So, let's get this over with.
Jason was 17 when he left home. From that point on in his life, I don't know the whole story. I don't know the people who influenced him. I don't know what he did with the things he was taught as a child - the truths we instilled in him. He found them lacking some how, and not sufficient to deal with the pain that was in his heart.
He lived at people's houses, sometimes on the street. "Couch surfing" is what he called it. Sometimes he had a job, sometimes he "spanged" for money on street corners. He traveled a lot - Wyoming, California and lots of places in between. Sometimes he'd call and tell me about his experiences. Sometimes he lived with my mom, who had an apartment over our garage. A lot of the time Sarah was with him.
At some point - maybe from the first day he was gone, maybe before he left home - he started using drugs. I don't know about his introduction to that experience. I do know that he took an acid trip one time that changed what he thought about God. He would cry when he told me the story. He said he never knew such love and light and beauty. It changed him.
I don't know when he started using heroin, but I know when he decided he didn't want to anymore. He came to stay with me - we were living in a different state than he was at the time, and I got him, brought him home, gave him lots of blankets and orange juice and buckets to puke in. It wasn't fun, but I was so relieved. At least that was over, I thought.
The second time he came to detox at my house, I was no longer married to his father and living in a different house, but the experience was the same. I didn't have the hope at the end of it anymore, though. He stayed with us for a little while, got a job, made lots of friends, but he was antsy. He wanted to go back to where he lived before, where he considered home, back to Columbia, Missouri.
So one day, my oldest son and my middle son and a bunch of their friends got in a car and drove back there. But before they did, they all posed for a picture on the street in front of my house. All those boys and my daughter and their friends. All with big smiles on their faces - happy with each other and with the excitement of a road trip. I love that picture.
Shortly after he went back, Jason found a friend named Matt. Matt worked at the same restaurant that Jason did. Something about Matt gave Jason the ability to face his addiction and try to walk away. I know they talked a lot, spent a lot of time together, camping, walking in the woods. I heard a difference in Jason's voice. He started writing stories and making up songs on his guitar. About October of that year, Jason stopped using heroin.
He came to our house for Christmas that year. I had all 3 of my kids there, and despite the mix-up in airplane tickets and the very short time we were all together, I think of it as a gift to me. I have pictures of them together, and that is invaluable.
We talked on the phone every couple of weeks - there was an author he thought I'd like and he gave me one of his books for Christmas, but he wanted me to have a different one. He had it all wrapped in brown paper, with some type-written letters in it, my name and address on the front, all ready for postage.
On the morning of March 18th, 2010, I got a call from Sarah's mother. Jason had died in the bathroom of a Jimmy John's restaurant that morning. He died from an overdose of methadone.
My sister was in the town where we lived and she rode with my husband and I to Columbia. Andrew and Emily met us there. My mom got there, too - I don't remember how. We arranged a memorial service and had Jason cremated.
The memorial service was in a small room. They underestimated the number of people who would be attending. Almost none of the people from the local church - or any of the churches we attended - came, but the seats were filled and the walls were lined with kids that needed baths and some clean clothes. They just loved my son. They all hugged me and told me how wonderful he was, what he meant to them. How gentle and beautiful and loving he was. That is exactly how I felt about him.
