Foreshadowing...

My husband, the Junkie, didn't start using heroin until 2005, and our marital problems existed way before that. In fact, back in the year 2000, after 9 years of marriage, the Junkie and I separated. He stayed in the house we had rented in the city and I found an adorable two bedroom apartment up in Bellevue boro. It wasn't a friendly split initially and I didn't tell him where I lived for quite a while. The alleged cheating that lead to the split was merely the cherry on top of a sundae chock full of abuse, control, lies and mistrust. For reasons of which I'm not very clear, we eventually started talking again, and occassionally slept together. During this time, we saw other people but it was always understood that we were working on getting back together. It was a weird combination of Limbo-Land and Uncertainville. But there we resided, for two years.

One Saturday morning in 2001, I awoke to my phone ringing. It was him, telling me that a friend of his had died. I consider this the first time heroin ever affected me.

This friend (I'll call him Joe) grew up across the street from the Junkie and was like an older brother to him. When they were kids, Joe's parents watched out for the Junkie and his brother when their mom had to work late. They bought their favorite cereals and foods because they knew my mother-in-law was raising the boys on her own with little to no help from their father. So we never turned Joe away when he'd come by the house, hungry or needing a place to crash. Heck, I liked seeing Joe. It gave me a reason to open the cupboards and start cooking. He always appreciated a home-cooked meal and I was happy to oblige him. I knew his parents, how concerned they were with his well-being, and although I was younger than him, I tried to look out for him too. Returning the favor, if you will.

I knew Joe was a junkie. He had terrible arthritis and started using heroin as a pain killer, of sorts. Of course, he became hooked and his life soon revolved around using. He was a really great guy. I've met alot of junkies and addicts since then and none of them were even remotely as cool as Joe. He was sweet, kind, gentle and, believe it or not, trustworthy. He loved the Beatles, and knew every word to every song they ever recorded. He had a truck and was always going with us to estate sales, helping us pick up furniture, etc. He even helped me move some furniture that a friend had given me for my apartment during our separation. But one day, Joe drove his truck while high and totalled it. I consider this the beginning of the end for Joe. He lost the drive to be productive and did a swan-dive into the pool of addiction.

So on that Saturday morning in 2001, Joe died of a heroin overdose. In the bathroom of the house where I had once lived. Of course, the Junkie knew that Joe was an addict as well, but I'm sure he never expected he would find him like that. Joe had always promised us that he would never use at our house, and as far as I knew, he never did until that day. Remember, we were separated at the time, so I wasn't there (thank heavens). Apparently, Joe had shown up on Friday evening and they had drank some beer and hung out. It got pretty late and they both went to sleep; the Junkie in the bedroom, and Joe on the couch. When the Junkie woke up at about 5am, Joe was in the bathroom. He waited a few minutes for him and when he never came out, he opened the door and Joe was sitting there, a needle still in his arm. There was an attempt at CPR, but Joe was gone. The paramedics and police showed up, as well as Joe's family. The Junkie took the needle out of his arm to save his parents from seeing him like that.

Four days later, I went to Joe's funeral. Although I'd had people close to me die before, it was never so senseless and I was overcome with emotion. It was your standard Catholic funeral, and I got the feeling that the priest didn't actually know Joe all that well. But when the service was over, Joe's dad approached the podium. And I will never forget his words. He was justifiably emotional and all he managed to get out was, "If you know anyone who uses drugs, do whatever you can to stop them. Just do.... whatever you can". There wasn't a dry eye in the house. Even as I write this, eight years later, I feel that man's pain and wipe away the tears.

I look back on this time and wonder how the Junkie could live through this experience... and still decide to use heroin. I guess he didn't think he'd ever become an addict. Of course he didn't. But I always wonder, "did he think he was special?" I wonder this because I know I'm not special. I know if I start using a drug like heroin, I'll become an addict. I understand the curiosity factor, but I don't understand how you can help bury your best friend and then chose to go down the same path. It's almost as if Joe died in vain. And that's what's truly the tragedy.