One by One

by Nicholas Bush

  One by One

  Nicholas Bush

  One by One

  A MEMOIR OF LOVE AND

  LOSS IN THE SHADOWS

  OF OPIOID AMERICA

  One by One: A Memoir of Love and Loss in the Shadows of Opioid America

  Copyright © 2018 by Nicholas Bush.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be sent by email to Apollo Publishers at info@apollopublishers.com.

  Apollo Publishers books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. Special editions may be made available upon request. For details, contact Apollo Publishers at info@apollopublishers.com.

  Visit our website at www.apollopublishers.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Rain Saukas.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-948062-16-9

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-948062-17-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  The content in this book is based off the author’s memories and personal opinions. Actual events, conversations, locales, persons, entities, and other details may vary. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. While best efforts have been used in preparing this book, the author and publisher make no representations or warranties of any kind and assume no liabilities of any kind with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents or the opinions expressed. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be held liable or responsible to any person or entity with respect to any loss or incidental or consequential damages caused, or alleged to have been caused, directly or indirectly, by the content contained herein.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents, Nan and Terry. Having kids

  of my own makes me realize what they’ve gone through, and my heart goes out to them and the parents of all addicts. It’s with the hope that this book will prevent others from going through the same thing they have, watching their kids die, that I dedicate the following pages to my parents.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Resources

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  My mind is etched with memories, both good and bad. They’re with me day in and day out. Some are so warming that I cannot help but let them bring a smile to my face—and some are more like daggers or a searing fire inside me. Sometimes they weigh so heavily on me that I cannot breathe and I have to find a place to store them.

  What I’ve attempted to do in the following pages is to piece together episodes from my past. While I’ve been honest about the appeal my choices held for me at the time, I’ve tried not to engage in hollow boasting about past episodes, which would be dishonoring and distasteful. I could have glorified the partying lifestyle I led, as countless movies, novels, and songs have done, but I would be committing an injustice to the truth if I neglected to mention the criminal lifestyle that the nonstop party path led me to. I ended up in military school against my will, was the subject of three felony investigations, was in and out of jail five times and on probation twice, and was brought in for questioning, often in handcuffs, more times than I can remember.

  And then there was the pain my addiction caused me and those around me. At various times I was homeless, held at gunpoint, robbed, had my apartment ransacked (more than once), and was in rehab (twice). Two of my family members and three of my friends died from heroin overdoses, and two of my friends were shot to death. But these aspects of my story, while worth mentioning here and elaborating on later in greater detail, are not what I want readers to take away from this book. The essence of what I hope you carry with you after reading my story is the knowledge that there is help and hope for addiction. This is not an instructional book on how to get better; I’m certainly not a therapist or a doctor. But if you are a reader who is struggling with addiction or you are a family member or friend of one, I cannot in good faith tell my story without first telling you that you or your loved one can get better. I was once broken, hopeless, and lost. I’ve had two near-fatal overdoses, and suffered from disease and paralysis; it’s a miracle I’m still alive. Please know that even if rock bottom has been hit, there is still a path of escape, a path of recovery.

  I also want to show the judicial system that addiction is a scientifically proven behavioral disease that cannot be punished out of a person. A more progressive approach is needed in order to monitor addicts who refuse treatment and to motivate and support those who struggle to get it.

  I will now tell you my story: an entry into a world that is frequently spoken about, but of which there are very few insider accounts. It’s estimated that more than thirty-six million people around the world abuse opioids. More than forty thousand people in the United States alone die annually from opioid abuse. The average life span in the United States is actually decreasing because of opioid abuse. If we don’t take action, this public health crisis will continue to worsen. Even if it’s not personally affecting you, you still need to know that it’s spreading like wildfire all across America. The statistics show that it’s likely either in your house or one nearby, that of a neighbor, family member, colleague, or friend. You may know it’s happening or you may not. Appearances can be deceiving.

  May you find in these pages not only a wild but true story of adventure and redemption, of victory and freedom, of death and life, but also provocative insight and answers to your own life questions. As you embark on this journey with me remember one thing: those people locked in the vise grip of addiction are still just that: people. Please be good to one another.

  Prologue

  I am hiding from detectives in my parents’ basement. It’s not the first time. Sometimes my mom finds me and kicks me out, other times she just says something like, “You better not let Dad find you here.” Sometimes she immediately calls my dad, but I leave before he picks up the phone. His wrath is even worse than hers.

