Watch “Henry’s Story”
WBIR Channel 10 in Knoxville, TN produced this documentary about my teenage son Henry’s struggle with drug addiction.
Henry Louis Granju, our beloved boy – died on May 31, 2010
This is our story. Just one family’s story. Every family’s story is different, but we are sharing our own openly in hopes that it might help others.
Please visit Henry’s Fund to learn how you can help teenagers struggling with addiction.
Click the video player below to watch “Henry’s Story.”
Please click here to learn how to get a dvd of Henry’s story.
Dear Katie,
When I saw the tv ads for Henry’s Story, I had to watch even though I knew it would be painful. I can’t thank you enough for sharing your family’s story which is also my family’s story except ours would be have been called Mark’s Story. We lost our beautiful red-headed boy at the age of 24 in Oct 2007. He, like Henry, had suffered from addiction since the age of 13. He, like Henry, had a loving family. If love and prayers could have cured them, they would both still be with us. Hearing you and your family describe Henry and their love for him reminded me of my close family and how Mark’s addiction and death affected us all–from the oldest grandmother to the youngest cousin. And even though I already knew it, hearing your story just validated that addiction can happen to any child, in any kind of family. No one is immune from it. I’m not sure what the answer is but education is a start. I like the idea of Henry’s Fund. I don’t know where you are getting your strength from these days but thank you for sharing your story. Henry seemed like such a sweet soul.
Take care of yourself and know that Henry is at peace,
Shanda
Unfortunately I am unable to watch it, as it does not carry any captions. If you do go down the dvd route, please could you consider captioning it. Deaf children and young people (as well as adults) are also addicts, and due to a lack of access to information / services access is important. Thanks.
Alison – Thank you SO MUCH for making me aware of this need in putting a DVD together. You are absolutely right; we need to make sure that we make the program accessible to everyone. I truly appreciate your feedback. – Katie
Shanda – I am so, so sorry for your loss. Please consider participating in the new Henry’s Fund Community, for parents of addicted children or those who have lost children to drugs. It’s found here -> http://www.facebook.com/topic.php?uid=165438720152931&topic=276
I remember seeing Henry’s obit. in the paper, as I was looking for someone else. When I saw how young he was, I read it and found about the drugs. However, it wasn’t until watching “Henry’s Story ” that I knew about the attack. Has there been any more investigating? Your story broke my heart and you are all in my prayers. As the Mother of 2 boys (ages 12 & 14 ), I’m always concerned about this problem. Thanks for sharing your story. God bless you all.
Patty – We are told that the investigation into the attack is closed, while the investigation into the circumstances of his overdose is ongoing. But that’s all we know, really, and it came from a newspaper article. It is my hope that we can convince the authorities to fully investigate and bring charges in the attack. I blogged specifically about this last week: http://mamapundit.com/2010/10/staring-us-in-the-face/
How powerful. Thank you.
Katie, thank you. I will post this on my blog and encourage everyone I know to talk to their children about drug abuse. Henry is doing a great service, even now. God bless.
katie, i wasn’t able to watch this last night even though i kept trying – my connection kept getting dropped. the first thing i did this morning upon arriving at the office was to close my office door and watch this. having just found out i am pregnant with our first (and probably only) child made it that much harder to watch. but i have followed you since may and had to had to had to watch this…thank you for doing this. i will be going to wbir’s facebook page and telling them thank you. hopefully this will make an enormous impact on your community and will spread like wildfire to other communities and anyone who has or knows a pre-teen, teen or adult who thinks that they’ll “be fine”…..
Thank you so much Katie for sharing Henry’s story. As someone who hopes to start a family very soon, this message from you as a parent is so very powerful. Thank you.
wow
I just sent the link to a lot of people, especially those that might get it to the powers that be at schools. Very powerful
Thank you for doing this and sharing this. I too, lost my son Kenneth to a fatal heroin overdose on January 8, 2010. We “Mothers of Angels” must speak up and try to stop this deadly scourge that is killing our children. The face of todays heroin addict is the face of the boy or girl next door. This was beautifully done. My deepest condolences to you and your family.
