A.B., 31
Alcohol and drug counselor
Mother of two
Tribal affiliation: member of White Earth Nation
Nine years of sobriety
Her kids are now school age, but A.B., who requested to be identified by her initials only, says specific memories from their early childhood still haunt her. A.B. wears a red, black and gray ribbon skirt, flip-flops, and a red Under Armour T-shirt, her hair in a sleek high bun. As she tells her story, she fidgets with the lighter she’s used to burn the sage, whose ceremonial smoke wafts through the air in the conference room.
During her addiction, A.B. says, she couldn’t afford much in the way of gifts. For Christmas, she relied on Toys for Tots for her son’s presents. For birthday parties, she knew her mom would help out.
One time, her son asked her for a snack at the store. Brown had the money in her pocket, but she was also thinking about buying the drugs that would keep her from going through withdrawal.
“I’ll never forget it,” she says. “Even though I had the money to buy it, it was like that money was for me.”
A.B. avoided using while she was pregnant with her daughter. But the day she left the hospital, she buckled her baby daughter into her car seat, reached under her seat, pulled out a plate and did a line of heroin.
“It’s bad to say, but I did,” she says.
Like many people with opioid-use disorder, A.B.’s addiction started in the medical system. As a kid, she used to get cluster headaches so bad that all she could do was lie in a dark, quiet room. When she was 13 or 14, a doctor prescribed Vicodin for the headaches.
“Like, bottles of it,” she says. “And it just spiraled out of control. It seems like it just happened so fast.”
She quickly needed higher doses of Vicodin to control the pain. When she saw a different doctor, who prescribed a non-narcotic medication, she bought Vicodin or Percocet on the street. When that got too expensive, she turned to heroin.
By the time she had kids, she and her significant other were desperate for help. But they didn’t want to risk losing their children. That fear seemed insurmountable and turned into a barrier for seeking treatment.
“How are we going to do it? Like, who’s going to watch the kid?” If she told her mother and signed over temporary custody of her son, “she’s never going to give him back,” she said.
Finally, a friend told her about the MOMS clinic and gave her director Julie Williams’ number. And one day, when she couldn’t get the baby to stop fussing and crying, she stepped outside onto her balcony, closed the door and sobbed.
You need to do it, she told herself. You need to get help. You can’t keep going on like this.
She dialed Williams’ number. Williams understood her fear.
“With small towns it’s hard,” Williams says. “Our families know each other. So it’s scary for people to reach out and have to be completely vulnerable.”
A.B. was especially worried that her mom — who worked near the MOMS building and didn’t know about her addiction — would see her. Williams arranged for A.B. to park where her mom wouldn’t notice the car and told her to sneak in through a back door.
After several months in treatment, A.B. worked up the courage to tell her mom about her disease and invite her to a six-month celebration. Not only did her mom attend, but she surprised A.B. with a congratulatory speech.
“She was so supportive of me and proud: She supported me and my recovery to the fullest,” A.B. said. “And she is my biggest supporter to this day.”
Now a counselor at MOMS, A.B. has been sober since August 29, 2015.
“I help others now,” she says. “I never imagined I would be where I’m at today.“
She is still learning to forgive herself. She reminds herself of what her group counselor used to tell them: We’re not bad moms; we just made bad choices. But she’s not sure the guilt will ever go away completely.
The series is part of a reporting fellowship sponsored by the Association of Health Care Journalists and supported by The Commonwealth Fund.
