What I Want You to Know is a series of
reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their
personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the
unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to
this series,
click here. Today’s guest posts is by Theresa.Photobucket
I would say I live in a middle class life. I am a fifth grade teacher
and my husband is a power plant operator. I have four healthy happy
children with a fifth on the way. From time to time, I engage in
conversations with people and uncomfortable topics come up. From time to
time, we have the unfortunate experience of seeing children suffering
because someone in the family suffers from drug abuse. I see my
community falling under pressure from the pills and the pushers.

What
do I want people to know? Yes, I agree. The user is making a choice.
Whst else do I want people to know? You don’t know who is suffering from
the choices others are making. So making comments such as “they should
just be dead” or “just let them rot in jail” are not always the best
approaches. I know, because my brother was an addict.

I
loved him so much. But he wasn’t the kid I grew up with. Sure, we had
always had our differences. We were both stubborn as mules. We both
stood our ground. He went one way and I another. I couldn’t tell you the
day or the time when we lost him. But I knew we had.

He carried
death in his eyes. We saw it coming. I often would say to my husband “He
is going to die. I see it.” And then I would pray and beg for mercy.
“Take anything from him you need to get his attention. But spare his
life.” He would come to my house. My eyes always went to his arms. Did
the marks look new? Look to his eyes. How red were they? Listen to his
voice. Was he going to be ok? I never liked the answer my heart gave.

I
would prepare myself for bad news. I started refusing to answer the
phone. I told my husband that he could be the one to break the news to
me. That he was gone. Every time the phone would ring I would stop
breathing. I would picture the funeral in my mind trying to prepare.
What would I do to help my mom? What would I say. I knew death was so
close. The fear would be paralyzing. A cold dark shadow that was
squeezing out his life and tugging at everyone around his.

I got
a phone call at work. From my husband. He had been taken by ambulance.
He knew nothing other than that. Although he didn’t seem good. I rushed
home. I tried to get ahold of my mom and nothing. I went home and laid
on the couch. Holding my stomach. Trying to calm myself at least for the
baby’s sake. I tried to tell myself it would be ok. It had to be ok. A
knock at my door. I ran. My mom. How did I know, she asked. He was at
the hospital. They brought him back. I put on my shoes and out the door.

When
I saw him my heart broke. He was arguing that he was fine. He had hit
his head and nothing more. The doctor knew. The police asked him if
anyone had forced him to take anything. No was his answer. They left.
And then us. Suddenly my relief was flooded with anger. I yelled “How
could you keep doing this to us? What is wrong with you?” He looked at
me with such anger. His reply. It is my life. It has nothing to do with
you. Nothing….

I went home. Sobbing again. Praying again.
Wanting for this to be over. And yet so badly not wanting it to be over.
“Save him God. Where are you? Help him. Spare him.”

Days, weeks,
months came and went. Time passes even when you think it never will.
Finally, I get a call so very early in the morning. Please bring money.
If I didn’t, he would be stuck there for a long time. I wanted so bad to
help him. So bad to save him. “I can’t. I am sorry.” He said, “Okay, I
guess it might be awhile before I see you again.” I hung up the phone
and cried. Cried so hard into my pillow. “God help.”

My mom goes
to see him. He has made a decision. He is going into treatment. If he
didn’t do something he knew that he would be dead. For the first time in
years, I took a deep breath. “Please,” was my only prayer.

Almost
2 years later, he was coming home. It used to physically hurt to look
into his eyes. Before help came, his eyes were dark. Deep. Dead. Of you
looked at him, it was like looking at a ghost. Someone who had nothing
there. And now, as I looked at him, another sob caught in my throat. His
eyes. It was almost unreal. The light. The newness. The life! The scars
had closed over and healed. There was something about him. He was here.
He was whole.

Another
year later and I thank God everyday. He is new and whole. He laughs and
sings. Hold my kids close and offers help and encouragement. Reaching
out to the lost and telling others of the good news he has found.

Do I believe in miracles? Of course. I have seen him.