The disease of addiction does not discriminate! As a recovering addict I fully believe in the disease concept. One of my biggest fears is your story, my daughter is only 7, but addiction runs on both sides of the family. I’m already scared to death, even though I am working a 12 step program and she has never been exposed to drugs or alcohol, like I said, this disease does not discriminate!!! Thank you for sharing your story with the public, hopefully some eyes have been opened and the stigma associated w/drug addiction will lessen just a bit. If just one addict can be saved because of your story, you have won! Please let me know what I can do to help your cause….I am willing to do anything!!! I am humbled by your story…Thank You!!!
Thank you, Katie. Heartbreaking, but so brave of you and your family to try to use this as a way to help others. I have shared Henry’s story with friends and my own young adult children.
Job well done! You are a courageous mother and all of your family who participated. I have told many people about Henry’s story. I feel that others will benefit from your willingness to share. I pray that you will receive some peace.
I’ve followed your blog these past few months. I am so deeply sorry for your loss and send strength to you and all of Henry’s family.
The Quakers have an expression “Let your life speak.” Henry’s brief life is doing just that. Thank you for sharing it.
I don’t have access to “regular TV” so thank you so much for putting this here. Thank you WBIR.
My heart is broken again, but I’m even more determined to talk about addiction with my toddler son when he is older.
Thanks.
I watched Henry’s Story last night and it hit so close to home. My brother died of an overdose on May 27th of this year. Just days before your son. He was only 22. He had been struggling for a long time with drugs. It started with pot and then led to prescription pain pills. My family, like yours, tried so many things to help him. He didn’t want to be addicted to pills, but just couldn’t seem to get away from them. His death has caused so much pain to everyone that knew him, but I just hope it can also be used as an eye opener. He is much happier now, I know. He no longer has to struggle with his problems. I really applaud you for coming out and sharing your story and hope that many lives can be changed because of it. I hope people can realize that it truly can happen to anyone, and the addicts are not at all horrible people, just regular people with a problem. I would love to chat more with you about everything sometime.
Taryn
This breaks my heart. Henry’s story will always be in my heart and mind as I raise my two boys.
Thank you so much for continuing to show such courage in getting Henry’s story out there for the world to hear. It has had a great impact on me, an alcoholic currently trying to get sober, as well as on my younger brother, who has a history of recreational marijuana use. I wrote about its impact here: http://diaryofanalcoholic.wordpress.com/2010/10/29/the-impact-of-henrys-story/ Henry continues to change lives all because of your bravery and willingness to share his and your family’s struggles, thank you.
This is such a tribute to Henry. You are a wonderful family that will take this tragedy and try and make a positive change to the world. I have posted it to my facebook account, as I hope others will so the story will continue to be told and children everywhere will realize the dangers of drug addicition.
I lost my son Trevor to a heroin overdose 9/8/7. Here is an essay written about his death. I am so sorry for your loss. This video is so well done. Thanks.
THE DOORBELL
The doorbell rings again – with dread (my new companion) I pull myself up from the safety and solitude of my office chair. It’s September 16, 2007. My twenty-one year old son Trevor died on September 8th of an apparent heroin overdose. The past eight days my front door has seemed like a cave entrance for a myriad of callers to my, to our, disrupted home — hardly allowing any space for refuge. The visits are mostly welcomed. They provide a respite from the constant unfamiliarity of our days.
Of those who come, and frequently, is my dear friend Amalia, who brought over a real coffee pot, one that runs laps around my fancy French press. It can handle the demands of heavy consumption. We drink our coffee in silence in the screened in porch, freshly painted in deep eggplant and squash hues with overstuffed pillows to soften the heavy wooden furniture. Gauze drapes soften the room, dancing slightly with an occasional cool breeze. Coffee with such a friend helps staunch the bleeding of my soul.
