The dreaded phone call came at 3:00 P.M. on January 3, 1999. I was
supposed to be going to work but something just kept me from getting
dressed. It was cold and snowy. Aram’s friend was on the phone. He simply
said, “Aram’s dead.” I screamed, “No, he’s not! Just give him CPR.” He
said that Aram had been dead for, at least, a few hours. I started screaming.
It was surreal. I don’t know how I made it through the first month. Do any
of us?
Aram had used black tar heroin. He had only used it a few times. It was
so pure that the rush of the drug caused his heart to fail. When he was found,
his drug paraphernalia was in his pants pocket. His friend’s father sent me
Aram’s wallet. It was untouched and wrapped in plastic. It had a few
pictures, a little money and heroin. I held the heroin in my hand and stared
at it. It was no bigger than my thumbnail.
Drugs are everywhere. No place is immune, really. Not, at least, in the
western world. It is killing as many people in one year than there were
casualties in Vietnam.
One night, shortly after Aram died, I dreamed I was under water. I could
not breathe. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was struggling to swim upwards to
get air. I remember gasping for air as if I were drowning. I have never had
that dream before, in my life, except that one time.
Aram was always interested in music. He loved music. He was the
editor of a music magazine and also managed a rock band. His cousin told
him that if he got his college degree he would have a job waiting for him
with a major record company. Why couldn’t he do it? You can’t lead a
normal life and do drugs. You just can’t. Aram had a beautiful voice. We
would harmonize when he was little and we were driving around. He could
sing on perfect pitch.
I have to believe there is a reason for Aram’s death. I have to believe
that someday I will be with him again. I have to believe there is a lesson in
this for me. I just have to believe. We go through life because we don’t have
much choice. I read the obituaries and look to see if a child has preceded his
parents in death. It never leaves me. About two months after Aram died, I
was contemplating whether I should run out into the path of a 747 at Logan
Airport. It is a long road through grief. The only ally we have is time—
along with our mental health, our gene pool and the very essence of our
being. Can I find joy again? Yes. I laugh at my grandchildren. I laughed at
work one day and startled myself. Here I was, me Pat, Aram’s mother—-
laughing!