“His name is Giancarlo. He was 19 years old at the time. He died of a heroin overdose in his residence last Sunday.
My name is his mother. I’m not going to sugarcoat what occurred. I want people to be aware of the dreadful reality of drug addiction. The unflattering truth about heroin The unpalatable reality is that it may happen to anyone. Heroin is unconcerned about your age. Whether you are wealthy or impoverished. It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white. Heroin is unconcerned. He’s my little boy.
This ugliness can be hidden under a lovely, pleasant face. Giancarlo showed no signs of being addicted to heroin. He didn’t nod off, he didn’t vanish for days, he was never harsh to me or raised his voice at me, he didn’t steal from us… He did appear to be lonely, but don’t many teenagers retreat to their rooms at some point?
Children are dying, and because of the societal shame, many are unwilling, to be honest even in obituaries. How can I look for black roofing tar and heroin for sale on Craigslist right now? And what about transparent sealant? That means methamphetamine. What makes me think I know something the cops don’t? Why isn’t this on the news every week?
My son had been sober for ten months and was working for Marin County. He had his own place to live. He and his girlfriend were overjoyed at the prospect of signing this lease.
On July 24, 2017, we discovered he was abusing. We sent him to a $45,000 recovery facility for 45 days.
We then placed him in intense outpatient rehab for another three months, followed by a year in a sober living residence in Mill Valley.
He relapsed and died in his bed alone. He had the sweetest disposition.
Clyde, his 6-year-old brother, was his only sibling. On Christmas Eve, he offered to wake them up so they could seek for Santa together.
He was one of my closest friends. The last thing he said to me was, “I’m fine, mom,” then he added, “I love you too.”
It was 10:20 p.m. on Saturday night.
He was always there to take my calls. He didn’t, though, on Sunday morning. And I had a feeling.
The only way I can describe this agony is that every cell in my body that generated my baby is on fire with the want to hold him once more. It’s a bodily pain that only a mother understands. It’s a part of my bone marrow. Only a great need to touch and hold him.
My husband drove Giancarlo’s brother, Clyde, to tell him what had transpired. ‘I know you see a lot of families come over, and you probably don’t know why,’ he said, Clyde.
‘No, I don’t,’ Clyde replied.
‘Giancarlo had an invisible ailment that made him sad, and he took medicine that the doctor refused to give him, and it got him very sick, and he died and went to heaven,’ he explained.
My kid let out a gut-wrenching scream that didn’t seem like it could have come from a 6-year-old, according to my husband, who wasn’t there.
He then brought him home through the back door, where he sat in bed with me and fell asleep after covering his face with a blanket.
On January 7th, Giancarlo was laid to rest. It is said that raising a child takes a village. It also takes a village to bury a child, I’m discovering.
I’m not sure what the solution is, but we need to start talking about it now.
Please utilize the narrative of my son. Please assist me in informing parents that this is a possibility. Even in Napa Valley. Please assist me in assisting other families. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please It’s all I can think of right now.”
The story and photos: Courtesy of Amanda Poole Krueger