Outside is the stone patio, completed only days before Trevor’s death-a poignant stage for his memorial, but damn it, not what I had in mind when I had the work done. Amalia hands me a smooth, warm stone — I think and feel it is perfect as I hold it in the palm of my hand and then securely bank it in the pocket of my jeans. She says, “I got this worry-stone from a friend of mine years ago — when I was going through some heavy personal shit, and now I want you to have it.” God, a gesture so plain gave me power for months to come — the ordinary becomes extraordinary with the thoughtfulness of a friend. Who would have thought that a rock would lighten my load? Whenever I feel an overwhelming tidal wave of emotion, or find myself entrapped, uncomfortable, or sensing flames of grief, or become consumed by memories of Trevor, I slip my hand into my pocket, retrieve the stone, rub my fingers over the rock’s warm surface until I find my way to the other side of the moment, like finding a way across an empty space.
۟******
My son Trevor died September 8th, 2007 of an apparent heroin overdose in his apartment in Chicago. The previous Sunday, Trevor had moved back to Chicago from his home in Decorah, Iowa — from me and his father Marty, and his sister Maddie, and his brother Colin, after having invested his summer here, withdrawing from the drug, in counseling, trying to regroup and regain his health and his identity. He rejoined his younger brother Jase at the apartment they shared in Chicago, and had begun classes at Columbia on that Thursday — two days before he died. Also left behind was his new and precious love, Melissa, who drove him to Chicago that Sunday and left Chicago on Monday, to pack her belongings and join him the day after he passed.
******
In this odyssey of grief, there are so many deliveries of flowers and plants, and inscribed plaques — delivered with a clang of my cacophonous doorbell and the unmistakable refusal to make eye contact; these deliveries are no doubt chosen with well-meaning intent, but they are like books on a shelf — I will read them someday — when I can. I am grateful for, but can barely dwell upon, the diverse, even complex, motivations behind such rituals of condolences –affection, love, well wishes, support; but also guilt, tokenism, dismissal, awkwardness, and an uneasiness of death. To the delivery person on the other side of the door, this isn’t routine, especially when the person behind the door is a mother — heartbroken, who lost her young son suddenly, tragically, and inexplicably. With each visit, I fight back the tears — I put forth my best face and try to be gracious, thinking each time: what a reluctant participant I am in this drama — this desperately unwelcome nightmare, this unimaginably surreal tragedy that happens to be my reality.
Early in my grief, the doorbell rings yet again and the woman behind the door is my lifelong friend with whom I now must share not only friendship, but also the solidarity of losing a child. Her penetrating eyes are filled with the muted colors of her own pain and memory, revisited and amplified by Trevor’s death. She doesn’t stay long but her simple words help me. “People will say a lot of stupid things. Forget about them! “ And her words have held true.
I remember the young parents of two small boys who very recently moved across the street — their kind eyes, the freshly baked bread in their hands, still warm me — like their gentle smiles. In that visit, nothing was said, nothing needed to be. We knew what each other was thinking: how unjust is the loss of a son.
Mary comes by. Years ago, in what seems like a previous life, when Trevor was just entering elementary school, I worked with Mary on the PTO, frequented her pet supply store to buy fish, a turtle, birds, and hamsters and all the paraphernalia necessary to keep young boys’ pets alive. Mary has with her a half-empty box of Kleenex, which she gives me, saying “I had to do something, I was in my car and heard the funeral notices and heard Trevor’s name. You were always one of my favorite people, and all I had was this, but – heck — I figured you could use it, so here you are. “
******
Last June, Trevor confessed to his father and I his heroin addiction. He was emaciated, having lost some 25 pounds since the beginning of the year, down from 145 pounds, I was in Chicago visiting Trevor and Jase at the time with Maddie and Colin. We left the Blue Man Group production, with its blissful party-like atmosphere and Trevor joined us back at the hotel. “Mom,” he said “we need to talk.” We sat in the well-lit hallway of the hotel, just outside the solitude of our room where Maddie and Colin slept. I can’t imagine the courage it took for Trevor to confess,“Mom, I have a heroin addiction.” I’m frozen, speechless. I find myself in that empty space that sometimes gets so big — I can’t see or feel anything. He claimed he hadn’t used since the end of May. Heroin is a drug of lies. You want to believe your own child. I believed him. He told me when he had collapsed earlier in March it was in fact a heroin overdose, not exhaustion and dehydration as he had told us.
