Have you ever been arrested in front of someone you love? I have—and it’s a moment I will carry with me for the rest of my life.
It was a quiet evening in early spring. I had returned home that morning from an overnight shift driving a cab and had fallen into a deep sleep. Around 7 PM, I woke up to a simple request—to run to the store. Just as I was about to leave, there was a knock at my door. It was my parole officer. A routine visit. But that knock came just hours too late.
Earlier that morning, during my final fare, I picked up someone from my past—an old friend and former drug dealer. As he got into the backseat, he greeted me with familiarity and a casual offer: “If there’s anything you need, I’ve got you.”
I didn’t plan to relapse. I told myself I was stronger now. But as I drove home, the craving took over. I detoured onto his street, circling the block more than once. Eventually, I parked, called him, and went inside. I bought a small bag of meth, telling myself I wouldn’t use it. But that night, I did.
Minutes later, my parole officer arrived. She knew something was off. When she asked if I’d used, I didn’t lie. I handed her the bag. She placed me in handcuffs and led me away—right in front of the one person who had always stood by me.
The tears in her eyes hurt worse than the cuffs around my wrists. Once again, I had broken her heart. That one relapse—worth maybe $40—sent me back to a correctional facility. I was 51 years old, and all I could think about was how I’d failed again. I had left her alone, again. I had promised to be better, to stay clean, to help take care of her as she aged. Instead, I was locked up while she struggled on her own.
About a year into my sentence, she managed to visit me with help from a friend. It was a long journey for her. We sat together, smiling for the camera. That photo is the last one ever taken of us together. Behind her smile, I saw something else—exhaustion, maybe even goodbye.
Not long after, I got a call. She had fallen and broken her wrist. Thankfully, she had the emergency alert system I had insisted on before my arrest. It saved her. She was released from the hospital under the condition that someone help her at home a few times a week. That someone should’ve been me.
Later, she was moved to a nursing facility. I was crushed. She hated doctors, hospitals, anything that made her feel dependent. I applied for a hardship visit to see her, and after a mountain of paperwork and security clearance, I was approved. We spoke on the phone the night before.
She sounded tired. “I’m just waiting for you,” she said softly.
“Get some rest,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”
Those were the last words she ever heard from me.
At 2:35 AM, I woke in a panic. My body shook uncontrollably, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I thought maybe it was just nerves about the visit. I got ready anyway.
At 6 AM, I heard my name over the intercom. I was called to the warden’s office. There, they told me she had passed away in her sleep—just after 2:30 AM. Alone.
I missed her by hours.
Even now, I can’t fully explain the weight of that moment. She had been holding on, just to see me. She had stayed awake, worried, consumed by fear that she wouldn’t live long enough to hug me one last time.
And she didn’t.
Addiction had already taken so much from me—my marriage, my health, my freedom. But losing her that way took something deeper. My chance at closure. My chance to be there when she needed me most.
Her death changed me. I knew I couldn’t keep living in that cycle of destruction. It was time to make her proud, even if it was too late for apologies.
Today, I’ve been clean for eleven years. Recovery is never a straight road. It’s messy. It’s full of moments like 2:30 AM panic attacks and long nights of remembering who I used to be. But I hold onto the lessons she left behind. Her strength. Her kindness. Her refusal to give up on me, even when I gave up on myself.
That last photo of us still sits on my dresser. A reminder of the one person who believed in me, who never stopped hoping I would find my way back. I couldn’t be there to say goodbye—but I can live every day in a way that honors her love.
She waited for me. Now I carry her spirit with me—through every hard day, every choice to stay clean, and every effort I make to help someone else out of the darkness.
Because I know the cost of waiting too long.