Our Story

MY FIRST LOVE  

 

Jason Philip Pratt was born on November 19, 1984.  

He gave me the gift of motherhood.

 

I married at 20 years old with idealist views.  An unplanned pregnancy came three years later; a time of awe, excitement, gratitude, and fear. With the onset of labor, and it being our first pregnancy, we went to the hospital far too soon, but it ended up perhaps saving his life.  When my water broke after 26 hours of labor, there was an indication of meconium present in the amniotic fluid due to a bowel movement prior to birth. I didn’t understand what was going on and asked “what is the worst that can happen?”  The doctor said, “your baby could die.”  Fear and anxiety took hold.  How could this possibly be happening to us?  Our baby could die?  It was something that never occurred to me.  The love we feel for our children even before their birth is unlike any other. It’s innate and profound. Thankfully, my C-section went fine and Jason was a beautiful, healthy, bald and blue eyed, 7 pound miracle. 

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We settled into parenthood fairly well.  I was on maternity leave from a bank job, and loved being home with my beautiful boy.  Jason was a good baby, showing patience for his young and inexperienced parents.  Thankfully, both sets of grandparents were nearby to help.

So many firsts to experience: his first bath, first bottle, first tooth, first smile, first fever, first injury, and the long awaited first full night’s sleep.  I cherished it all.  The love I felt for this little boy was beyond all comprehension.  I understood what other moms meant now.  It was sacred, holy and deeply intimate.  Jason grew to be inquisitive, bright, funny, stubborn, affectionate, precocious and adored by everyone.

Jason’s brother Jeremy came along in 1988 and his sister Chelsea in 1992.   He was a proud big brother, other than the occasion poke in the eye, trip or jab in the ribs. 

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As Jason grew, he was one of those kids who always wanted to be with the adults.  He had school friends, but preferred being home with us, showing such a thirst for knowledge.  He had one more “why” to every last answer provided.  He was often under foot and of course I now regret often telling him to “go play.”   

     

As a young boy, Jason was involved in cub scouts and was an excellent baseball player.   As his teen years progressed, he struggled with some anxiety, had difficulty concentrating, as well as “fitting in.”   He would argue over the color of the sky, or when bed time was, at times becoming defiant, argumentative and oppositional. However, he got through high school with very little drama, misbehavior or drug use.  He was a special kid with so much potential, and I truly loved being with him.

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When Jason graduated, he went to college in New Hampshire to pursue his dream of being an airline pilot.  During his first semester, he fell in the shower and broke his elbow.  Many of you can predict what came next. Our stories are often so heartbreakingly similar. He was prescribed opiates for pain, and that began his 16 year downward spiral.  Although, I simply can’t live in seeking blame, I do wonder what might have been.

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It didn’t take long for Jason to quit school and turn to heroin.  It was cheap. His first arrest was for possession. Telling me he was holding it for a friend, I believed him. When he came to me a year later, admitting he was using and wishing to stop, I was shocked and devastated. It was one of the most heart wrenching conversations I ever experienced. He knew he was in trouble, and yet neither one of us knew the pain nor the suffering that was to come for all of us.  He thought he could just “quit” and move forward. In many ways, I’m grateful we didn’t know.

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For the next 16 years, Jason’s life consisted of detoxes, rehabs, hospitals, shelters, sober houses, jails and institutions. He would get a little clean time, relapse and overdose.  Often, when he relapsed he would disappear, lie, or try to hide it, but we always knew.  He would abuse any medication, which unfortunately were so easily prescribed. We did everything most parents do — enabled, tried tough love, begged and pleaded, yelled and cried, got angry, threw him out, let him back in, lost hope, and prayed.  What else was really there to do but pray?  Such was my deep, ferocious, and complicated love for my son.  

 

Our relationship would never be normal.  I would always ask him, “why don’t you love yourself enough to save your own life?” He simply didn’t know why he couldn’t stop.  Where was his self compassion?  Self- love? We didn’t understand that his brain had been hijacked by this horrific drug.  Every time he swore he was done, he meant it.  We all prayed for divine intervention.

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Most days I awoke thinking “is this going to be the day?”  You know what I mean.  My mantra for years was, when there is breath, there is hope.  I thought my love could save his life. I know I am not alone. He didn’t want to die.  He just didn’t know how to live.  He never gave recovery enough time to allow the brain to heal, for new pathways to form. He never gave it enough time to feel the euphoria of recovery, the freedom of bondage from addiction. The drugs weren’t his problem, they were his answer.   He never came to understand, the best answer is spiritual. 

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The last time I saw Jason was Easter of 2018. When I left that day, I decided I needed some space because the watching pain was really taking an emotional toll. I was losing my sense of joy. His addiction was to heroin, as mine was to saving my son.  I too didn’t know how to live, when I was watching my son vanish before my very eyes.  The drugs took him long before he stopped breathing.  He was just a shell of the man he once was or could have been.  I felt him slipping away and I was trying to hold on for dear life; his as well as my own.

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On my way home from vacation on July 1st of 2019, I got the call. This was the day.  I thought after 16 years I would be more prepared.  All I heard was my ex-husband saying, “We lost him.”  My beautiful boy was dead at the age of 34.  Heroin and fentanyl toxicity is taking a generation, and it took my son Jason.

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To say I’m shattered is an understatement. To speak of unbearable pain doesn’t come close.  I was broken open. My son’s suffering is over.  

My beautifully boy is finally at peace.  Instead of asking why I try to ask how. How do I find meaning in his life, in his death, and in my life moving forward? How do I honor my son Jason, with love and grace?

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To start, I’ve honored my son by starting a random act of kindness campaign. I think it’s also important to help educate, reduce the stigma of mental illness and addiction, and support those struggling by showing compassion, not judgment. My son has not died in vain. His life mattered. My depth of loss is unimaginable, and I will continue to do my best to be a power of example and make a difference living in this overwhelming opioid epidemic.  I hope my story inspires others to seek help and to break the stigma of addiction. 

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I wrote the poem below to help me walk the path of peace, and to hold on to a belief and hope that more will be revealed.   I hope it resonates with you and brings you much needed solace.

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Jason’s Mom

Forever 34