There is no instruction manual for mothers of addicts. We have all the information about what to expect when you are expecting and of course there is always Dr. Spock. My question is where do we turn when that perfect son grows up to become the perfect addict. The one who steals, lies and turns your life upside down. I searched far and wide for the instruction manual that would guide me step by step in this journey. Sadly I'm still looking.
Matt's addiction became mine as I took on the medical community in my quest to save him. If my son was diagnosed with cancer or diabetes our cries for help would have been answered with compassion. Insurance companies would have approved treatment in whatever state provided the best care. Because my son's disease was addiction we were set up for the battle of our lives. I found first hand the stigma that addiction carries taints even those in the so called profession of helping addicts.
I became Matt's medical advocate after sitting back and watching him struggle to plead for his life. When he finally was on board for rehab, which I learned is a very small window of time, I would monitor the call listening to the many obstacles the intake person on the other end of this cry for help would throw in his face. I had to bite my tongue and fight the urge to rip the phone from his hand and start screaming. Seeing and hearing his frustration was too much for me to bear. Foolishly, I thought they would never talk to his mother, a nurse, one of them, with such uncaring disrespect. Oh how wrong I was. The ignorance I encountered on a daily basis fueled my anger and opened my eyes to see how completely broken our system truly is. How would I ever get Matt into the right treatment facility when those running the places believed the stigma that we fought everyday.
My daily routine now became searching the internet. I was at the mercy of which ever rehab popped up. Which ever place had an available bed at that precious moment in time when Matt was ready to go. I'm ashamed to say the state we live in has no honest to God rehabs. We have two mental health facilities. One a full fledged mental hospital. Matt wasn't crazy, he was an addict. I was the crazy one trying to get him the help he needed to survive. I never thought to research the quality of the rehab that would accept both my son and my money. They all looked so beautiful and portrayed themselves as the best. We all know you grab the addict and run when they say yes, before the fear and withdraw start to creep in and you lose them once again.
I spoke to multiple intake specialists, thinking that being a nurse would give me an advantage. Each time I tried to keep my cool as I was told to call back in a few days or we had to wait hours for an insurance approval. No amount of crying and pleading for my son's life helped. My desperate cries falling on uncaring, deaf ears. There were days I wanted to walk through their doors and demand help. My God, I was becoming a crazy mother of an addict desperate for help.
I felt like I won the lottery when I was put on hold and then asked how far away are you we will hold a bed. Finally, after weeks of frustration Matt was in rehab. My peace was so short lived as my new battle became the insurance companies. Twenty some days, really, are you kidding me, I fought for months and this is all we get. My mind already beat up, now having to gear up for my next battle.
Insurance companies have no clue. My son didn't become an addict in 28 days and he certainly wasn't ready to face the real world in such a short period of time. Twenty eight days for most addicts is like spitting into the wind. No amount of begging, pleading or providing them with facts relating to longer admissions leading to less relapses changed their closed minds. Replies were always spoken in that I don't care about your addict tone of voice. I now believe after living this nightmare that insurance companies need to be educated about addiction. Saving lives instead of money. Maybe in the perfect world.
Looking back I wish I could have made one phone call. I wish there was someone on the other end that cared. I wish I could have spent that time loving my son instead of fighting whoever answered the phone at which ever rehab happened to pop up on my screen. I wish insurance companies understood addiction as the chronic disease it is. I wish I had someone to vent my frustrations to. No one wants to hear about your fight to save your addict son. Isolation became my friend as people ran when they saw me coming. I wish someone said I'll help you.
This broken system needs to be shattered and rebuilt. There are approximately 40,000 drug overdose deaths per year in the U.S. The system needs to be structured to help both the addict and the frantic mothers searching for high quality, affordable rehab facilities. It needs to be run by people who get it. Addicts helping addicts. Mothers of addicts helping each other navigate this horrible journey no one signs up for. We are mothers of a generation suffering from the most mistreated and misunderstood disease.
It's too late for me and Matt. The system failed us. He is gone and I'm trying to pick up the pieces. I relive every horrible moment of my struggle to save him. As a nurse I am ashamed of the medical community and how addicts are treated. Medical and nursing schools must include addiction in the curriculum. Pain management clinics must be closely monitored preventing turning patients into addicts. Rehabs must expand their beds and have policies in place to never turn away an addict requesting help. My path is now to save other mothers children. I will use the lessons I've learned through my journey to make changes. To speak out against the stigma of addiction. A broken mother living her life to honor her son.