Between Two Pages
Children of Substance
by
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NO, NOT MY SON!
A wretched sound came from somewhere deep inside. It began as a moan and grew into a deafening wail. "No, no, oh God, NO!" The screaming was coming from me. My thoughts were bouncing around wildly. Is this a nightmare? Am I asleep?" I gasped for a breath, did I hear correctly, or is this some kind of cruel joke?
Kelly? Dead? I couldn't comprehend what was being said to me; I was trying to focus on the words. How could this be? Frantically I began to ask questions not wanting to hear the answers. "Not my sweet baby boy, oh no, please God, no!" I was suffocating and I wanted to run. I wanted the words to STOP!
Kelly Arthur Hubenthal was born August 7, 1967. He was so small, and frail, he weighed little more than six pounds. Kelly was nine days old, the first time I held him. I wanted this dear sweet baby boy with all my being! He was so precious and innocent and he filled the void in my heart and made me feel complete. How I loved him! Kelly was the first Grandchild, in our family, and he was MY son!
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Dear Father in Heaven, watch over my son, and make him a good citizen and a loving and giving person. Amen." This is the prayer I recited almost very night of Kelly's life.
At a few months of age, I began to notice a "squeak," in Kelly's breathing. He was sick most of the time, now. I would rock him for hours and sing to him and I would stay up all night keeping vigil over him and the humidifier.
"Asthma? That squeak is asthma? Oh, God, please help him!" Kelly continued to be a very sickly baby, adolescent and adult. His asthma was severe which caused him to miss a lot of school. Kelly was prescribed huge amounts of medications, allergy shots, and there were many, many hospitalizations. He had been given massive amounts of drugs to save his life, including steroids.
Kelly grew up in hospital emergency rooms and doctors' offices. The medications had horrendous effects on his mind and his body. His behavior became extremely difficult and sometimes combative, but the alternative was to let him suffer and possibly die from these breath-robbing attacks. I put his life in the hands of God and the "specialists."
I began taking Kelly for psychological counseling when he was about seven years old. He seemed "different" from other children his age. He had unexplained anger, he had trouble concentrating; he didn't get along well with other kids and he was easily distracted. Counseling continued throughout much of his life. There were psychiatrists, psychologists, hospitals, tutors, special learning centers and medical experiments. The list is endless, and the cost was more than any parent should have to endure, and more pain than any child should have to experience.
Around the age of fifteen, I suspected Kelly was dabbling in drugs. At 16, his friends brought him home, one night, unresponsive. They dumped him on the garage floor. Nearly paralyzed by fear, we rushed him to the hospital having no idea what was wrong. We were told that he had consumed so much alcohol, that he had become unconscious. As he was sobering up, in the emergency room, he became extremely hostile, foul mouthed and angry. I knew I had to do something before this went any farther. The very next day, I began to seek out substance abuse professionals and did a lot of praying. My gut feeling brought me to the brink of terror. Kelly was in deep trouble. He must be stopped before he kills himself!
I tricked Kelly into going to a counseling session. I told him it was for family therapy. Kelly was evaluated, and he tested positive for drugs. In that tiny room, with no windows, the walls began to close around me. My heart was pounding so loudly, I was certain it could be heard over the silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kelly glaring at me with contempt. He had just realized why he was there.
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About the Book
A collection of wounded parents, whose children have died from a drug overdose or suicide related to substance abuse, came together on the website GriefNet.org. Each one was damaged by misplaced blame and guilt because they couldn’t rescue their children. So deeply filled with sorrow they were unable to find a life after death. They have become a family-in-grief, crying together and comforting one another.
The public must be educated to the reality of the War on Drugs. There are people who still believe in the ‘junkie’ stereotype. Many presume, that, these children were weak willed and deserved what was coming to them. Some people are judgmental, uneducated, mean spirited, or have blinders on.
Drugs created a helplessness, in these children, that is hard for outsiders to understand. Kicking the drug habit is incalculably difficult! Also powerless are the secondary victims, those who are left behind to cope with the losses this dreadful disease has caused.
Each child that died left behind a parent whose life is now changed forever. They cannot erase the horror of that moment when they first heard that their child had died. The nightmares and the visions of their children dying continue to haunt them.
About the Author
Susan Hubenthal co-authored Between Two Pages: Children of Substance through a curtain of tears, yet it has been a healing and rewarding experience. Susan and the GriefNet parents have a two-fold plea: first, to find an end to the "War On Drugs," secondly, to provide an understanding of addicted children and their families. They want to share with you, the reader, their experiences, their feelings and fears to help you to understand how much these children were loved. They speak honestly about their sorrow in hopes that no other mother, father, sibling, or child has to endure this journey through grief alone. They wish to reach the hearts of those who judge their children and to gently lead them down a path of understanding, lighting the way with the reality that drug abuse and drug accidents can strike any family.