A week later my other son phoned to say he believed Trevor was using again. I left the next day and drove to Chicago. In that week his father and I had several conversations about Trevor, did lots of research on possibilities, and had discussed with Trevor what to do next. There was a clinic in Chicago that we spoke to and Trevor actually met with the clinic’s owner, but was discouraged by what he had to say about the detoxification and follow up treatment program they offered. It was a 28-day residential treatment program. Trevor, with dread in his voice, made clear, “Mom, I don’t think I can do that – I don’t think I would survive.” He was convinced, and we concurred, that by coming home he could beat this drug addiction. We believed in him and believed that with counseling and observation we could do it together.
His first day home, he seemed to be under the influence again. He was not himself, shuffling his feet and nodding at dinner. He was out of character and looked tough.
I believe that was the last time he used during the course of the summer. In the next several weeks he regained his appetite, his gait was his own. He recaptured his smile and his wit.
He fell in love. His polite demeanor came back. He strolled the streets of Decorah, ukulele in hand, smile on his face, curly sideburns, charming everyone he met.
******
Again the doorbell rings. At my door is another mother whom I barely know, but her daughter was one of the reasons that Trevor had regained the gleam in his green and hazel eyes and the sly smile on his face this summer past. Trevor and Melissa spent almost every day together for those many long, healing days. They were good for each other, both gentle souls, both soft spoken. Melissa had taken Trevor to Chicago the Sunday before his death, and she was to move to Chicago the day after he died.
Melissa’s mother has a cutting edge to her facial expression. Her eyes are harsh. My mouth suddenly goes dry and my stomach wrenches. She has been at the house several times this week, and was present at his service, but we haven’t had any time alone. She hesitates, and then says “We need to talk.” It is a clear Sunday as I sit down on the front porch, the doorbell behind me this time. She doesn’t sit down, but rather paces, with her arms crossed. “How could you let Melissa date Trevor,” she demands,” when you knew he was a heroin addict?” I am stunned; I feel that because of her lack of compassion, I have every right to be pissed. But I remember she is a mother too — and that I need to carry myself with grace — the mantra I have been repeating in my mind this week.
Yes, we knew Trevor had a heroin addiction, and we also knew that for three months he was clean. We did everything we could to ensure his success….the rest was up to him. We are not going to second guess ourselves. It is too late for that. I make clear that we knew the odds were against him. “Did you know that it’s estimated that only 10% of heroin addicts get clean and stay clean? And that half of them die?” But she is clearly disconnected from anything I have to say. I ask myself, what else did she really know about Trevor? “Remember, conduct yourself with grace,” I repeat to myself. She is noticeably uncomfortable and I can’t blame her — who wouldn’t be, watching her daughter suffer such loss and heartache. After a few moments, she left heavily, and silently.
******
I’m realizing I am going to be ok, and so is my family.
A friend tried to assure me of this only one week after Trevor’s death, as we all gathered in my brother and sister in laws’ home. We were watching, and enjoying, as Trevor would, Monty Python’s “Holy Grail”. My friend told me later that in that moment she observed us and thought, “You know, they are going to be fine.”
