A story about drug abuse and overdoses in the heartland appeared in The New York Times on a day when I was visiting my parents in Illinois. Our family–and our family’s farm–has been affected for decades by my brother’s addiction to alcohol and drugs, so the story resonated with me: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/12/us/opioid-epidemic-rural-farm.html?emc=edit_th_20170313&nl=todaysheadlines&nlid=44005038&_r=0
In the small farming community where I grew up, drugs were everywhere. And my brother, Joe, found them, at age 13.
I still remember the first time I saw my brother high. My parents were out of town and my grandmother was staying with us. We drove to town on a Friday night to pick up Joe from a movie with friends. Instead, Joe had spent the evening with other friends a few blocks away and was standing on the corner waiting for us when we pulled up. He was weaving back and forth, bending over, shaking his head of long 70s hair back and forth, I assume in an attempt to shake off the fuzzy feeling in his head. It was the beginning of a very long relationship between my brother and the drugs of choice that would continue to tempt him over the years.
Like most farmers’ sons, Joe was the assumed heir to the farming life. Dad, who’s a fourth-generation farmer, always figured that Joe would follow in his footsteps and I would work alongside my brother–likely from afar. But one mistake followed another–arrests for drugs and theft, foggy judgments that resulted in fights and plenty of embarrassment in our small town, increasingly clouded thinking and a habit of lying–until my dad, like Roger Winemiller, the Midwestern farmer featured in the NYT piece, lost trust in my brother to do the right thing. When something as precious as your life’s work is at stake, you can’t risk entrusting it to an addict. Even if he’s your son.