| Chapter Four |
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| Written by Mike Johnson |
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Chapter 4
Aftershock When Mike first started motorcross racing, and I went to his first race, I thought then that nothing would ever scare me like watching him sitting on the starting line waiting for the starting gate to fall. He was so determined to be the first one through the turn, that he would hold his throttle open far longer than anyone else did. One weekend he “borrowed” a tractor from a construction site, and built himself a motorcross track behind our house. We lived in the country, and he had 5 acres to build it on. He would practice every day. I would be in the house and would listen to the sound of that engine. As long as it was running, I knew he was OK. I only got worried if the engine stopped, and then I would have to go outside and look towards his track to make sure he was OK. Little did I know that every lap he made, he was testing himself to see if he could hold the throttle open just 5 more seconds each time. It is unbelievable to sit and watch 20+ screaming bikes racing for a very sharp turn, knowing that about half of them are going to crash and fall. I don’t ever remember Mike being one of the ones to fall at the first turn. He was always first through it. Every time there was a race scheduled, and it would come time to leave, I would get sick to my stomach worrying about what would happen. I tried staying home just so I would not have to sit and watch him possibly get hurt or maimed in some way, but soon realized it was worse sitting home letting my imagination run away with me, than it was to just go and watch. Sometimes I closed my eyes until they were through the first turn, and would always be so relieved when I saw number “43” still up and racing. He was amazing on that bike, and went on to win so many races. One summer we traveled 5000 miles to different races, pulling three bikes for him to race. It was fun for all of us, except for the anxiety we felt when he was on the track. He never got hurt bad racing his bike, and always told me to please not embarrass him if he ever fell and got hurt. He did not want me running out onto the track crying and screaming. Well, even though my heart was in my throat many, many times, I never did. The one time he fell and got hurt, I worked very hard to remember that. He was racing down a hill and then immediately up another one. The track would actually throw the bikes up into the air when they hit the top of the hill, and then they would drop and go down the hill and back up. Well, when Mike went down, he didn’t come back up. I ran across the field, reminding myself to keep my cool and not embarrass him. His foot was stuck in the spokes of the rear wheel, and they had to cut his boot off of him. We loaded him into our van and took him to the hospital. They did not have the facilities to treat his broken foot there, so they sedated him and helped us load him back into the van to take him to another town to a bigger hospital. On the way, he looked very depressed. I tried talking to him, and told him there would be other races, not to be so down. He looked me in the eyes and said “mom, you are not even upset that I am hurt, don’t you love me?” At that point, I burst into tears. I had tried so hard to not show my fear, and do as he had asked me to do. But in his pain, he forgot that, and thought I just didn’t care. The day he was at my house, telling me about his drug addiction was another day that I tried to not show what I was feeling. I was afraid to show what I was feeling, afraid it would push him away, and over the brink into oblivion. I did not want him to feel alone. It took a lot of courage to come and tell me what was happening, and I could see how difficult this was for him. As far as my feelings, I felt shock, anger, sorrow, fear, and a deep need to take him in my arms and cry with him, and tell him we would somehow work this out. Actually, I didn’t know what I was feeling. Some of the thoughts I had, due to the fact that I was numb were, “This can’t be happening, not to my son, he would never do this, It has to be a nightmare, how can I fix this, how can I help him now?” When he began to breath erratically, his arms and legs stiffened up, and he said his chest was hurting, I didn’t know if the cocaine was killing him, if he was having a panic attack or a heart attack. I just knew he needed to be in a hospital where they could make the appropriate diagnosis, and give him the care he needed. Little did I know he would have the “Paramedic from hell” in attendance. As a medical professional, I know that we are not to let our own personal prejudices interfere with the care we provide. We are to treat everyone the same, no matter what we think or feel. This paramedic, undoubtedly, was not abiding by the rules of care I know he had been taught. He was a paramedic, not God, and he had no idea, nor the skill level, to make a judgment like he did. Mike could very well have been dying. It might have been brought on by using illegal drugs, but he was still a human being, and deserved better treatment than he received. I believe we reap what we sow, so I hope that paramedic learns his lesson someday. At the time, I had no idea how the medics were treating Mike, I only knew he was on the way to the hospital and I felt he would be better off there. I knew he was scared, and I was too. At a time like that, the medical training I have goes out the window. I cannot be objective when it is my own family. Normally, I would have been able to make an assessment and realize he was not in immediate danger. However, I could not do that with my son screaming “Please call 911, I am