Why are we going to be ok? Well, because we are strong and determined and beautiful. We will no doubt grieve for the rest of our lives. Each day, we put one foot in front of the other and march forward with our heads held high. We take it moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day, and on and on. That’s all we can do. There are good days and bad days, and it comes in crashing waves. Some days are so tough that getting out of bed seems impossible. Some days going to bed seems as labored. Some days such elation and joy of his gifts and talents come rushing back to consciousness that it is hard to keep a sober face.
We rely on friends, family, neighbors, and even casual acquaintances to shore us up. We need their support, and reject any judgment. We ignore those who say stupid things, who gossip, who tell us to move on, and we allow them to be imperfect and forgive them. This is our grief, our pain, we continue to say: let us own this odyssey of grief and let us go through our processes at our own pace. Listen to our stories; let us say Trevor’s name over and over. We have so much to remember, to share, please: allow us to do so! We will change, our lives have changed. Allow us to do so. We may seem to become angry, hardened. Allow us to do so. It will pass. Love us.
We are so fortunate. Trevor left us so much. Not just our memories of him, but his art, his music, his drawings, his writings, his sly smile and wit. Trevor gave us so much, and in doing so lost himself along the way. Trevor was so very genuine and gentle — a spirit in a physical world. We feel his light and presence and I invite you to do the same. He will always be with us. He created this vast and diverse community. We are forever cemented together. Care and love each other. Be good to yourselves. We miss Trevor with great intensity. And we love Trevor.
If you ring my doorbell, you will enter his world.
******
Trevor stopped by to say our goodbyes — I was uneasy, heart beating like a hammer,
beneath my weak attempt of a peaceful exterior. I need to be strong, after all, I’m the
Mom. But I couldn’t help but ask “Are you scared?” He looked straight in my eyes and said,
“Of course Mom. I love you.”
******
What happened when he returned to Chicago? Was it his neighborhood, his apartment, his room, his triggers, his appetite, his addiction? We will never know. We remember with detail his brother’s phone call that night he died, the screams of pain, the tears, his beloved roommates’ recanting of what she found, his personal belongings from the medical examiners office in my mailbox, the police records, the apartment to pack and clean, the memories of our dear son.
Now we are left to sort through twenty-one years: this of your son’s life, package it up, and move forward — what do you bring with you and what do you leave behind? The doorbells in our hearts will always open up to Trevor’s world — the miracle, the beauty, the milestones, the truths, the sorrow, especially: the pure love.
I love you Trevor. Someday I will ring your doorbell again.
The tv station done right by you guys, as you guys did right by it, and Henry.
Condolences to all the other parents here whose children succumbed to drugs.
Thank you for sharing, I was able to watch Henry’s story, here in the UK via your link. I am so sorry for your loss. Coming from a family, that had a drug addicted sibling, I can understand a little about what you and Henry must have gone through. For my brother, thankfully, it was a happy clean outcome, but it has made us all realise how lucky we are to have him, and how much we have to do every thing we can, to help save others from this terrible disease. My thoughts and love go to your family. Thinking of Henry.
Really beautiful. I hope schools use it. So many of the videos about drug use they show in schools are just plain insulting to teens and drug addicts alike. This is different.
What’s the music at the end (before “Let it Be”–that one I know)?
To Sharon: what a beautifully, eloquently, graceful tribute to Trevor. It has moved me to tears. My heart, love and thoughts go to you and your family. For Trevor. Look at the stars, look how they shine for you…..may Henry and Trevor find each other, and find peace.
Katie- When I was a student at UT, I loved reading your columns in (I think) Metropulse. I loved your young little family just from the stories that you wrote and I remember thinking that you were such a beautiful example of motherhood. Clearly, the journey to the present has been difficult, but I still think you’re amazing and putting together is one more example of your dedication to your children. I have my own family now, but watching this reminds me that no family is untouchable in this world and also to start talking now to my children about drug use and many other temptations as well. God Bless you. Maybe I’ll see you on Edisto sometime : )
Thank you for sharing your story in your blog and for WBIR for re-running Henry’s story last night.
