Guest Author - Susan Hubenthal
Aram was delivered by forceps. It was a snowy Saturday night in March
of 1969 and the doctor, who was attending a St. Patrick’s Day party, came to
the hospital reluctantly for the delivery of my first child. I remember it
vividly. My husband dropped me off, the custom in those days, and I was
ushered into a labor room. I lay there next to a woman who was having her
eighth child. I was 21 years old, alone, and in heavy labor when someone
eventually noticed me and called for help. It seemed that I was having Aram
there on the bed all by myself. Finally, I was whisked off to the delivery
room, turned over, and given a spinal. My doctor arrived, wearing his
tuxedo, cut me, and pulled Aram out by forceps. The spinal block only took
effect after Aram was born. And this was reputedly the best OB/GYN
hospital in my hometown. I have often wondered since, if the trauma of this
delivery affected Aram’s life.
Aram was a very active baby. He raised his head like a 2-month-old
soon after delivery. I will never forget the nurses gathering around and
marveling at this little guy who, at 6 pounds 5 ounces, was doing things that
he clearly wasn’t supposed to be doing yet. He was a colicky baby and I
didn’t sleep for the first three months after he was born. He only catnapped.
I was so sleep deprived that my hair began to fall out.
Motherhood was very important to me and I did the best job I could. My
children were always clean and well fed and given all the material things
that I had not had. That is why this is so damn hard! How could I bury my
only son? I think of him all the time. Sometimes I wander through the
airport, where I work, with my glasses off and my vision blurred hoping to
catch a glimpse of someone young and dark and tall. Someone I can pretend
is him. I know this is foolish. I tell myself that I won’t be doing it forever,
that it is just part of the grieving process. This is just so painful!
Aram started on a downward spiral in 1997. I had not realized until that
time how much his drug addiction was growing. I had thought he was taking
prescription pain pills for a herniated disc. I knew that he had tried cocaine.
He told me himself. Aram worked as a waiter when he was in college. He
was so popular with the customers that they used to call the restaurant
before they came in just to make sure that he was working so they could be
seated in his section. I saw this for myself whenever I ate there. Everyone
who met him liked him. He had a magnetic, dynamic personality and people
gravitated toward him wherever he went.
Most of the money he earned went up his nose in the form of cocaine. I
did not think he had used heroin until he came home after a trip in 1996. In
1997, he became reacquainted with a man I couldn’t stand. Aram always
had wonderful friends. The house was always full of his friends, most of
them wonderful kids. This was the only person that was not nice to us. I told
this to Aram. I was right. This was the person that introduced Aram to
heroin. He may have introduced him, but it was Aram’s decision to continue
the relationship with the drug. I was not convinced of Aram’s drug use until
one day I found a ballpoint pen that he had used to snort heroin. I then
informed him that he could only remain in our home if he was tested for
drugs and the results were negative. He declined to subject himself to this
test. His sense of responsibility diminished as his illness rapidly progressed.
He got worse.
By Pat Karakashian
