I’ve moved the computer from upstairs, where it sat next to my sewing machine these past few months while we worked on our downstairs re-model, and just now have brought it down to another semi-adjustable location so I could work on posting updates when I received a message on my phone.
…”sorry to have to tell you like this…our ‘boy’* (his name) passed away last Saturday…the drugs got to him…”
I’m looking out the window onto the cold, snow covered backyard, over the fence and in my mind I’m seeing a young boy helping his dad mow the lawn, then a group of teens gathered on the back porch smoking cigarettes, some conversations flash in and out, remembering the past.
Then I’m sad, and a little angry, and I can see him again, this time with a needle, his arm strapped with a bungee tight around his bicep, fist pumping for a vein. A selfish need to not feel, to float away.
the words “…the drugs got him…” repeat over and over and all I can think, without tears, without emotion is…
“What a Waste!”
What a waste indeed. How does this happen? I have an idea, and then I have NO idea. I’m staring at the backyard. A cold, cold earth.
I wrote the above this morning just to get some thoughts in print trying to wrap my head around the sadness and loss my neighbors must be feeling. A week ago their son died. He was 26 and not knowing any details other than a brief acknowledgement that it was drugs that killed him I can only imagine what his last days were like.
I write this blog with an emphasis on sewing. It is my love of sewing, of being creative that has helped me throughout my life. It is something I was always curious about and it was something that always travelled with me. I think it is important to have hobbies, extensions of yourself that give you enjoyment. If it’s not a hobby such as a craft, then a sport or music, theater, travel, reading, and so forth. But how drugs become someone’s hobby is beyond me.
When I was recovering from a knee injury two years ago I used my sewing as therapy. The Little Wheels quilt came out of that therapy and I enjoyed making every last little stitch of it. Scotty was my neighbor’s, this young man’s new son. So when I re-play that phone message, the part about the ‘drugs got to him’ I’m a little pissed off.
Parents, all I can say is this. Give your kids the gift of a hobby, a craft, a talent and encourage them to pursue it. Keep them busy, keep their hands busy, share it with them. Left to their own devices how many of them have found their way to an easy high? Far too many I believe. It’s a shame. What a waste.
Sorry this is such a downer post everyone but unless I get it off the brain I won’t be able to move forward. I’ll be back soon with more Portlandia, more sewing, more home improvement, more of the good stuff…