One of Those Days

Jake was a young chap, around 28 years old. Jake and his boyfriend had an argument this morning over the housework. He accused his boyfriend of being lazy and leaving the washing up for him to do. A silly little row really. But Jake was quite upset, and after he finished work he called a number he hadn’t called for a while. He got a hold of some heroin, something he hadn’t touched for 2 years. He didn’t feel like he needed it, he just felt like taking it just one more time. He thought he was in control. He only had a small amount, but he quickly fell unconscious and started fitting. His drug dealing friend then called an ambulance, they gave him a shot of the magic stuff, and brought him to hospital. Jake was lucky, sometimes ambulances don't get called for fear of being caught. In some people the drug has became the most important thing in their lives, much more important than any of their friends. He appeared to have made a full recovery and was a pleasure to talk to. He told me all about how his mum had died two years ago, the last time he took heroin, which was also the first time he’d overdosed. After that little scare, and the will power to make his late mother proud, he quit. Now he was hosting a morning radio show, living with his boyfriend, trying to make something of himself. He told me all about his dark past, and how he knew that he’d made a huge mistake by taking heroin today. He kept apologising to me, like I was judging him. He was coming up with reasons and telling me how much he was trying to become something more than what he used to be.

I told Jake a story.

A good friend of mine used to be on heroin. I’ll call him Neil. Neil is 35 and has a 10 year old son, a respectable job and a lovely house. He is a great father, and was a really great colleague of mine. Neil hadn’t taken heroin for 15 years, which I feel is something to be proud of. I used to work with him in a shop, and as he was one of the older employees he became a role model for some of the younger ones. Neil, like Jake, was in a bad place in his 20s, but somehow he managed to get past that and now he had a great life. We used to have such a laugh on nights out. Three weeks ago, Neil made the mistake of using heroin for the first time in all those years. I’d imagine he had the same attitude that Jake did - I don’t need it, I’ll just take it this one time. Neil had accidentally overdosed, and was found dead by his son the next morning. I went to his funeral with all the old gang, while it was nice to see them all, it was in truly miserable circumstances. His son was sitting in the front row, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was sitting with his grandfather, shedding small tears. He doesn’t have a mother to speak of. I felt very proud of him, but at the same time I couldn’t stop thinking about how unnecessary it all was. So much hurt had been caused by this one, seemingly small mistake.

I didn’t need to tell Jake how lucky he was. I didn’t need to tell him how important it would be for himself and everyone around him that he doesn’t ever pick up a needle again. I didn’t need to tell Jake how much Neil’s death had affected me, or how much his own story had touched me.

Jake fell silent.

He started to apologise to me, and promised me he would never do it again. He said he knew how many times I must have heard it before, but he insisted that he meant it. For once, it actually felt like what I’d said had sunk in. I told him he’d better not let me down, I had faith in him. He said I’d never see him again, and in the nicest way possible, I hoped that would be the truth. He did however tell me the radio show he presents on. So this week I’ll be listening out for him doing his breakfast time hosting. I feel proud of him. It’s been one of those days that makes you think, ‘That’s why I’m doing this job’.