The death of my only child
September 5, 2010, two long weeks ago, was the day my only child, a beautiful, intelligent, kind 32-year old named Holly, died from an overdose of heroin. She had been battling her addiction to drugs since she was 18 and was in rehab, for the past 9 months, at the time of her death.
Holly tried so hard to achieve the life that the rest of us are so lucky to have and often take for granted. This was her second attempt at rehab in the past 4 years. She had big plans and was taking steps to clear up her criminal past, seek employment, and, eventually, go back to school. Holly was especially looking forward to January, when her grandmother and I would attend her graduation from rehab. That's all gone now. Lost forever.
Part of me died the day she did. I'll never be able to come to grips with her death, especially since it could have been prevented. According to a homicide detective assigned to her case, she was in an apartment with other people when she injected the fatal dose. They admitted to the detective they knew she had overdosed and tried to walk her around, etc.
Instead of bringing her to the hospital, those addle-minded individuals that consider themselves human decided to "let her sleep it off". They found her dead the next morning, but still waited another three hours before dumping her body off in an emergency room lobby of a local hospital.
It ultimately was my daughter's responsibility. She injected herself. No one forced it on her, but to just let her die is something I will never be able to deal with. My only child is gone. Right now I can't imagine living the rest of my life without her. I will never be the same. No one around me understands. I'll never hear her voice again. I won't get 6 calls from her in one day. I won't hear her laugh. This is pain like no other.