I have two teenagers and I do not hesitate talking to them about the dangers of taking ‘legal’ perscription drugs. They will suck you in and not let go. Thank you for sharing your story, it will help us parents in educating our children.
Katie,
Somehow this story made its way to me in Detroit… Having grown up in the Knoxville area, I can appreciate the stigma of this issue, as well as the prevalence of the problem – and most importantly the strength and bravery it took for you and your truly amazing family to speak so openly about this painful tragedy.
Henry’s story has touched me deeply. Not unlike yourself and others on this thread, I have known soul-wrenching losses from addiction. Time and again, I’ve witnessed the vulnerability and powerlessness of humans when faced with the insidious dark energy of addiction — not only infiltrating the lives of those with the addiction, but also those who love them.
I wish there were easy answers. I’m sorry beyond words for the loss of your beautiful boy – isn’t it so poignant and unfair that some of the most truly rare souls on this earth (extraordinarily sensitive, creative, artistic, deep) seem to also be the ones that venture to those edge spaces that lead to addiction…And we are all left feeling empty and powerless.
Your sharing is, though, very empowering. In fact, I believe such honest and courageous sharing may be the only real antidote. Shining a light on this painful and too common topic can only bring us together (in darkness, addiction and its havoc fester). It’s through strength and bravery like your own that we can begin the hard discussions. Discussions that must be had to reach understanding. Understanding needed for better solutions. And through this journey of loving sharing, help one another heal.
I want you to know you are setting a tremendous example. You are truly a hero, and your son a beacon of love. Thanks for your real and very personal effort to spread the word that those with addictions are so much more than ‘addicts.’ My heart goes out to you and your family with deepest sympathy, respect and appreciation.
Thank you for sharing your grief wjth us Very Powerful
What a powerful story. So very, very well done. My own sons now know Henry’s story, and I hope they’ll remember it if they’re ever faced with a deadly temptation.
Finally watched this. Started so many times, but was always interrupted (or too distracted).
Thanks for sharing Henry’s story, which is part of your story and part of the story of too many kids and their families.
My own family is touched by addiction[s]. In fact, addiction runs rampant throughout both sides and, now, three generations (of which we are aware).
As I write this, I am thinking, particularly, of my own younger son and eldest niece, my sister’s daughter. Neither is on firm ground just yet, whatever that might look like for an addict.
Yours is a very important sharing.
Have you found somebody to do a transcription for you so captioning can be added? If not, I can ask a friend if she has time to do it.
I am a mom who recently learned that my beloved older son is a drug addict. I am so sorry about how you lost your beloved son. I appreciate your sharing his story, and in that way giving help to other people. So many people suffer with a loved one’s addiction. It helps to know that one is not alone. I wish you and your family a New Year filled with peace, joy, and support.
Louise,
I am so sorry about your son’s struggles. Know that you are not alone. Please join us over at http://www.facebook.com/henrysfund. We are a community of people trying to support one another, share our experiences and hopefully change the face of addiction. -Betsy
Hi, My name is Amanda. I am a 24 yr old opiate addict. I started taking them when I was 12. I have two kids, age 3 and 4 months. I did drugs through both pregnancies. I take suboxone now and have since my son Thomas was about a month old. I just wanted to say from the perspective of an addict that it is the scariest thing, being addicted to opiates. ( I missed what Henry was taking, but I am assuming opiates). I want you to know that there was really nothing you could have done for him until he was ready. I have been to rehab and doctors. It wasnt until my second was born and had to be life-flighted to San Antoino and put on a ventilator that I got scared enough to stop. Thank you for trying to help addicts. I wish someone had helped me when I was a teen. Henry had a awesome family that I wish I had. RIP Henry.
