If Moms had Blogs

When I was 13 years old, my father died. I came home from school, the day Christmas break started and could tell by the looks on everyone's faces that he was gone. Because of that experience, I have an irrational fear that each time I see someone I love, it will be the last.

My husband and daughter know that if they don't say good-bye, look me in the eyes, and let me tell them how much I love them whenver they are going out the door, I will worry and panic. It's been 30 years, and still I live this way everyday.

The possibility of death is so much closer to me now that my daughter is doing drugs. It could be as simple as a car accident while driving high, or heart damage from cocaine; one unfortunate night with ecstasy. I worry about her constantly, and at the same time prepare myself that if it happens, I have done everything I can to help her.

Today we had our first Intensive Outpatient Program session. It is for four weeks, three times a week and three hours at a time. I learned today that up until three weeks ago my daughter was doing coke every day, so I was right to be concerned and want to get her into treatment. She still doesn't get it. She thinks it's no big deal and everyone does it. She looks thin and scraggly and unhealthy. The counselor said she's in denial, thinking she can handle it and believing she's smart enough to stay safe while doing drugs.

I have a glimmer of hope that this might help. The counselor was very straightforward and didn't let her talk her way out of anything, like she can do so often with others. He made her face some facts, and she has agreed to continue mostly because I pay for a cell phone and car insurance that will stop if she stops. But I did see a little fear in her eyes and know that somewhere in there she might be ready for a change.