, She is a huge asset when she’s well. I will always be on her team. 

Me, too. Every day, I feel my bruised heart continue to beat; all these feelings, spilling over inside of me.