Miles McEntee – A Mother’s Memories
Heroin took away my precious son on June 2, 2015- just 18 days before his 25th birthday. I think of him every minute of every day. I cried every day for a year. It (crying) has become just a normal part of my day. I exist in a monochrome world where there is no joy.
Miles was everything a mother could ask for in a son: He was sensitive and caring; he loved music and animals; animals loved him. He loved fishing, particularly ice fishing with his dad and step-mom. He was close to his cousins and was roommates with his younger sister, Taylor, at the time of his death. His passion was skateboarding- something he started while in Deerpark Middle School. He was very good at it.
His first encounter with opiates stemmed from breaking the scaphoid bone in his wrist while in high school- a prescription. He celebrated his 21st birthday in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery. Even after three surgeries, he still had pain and very limited range of motion. Despite starting a Go Fund Me to pay for the expenses of going to physical therapy and future medical care, it never succeeded. We couldn’t afford the care my son needed, or to continue the prescription narcotics given to him as a substitute for real care.
The pain drove him to find other sources. Soon, he developed an addiction to them. Although it started with prescription pills from the pharmacy, he would soon not be able to afford their street cost; typically a markup of 1000% or more. Soon it devolved into a reliance on cheap, black tar heroin. Soon, it wasn’t about the pain anymore.
My son’s quality of life would deteriorate rapidly. He couldn’t hold down a job. He totaled his car, then mine. As a result of his lack of stability, he didn’t have the finances to afford to live. He would move into the dining room of my one bedroom apartment.
At least I knew he was safe as long as he was under my roof.
I cannot tell you how many countless, sleepless nights were spent between Taylor and I worrying about him riding his bike and/or skateboard home from work in the middle of the night; worried what his habit could get him into.
I refused to close my eyes until I heard his key turning in the door: the peace of mind I needed to know he was safe.
Looking back, the year or so he lived in my dining room were precious. We were already close, but had the opportunity to bond as adults over a shared sense of humor. We laughed a lot in those days. He was my best friend.
As best he could, he made sure his mama was okay. He made sure I had food every day. Many nights, after his shift at the pizza parlor, he brought home pizza on the bus route back to me. We would talk, eat and laugh the nights away. We watched storms together. He wanted to be a meteorologist, a goal made impossible from the lack of affordability and high cost of entry; something he’ll never get to pursue now; yet another person he will never get to be.
Like it’s talked about on this site, addiction rapidly overtook him. The fact that he didn’t want to be an addict didn’t matter. He often told me he wanted to stop using. He hated the influences that came with it. His friends were dying. Some of those friends are listed here.
We did not have the money to get him into rehab. This I will regret for the rest of my life.
Still, my son tried his best to overcome it. Towards the end, it seemed to me that Miles was getting better. He and his younger sister, Taylor, were sharing an apartment. Things were so good, she was not even aware he was using heroin.
Then, on June 2, 2015 my daughter Taylor woke up and found him in his room, lying in an awkward position, as if he was reaching for something under the bed. He was dead. Emergency services required her to do dome difficult things to Miles, post-mortem.
If there had been Naloxone in the house, Taylor could have possibly revived him.
In the years since Miles passed, I try to make sense out of what happened to my family.
No parent should outlive their child. It feels like phantom limb syndrome… except it’s a piece of my heart that is gone.
There are startling numbers of families across America with the same story. This epidemic of addiction came to my family so quickly and took everything from me. Nothing in my world will ever be the same. I’m posting this in hopes that it saves other kids, informs other parents. I want him to be remembered for who he was, not how he died.
-Kelly McEntee