Amanda,
Thank you so much for your kindness and for sharing your story. What a brave thing it is to get clean and stay clean one day at a time. Yes, Henry was addicted to opiates. It took him over so quickly and wouldn’t let go. He didn’t like anything about it and wanted to quit. Please stay strong and know that you are not alone. If you haven’t already, please join us at http://www.facebook.com/henrysfund. We are a community of people trying to support one another, share our experiences and hopefully change the face of addiction. -Betsy
Katie,
I have just today learned of your story and I am so sorry for your loss. I have a cousin who has dealt with drug addiction since his early teens. I am constantly worried for his life, but he’s very mean when anyone tries to talk with him about his problem and he’ll shy away from family functions for months. I plan on passing your story along to my aunt, his mother, in hopes that someone will be able to reach out to him.
I hope you and your family have long, happy lives that are watched over by your guardian angel.
God Bless.
I know your story is healing families every moment it is online. I feel like I have known Henry because you revealed him to the world so beautifully. I have family members who are struggling with addictions, and sometimes I wonder when we will get that knock on the door. Been there myself, It is a lack of coping skills with pain that keeps pulling these precious souls to a place where they can not feel things for a while. How sad it is that some never wake up again. This is bad news, and I know its bad in Knoxville from my family and friends telling me their own stories. I will keep sharing your story and I think that makes Henry’s life so much more important because he is still touching hearts.
Jama
Katie and Henry’s Family:
Thank you so much for this beautiful and heart wrenching story. Your son Henry was clearly a beautiful young man, inside and out. Speaking as a former opiate addict, I can really relate to that horrible, helpless feeling of desperately wanting to stop but somehow never quite being able to get there. I just want loved ones of addicts to know that, with rare exceptions, the addict is feeling enormous shame and guilt while using; after the first few months of use, it’s no longer about “getting high,” it’s only about avoiding withdrawals, and perhaps masking all the negative emotions the shame and guilt have caused.
I also come from a very loving, supportive family, and when I would relapse I hated myself, and felt so guilty for causing my family pain and worry. It’s a very difficult issue, addiction, and Henry exemplifies why addiction truly is a disease. As his family members mentioned, it’s like the drugs just got a hold of him very quickly and took over. Most people without the disease can experiment with drugs without becoming addicted, but some of us cannot.
To Henry’s family: Please know that your love and support is an inspiration to many people, and I wish you all peace and the best of times
Sincerely, Matt from Virginia
Matt- your message means more than I can express. I feel as if your words are exactly what Henry would say if he could. I am so incredibly inspired by your sobriety and honesty. It is stories like your that can help us save lives because there is hope. Much love and ongoing strength to you. I hope you have joined us over at the Henry’s Fund Facebook community. Your perspective would be so valuable. http://Www.facebook.com/henrysfund
Henry’s Aunt Betsy
Hi Katie! I am so glad you are now getting the attention you deserve regarding Henry’s Story. I haven’t been on line much but just HAD to check on you. I’ve been reading since the beginning and all your troubles with this case. I hope you have found closure and if not, I hope it comes soon. I can’t wait to see pictures of your newest blessing!!!
Yours truly,
Cara (Photographess)
You are a amazing parents and people. Thanks for telling your story. It’s so powerful. I’m so sorry for your loss.
I dont know how you get passed teenagers idea’s of immortality. I know they have classes in schools say no to drugs and yet some of them still try them and get hooked on them. If it isnt percriptions drugs its drinking or heroine or something else. Dont know why they start to begin with. How do you convey to children that life is tough and its ok to be sad somethimes and be stressful taking drugs put a monkey on your back that you may not be able to shake. Lost a relative a few yrs back do to that
Dear Katie,
I am so sorry for your loss. My love and thoughts will be with you for a long time. This is a wonderful, eye-opening, very well put together video. You are very strong and are lucky to have such a great family to support each other. God Bless you all!