  As usual, I arrived early in the morning with a backpack to fill with as much food as I could without arousing too much suspicion, and then snuck into their basement to lounge around for the day. Besides obtaining weed and doing heroin, and of course selling too, I don’t have much of a schedule to speak of. You’ve got to make a buck when you can. Downstairs I sneak tokes of weed out of a small one-hitter and blow the smoke through a makeshift “sploof”—a device to exhale into. Mine is packed full with dryer sheets to mask the smell of smoke. It’s best to enjoy weed while playing video games or watching TV, preferably porn. Man, it’s sad to think about how much of a loser I’ve become.

  While smoking, I begin to consider making plans for the day. I will reach out to various dealers to see if they have any real dope, the good kind. I’m dead broke and can’t afford food let alone rent, but I still can’t help but conjure up ways to score some smack. My plan is to find a source and then send out a mass text to other addicts and ask them if they want some of the
really good stuff. When they say yes, I will tell them I have to charge a finder’s fee and an additional fee for doing the pickup. Then I’ll go get the stuff. I’ll steal a bit before handing it to its new owner and making some cash. This will be one of my days with a schedule.

  Before going into the basement, I ran face-to-face into Judy, our cleaning lady of many years. I’d forgotten she would be there that day, even though she’s always there on Wednesdays, going on about twenty years now. Without me even having to ask, Judy assured me that she wouldn’t tell my parents she’d seen me. Loyal Judy. I muttered an “uh, okay thanks,” ever so eloquently. I’m not the best at showing appreciation. She then gave me a head’s up that she would be cleaning the basement around noon, so after I finished filling my backpack with food, I also made myself a plate of leftovers from the fridge—macaroni and cheese and green beans—and warmed it in the microwave. I already had a ravenous appetite worked up from smoking all morning and I knew I’d be starving after taking a few tokes in the basement.

  In the basement, I’m about to get to work on the macaroni (see, a packed day) when Judy opens the door at the top of the steps and calls down into the dark basement that there is someone at the door for me. This isn’t good. No one besides Judy should know I’m here. For at least a few hours, this should have been a safe space. I set down my plate of food, only two bites in, and try to gather my thoughts and calm myself. I don’t want my mind to race, but as I start up the steps I realize that this could be it. I try to consider my options, but this time I don’t have any. There is no way out. Judy goes back to her job before I can even ask who’s at the door. The way the house is laid out, I can’t peer over to see who’s at the door without being noticed by the visitor. There’s also no escape; every exit is blocked. What a shitty house design in the event of an intruder. To get out a back door to the deck or garage, I’d have to scamper by the front door. I’d be seen this way too. I have to face the situation head on.

  In all honesty, as I walk toward my unknown fate, the fear is moderated by a bit of relief. I am so tired of running; it has been months of playing cat and mouse. Could it be that the man has finally caught up to me? I am ready for it to end, but too scared to face what comes next. As I reach the top of the steps, I take a deep breath and turn the corner to find two men waiting outside the open door. Both stand tall and have mustaches. Everything about them says don’t mess with me. One guy I don’t know, but the other is the city’s lead detective. I recognize him immediately and remember him well. He cornered me at my probation officer’s office about six months before. I know he’s about to take me in. As I slowly walk to the door, his partner pushes his jacket back and puts his hand on his weapon.

  I want these guys to know that I’m not trying to run from them. I also want them to think I’m not afraid of them in any way, which is totally untrue. I swagger up and give them a blank stare. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s playing nonchalant.

  “Nicholas Bush?”

  “Yeah, you found me alright.” I turn toward the lead detective. “I remember you.”

  My tolerance for weed is such that I don’t really get super stoned anymore, at least not for more than forty-five minutes or so. Usually I just feel, well, kind of tired and numb. But now I’m wide awake and tracking every detail of the conversation.

  “Come to the station with us so we can have a chat. We aren’t going away, bud.”

  “Can’t we talk here?” I ask, knowing that if they could take me in, they would.

  “We want everything recorded, you know how it is, so why don’t you tell me a time that works for you and we can discuss your options at your convenience.” They’re playing good cop-good cop at this point. I’m relieved, but confused.

  “I’m not going to make an appointment that I have no intention of keeping, officer, so we can talk right here or not at all.”

  The lead detective looks over his shoulder at his partner and gives him a slight nod. His partner pulls a flip phone out of his pocket and hits a button; I assume it’s to record.

  “Since we last spoke, at your probation officer’s office, we’ve been forced to gather as much evidence as we could. And you know what? We’ve got everything we need.”