dying.” As the ambulance left, I got my purse and keys and left behind it to follow Mike to the hospital. The Doctors did not think he was having a heart attack, and decided it was a panic attack. They recommended inpatient treatment at a rehab center. A few days later, Mike’s wife took him to the center and he stayed about 30 days. I visited him there the first weekend. It was so scary going there and knowing my son was basically locked in a place where he could not leave. I know now he could have left had he wanted to, but it was an experience like none I had ever had or had ever expected to have. However, he was in good spirits, and seemed to be getting something out of the program. I know now it was only “hope”, not anything tangible that would help him. Our expectations, I now see, were not realistic. We expected him to come out of there “cured”. I knew it would be rough, but I thought he would have the tools he would need to stay away from the cocaine. Little did I know. During the time he was there, I read everything I could find on cocaine addiction. Most of the literature recommended inpatient treatment for 30 days or more. Unfortunately, insurance will not pay for more, and usually will only pay for 28 days. Well, 30 days is not nearly enough. Mike really tried to work the program, and he went to meetings, read the books, and yet seemed unable to conquer this problem. It led to problems in his personal life and his home life. His principal came to talk to me at my house while Mike was in the inpatient treatment center, and told me although Mike was an excellent teacher, they were going to have to ask him to resign. He felt that if Mike worked a program, and got straightened out, he could one day get his teaching certificate back. Mike got so many letters from his students, even though they did not know what the problem was, they knew their favorite teacher was no longer coming to class, and they missed him. When Mike got home from the treatment center, I think we all expected him to be fine now. We did not realize this was a demonic possession, not a simple addiction. It would be a long time before we realized that. He did try, and I know he had good intentions. He is a good person, and has always tried to do what is right. He could never even tell a simple lie when he was a little boy without coming to me and telling me the truth. I knew this addiction had to be eating his soul alive. This was not him, it was a devil inside him. He was suffering a lot more than we were, and deep down I knew that. He never ever wanted to hurt anyone, he always was the one to help the “underdog”. And as far as I was concerned, I was at a total loss as to what to do to help him. When our children are small, we can kiss the hurts and make it better. This time a kiss would not help. Neither would words of comfort. I began to realize this was an addiction he had no control over, and I knew that all of the tools they had given him were not going to work for him. I went to some meetings with him, and I tried to encourage his wife to go too. She did not feel they would help, and would not go. She was at a loss as to what to do, and seemed to not be able to understand that this is a family problem, not just a “Mike” problem. She could not separate that from feeling he was blaming her for the problem. It was not blame he was placing, it was a plea for help. She did take his drivers license, and his money, which was good, but he would find a way to pawn different items and get money. These meetings were not helping. He told us they would not help him, that he needed to do this on his own, and that he needed to find a way to do it without going to meetings and listening to all the terrible stories from other users. That depressed him even more, and actually made the problem worse. However, we continued to tell him that he needed to give them a chance, that they would help if he would do the program as they told him to. So, he went, alone, and he tried, but he was still working this alone. How could we help? We just didn’t know. Most of the “professionals” told me I needed to back off and let him hit rock bottom. I could not do that, as I knew in my heart that the first time ever he used, he felt he had hit rock bottom. The first time he admitted he had a problem to his wife and then to me, he had hit rock bottom. The first time he had to be away from his family in that treatment center and not be there for his kids, he had hit rock bottom. He was not someone who would deliberately ignore the feelings of his children, his wife, his mother, and continue to go out and hurt them. This had to be a demon, but all of the professionals say it is an addiction. I even wondered about exorcism. I read about it, but it was scary to even contemplate. I did find a Dr. and then a lady who used alternative treatments to try and help him, and for awhile they did, but then the practice closed, and he lost contact with them. The lady believed he was possessed by someone, or something also, although she never mentioned the devil. I spent many sleepless nights, knowing in my heart he was out using again, and sure enough, the next day his wife would call and say “Well, he did it again.” All of this gave new meaning to the words “feeling helpless.” I honestly did not know what to do. I could not help him, I could only let him know that I love him and would always be here if he needed me. I prayed that the next “rock bottom” would not mean death. I could only continue to search for treatments, and pray to God to give me the right words to say to him. Praying that something I said would make a difference. Praying for his family, praying for him, and most of all praying that God would please show us how to help him and keep him safe. |