Dear Katie-
I live a thousand miles away from home, and had a close groups of 5 other girls whom did everything with me until I moved. One of our friends, Hannah, had 3 children by the age of 23, and had been struggling with drug problems since the beginning of our friendship. We all hung out and smoked pot together, we partied together (in our high school years), we all slept over at each others houses, talked between classes, passed note books to each other in the hallways, we spent every waking moment together, and most of our sleeping ones as well. Hannah was the wild one, she never seemed to be able to stop, she would get better, but go right back to using. Even after the bitch of her first daughter (at just 16 years old), mothering came naturally to her but drugs beat that out of her, and the baby’s father took custody away which made her worse still. She then found out when she was 18 that she was pregnant again, with her second daughter, she signed custody over to her own father, she tuely did better this time, it lasted longer, but still having 2 of her own babies wasnt enough to help her. Not long after her daughter was born, she found out she was pregnant again. While she was finding this out, I found that I was pregnant with my youngest. I vowed to help her, to help keep her clean for as long as I could. Her son was born just 7 days before my daughter. Her son was signed into her dads custody the day he was born. We spent almost every day together until I moved. My husband is in the military and we moved 1000 miles from home, 7 months after the birth of our children. The other 4 girls in the group of friends and I had spent literally ALL of our friendship helping Hannah, trying to keep her straight and focused. We talked a lot for the first few months, we all kept in contact. When Hannah got worse, the worst any of us had seen her, we all tried, she wanted no help, she wanted all of us far away. We all kind of gave up hope, we quit trying.
On Feb 29th 2012, I got a call at 9 AM from one of the other girls. She was crying, she couldn’t answer me back for the first 2 minutes of our conversation. Then she said the words “Hannah was found in a camper in the parking lot of a business” I said “What was she doing there? What’s wrong?” She said “Liz, you don’t understand, Hannah is gone, they think it was an overdose, the guy she was with got arrested.”
My entire world flipped upside down, I couldn’t breathe or move, or cry. I sat there with my friend, on the phone, in complete silence. “I am on my way” was the only thing I could say. We said “I love you” and “Goodbye”. I began to frantically search fora way to get home. I couldn’t think. I called my mom, she didn’t answer. I called my dad, he is the cool dad, the one all your friends love. Hannah used to go and see him just because. He answered the phone and I was crying he said “Lizzie whats wrong?” I told him “Dad, they found Hannah in a camper in a parking lot, she’s dead Dad.”
I have never seen or heard my dad cry until that moment. He had helped us all fight for her, he had taken her in as his own, and now a girl whom he had considered one of his children was gone.
Hannah’s over dose was on an injected form of crack. The guy she was with, woke up at 6 in the morning to someone who was already dead. Instead of immediatly calling the police, he took the time to clean out the camper (which he listed as his residence), get rid of all the drugs, and the needles Hannah had used, and throw everything in a dumpster. Then he called the police.
This girl, who was only 23 years old, and had 3 babies, is now gone because of what drugs do to a person. She was and still remains my best friend. Since losing her, I have struggled with being 1000 miles away. The last thing I ever said to her was “Hannah, it isn’t about you anymore, it hasn’t been for years, those babies are your priority. Why are you doing this to THEM?” I didn’t get to say good bye to her, I didn’t get to go to her funeral.
Her dad has her 2 youngest children and gets to see her oldest daughter on the same visitation schedule she had set up. He is raising her children with the help of many people. The other girls in our group of friends are helping and when I get back I will be there to help as well. We are all now faced with burden of explaining to her children what happened to their mother (when the age is right, right now they wouldn’t understand) and show them all the love we had for her.
I have been searching for people whom have gone through the loss of a drug overdose and today your garden popped up in my facebook news feed. I want to tell you how deeply sorry I am for the loss of your son, and how incredibly brave you are for speaking out. Thank you for sharing your story, it gives me hope in a way I can’t understand
God Bless you. God Bless our kids.
God Bless You God Bless our kids Henry is not forgoten