  Time stops as he speaks and I feel the tables turn on me. I hear my own voice in my head let out an Oh, fuck . . . as my thoughts begin to race, my legs and arms start to tingle, and my knees grow weak, getting worse by the second. I suddenly start to feel dizzy, so I put a hand on the wall for support. It hits me that this isn’t a game anymore. These guys aren’t hounding me because they hope I’ll confess. They’ll nail me even if I don’t. Six months earlier, I’d rolled my eyes at the detective and told him, “Maybe a jury would believe your accusations, but I sure won’t agree with them.” Now it seems that my words have come back to bite me. They only had circumstantial evidence at the time, but maybe they have more now. I can already picture the grand jury.

  One of the cops has a folder in his hand. He looks down at it, and then, as if to confirm the point, he says, “We’ve got everything we need.” Before I know it, I’m inviting them into my parents’ house. I cock my head toward the inside of the house.

  “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  We walk into the kitchen, where they decline to take a seat at the table. Instead the sergeant slaps the folder onto the counter and opens it, sliding photos and copies of witness testimonies toward me. They really do have everything they need. He has photos of me, photos of stolen property, photos of me buying and selling drugs, photos of me shaking hands and inviting in friends of mine who became informants without me knowing it. The list goes on and on and is accompanied by witness testimony and signed statements that accuse me of felony after felony. All of it is directly related to my heroin addiction.

  “So why even talk to me? You know that I have been dodging you and I know that you won’t quit. Either you have what you need or you don’t, so what are you going to do with all this?”

  “You’ve got us all wrong, bud. We’ve waited this long, what’s another week?” asks the partner.

  “What do you mean a week?”

  “All this petty stuff would have been enough to put you away for probation violation, but we decided to let you continue until we hit the jackpot: felonies.”

  They are right; I had gotten into increasingly serious drug-related crimes. They’d been surveilling me, using informants, and following me around—tracking my every move for more than six months. I am in so far over my head that I may as well have been drowning.

  “See, guys like you aren’t going to give up the petty crap with a slap on the wrist. We want a conviction to put you away long enough to make you stop.” They say that all they really want is for me to stop, and that another conviction under my belt won’t do the trick. They say they want me to give it all up, to change my ways once and for all. I don’t believe them at all, not at first anyway.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, it’s up to you. Come with us and cooperate and we’ll cut your time in half. If you try to run, you know we’ll find you. And then we will charge you with everything . . .”

  Apparently, it’s up to me: I can choose between six years in prison, possibly out in three with good behavior, or three years in prison with the possibility of being out in one and a half. If I was dizzy at the door, I am now suffocating in sheer terror. They both look at me intently, waiting for my answer.

  “Goddamnit, I just don’t know, alright?”

  “That’s why we’re giving you one week, so you know you can trust us. We’ve been real nice up to now, bud, and we both know you need this. You need to quit this one way or another, and going to prison could be the turning point. It’s all up to you.”

  I look the lead detective dead in the eyes. Maybe he is being generous. Glancing at the floor, I mutter, “One week?”

  “To the minute,
right here.”

  “Okay,” I say biting my lip. “Alright.” I offer to walk them to the door, but they leave abruptly and just like that I’m back in the kitchen alone, trying to process what just happened.

  “Everything okay?” asks Judy as she passes by with an armful of bedsheets.

  Startled, I snap back to reality and nervously dart a glance at her, hoping she didn’t hear anything. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. It’s all gonna be just fine.”

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Sitting in my aunt’s living room in a house atop a beautiful bluff overlooking the water, I begin to shiver while waiting for someone to bring me a towel. No one brings one. I’m fourteen and begging God, in whom I suddenly believe, to let my back be okay. I rock back and forth, trying to comfort myself, and then let out a deep guttural moan, like a woman in labor.

  Aunt Tracey calls to me, “Your mother wants you to walk home, so it’s time for you to go.” Her son, my cousin Jay, six years older than me, looks at me and I realize I’m no longer welcome. His piercing eyes say, Get lost. There isn’t much to do in the remote place where we summer and Jay is the only person ever available to me, but he’s clearly reached his limit with me. He warns me that I better stop coming over and says he doesn’t want me playing his drum set anymore. It’s hot and sticky outside, a typical Wisconsin summer day, and no one is in a good mood. In fact, just a little while earlier, Jay and his friends had decided to do whatever it took to get rid of me.

  A few years earlier, while staying at my parents’ beach house, I had learned how to wakeboard with Jay and his buddies, and earlier today I’d wandered over to see what they were up to and spend some time on the water with them. Except for the outdoors, Jay’s house seemed the only place to go to in the remote area my parents dragged us out to each summer, Shore Acres, near Dyckesville, Wisconsin, less than an hour outside our hometown of Green Bay.