Addiction: The Killer Inside Our Homes

Davis Owen’s life ended way too soon. But, his story didn’t.

His story is still being told because of his mother’s story.

Her story is about a mother who lost a young son to drug addiction – a mother who turned her loss into a mission to save others.

It is a story of memories, of hindsight, and the unfathomable hurt and hopelessness of parents trying desperately to save their child.

It’s a story worth telling and retelling.

Davis Owen’s family describes him as a brilliant, beautiful, and compassionate child.

He was the oldest son of five children.

He was president of his senior class and an honor student at Kennesaw Mountain High School.

He entered Kennesaw State University upon graduation and made the Dean’s List his first semester.

Davis was the ideal son, but he was living a secret life after becoming addicted to opioid painkillers in his family’s medicine cabinet.

When Michael and Missy Owen found out ab out their son’s addiction, they did what most parents do. They tried to help him.

The Owens first realized the seriousness of the situation on Thanksgiving morning 2013.

“We were going to the family farm and Michael wanted to take the shotguns and teach the kids to shoot,” Missy Owen recalls. “My dad had left each of the grandsons a shotgun when he died and Michael was packing them up. When he opened the first case to check the gun, he found a BB gun instead and we knew immediately what had happened. Davis had pawned two of the three shotguns for money to buy drugs. He loved his “Papah” and would have never done that in a right state of mind. We eventually got the guns back, but we knew Davis had a real and severe problem. We all cried that day as he stood in the bedroom and asked us to help him.”

Davis Owen entered a drug rehabilitation program.

That didn’t help.

With no job and no access to the prescription pain medications, Davis turned to a more readily available opioid – heroin.

Davis was living with his parents when on the evening of March 4, 2014, the doorbell rang. The Owens opened the door and a detective told them something that would change their lives forever.

Their 20-year-old son had been found dead in his car with a needle and heroin beside him.

After Davis’ death, his mother did something she had not been able to do while he was alive.

“When you’re living with a child who has an addiction, you’re so worried, always trying to chase that child that you don’t have time to research and learn how to help your child,” Missy Owen says. “What I did was write a book, “Heroin is Killing Our Children,” and put in that book 365 days of things that I learned about heroin, opioids, and drug addiction. I researched every day for a year. And I put in there everything that I thought would help somebody save their child.”

Topping the list of things she learned was “clean out your medicine cabinets” to prevent access to prescription medications that can begin the path to addiction and death.

Today, Missy Owen heads a foundation she started in honor of Davis, the Davis Direction Foundation, a community and national resource for opioid and heroin addiction and recovery.

I never met Davis, but his mother has made sure I’ll never forget his story.

 

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Remembering Mr. Bean

grandfathers photoMr. Bean was my grandfather, but I called him “Daddy.”

His name was Willie White, but I hardly ever heard anyone call him by that name. Instead, my grandmother and his friends called him, “Bean.”
He was “Uncle Bean” to his nieces and nephews; He was “Mr. Bean” to unrelated younger folks.
His big brother, my Uncle Walter, who was a couple of years older, called him, Son.
And his children and grandchildren, we all called him, Daddy.
By the time I came along, my grandfather was nearing retirement. He’d worked with his brother as a logger for years, but health problems were forcing him into retirement. What         I mostly remember are the years after he retired.
When my grandfather could no longer work as a logger, he became an entrepreneur.
He grunted earthworms and sold them as fishing baits.
He raised rabbits then sold them.
He collected aluminum and scrap metal then sold it.
He even put a vending machine on our front porch and sold sodas.
My grandfather did what he had to do to take care of his family.
Becoming an entrepreneur was an easy decision for my grandfather. After he retired, he quickly realized he had everything he needed to “sit and watch” as he made money.
He had a light brown Chevy truck.
He had a big yard.
A front porch.
And, he had an able-body workforce of children and grandchildren, who were already paid in shelter, food, clothing, and a lot of love.
For his fishing bait business, we would load up on the back of his truck with our wooden stakes and iron bars then head out to the woods, where my grandfather spent the day watching us grunt baits. I always stayed near my grandfather, who loved using snakes for target practice. When we got home, we became sales clerks, counting out fishing baits to customers, sometimes in the wee hours of the morning.
For his rabbit business, my grandfather bought several rabbits, sat in a chair and instructed us on how to build rabbit cages, and then waited. And not that long.
For his aluminum and metal collection business, he loaded us up on the back of his truck and we road to all of his established collection sites. When we got home, we processed and bagged the metal then packed the bags on the back of his truck for shipment to the recycling center.
Selling sodas didn’t start out as a business venture. Initially, my grandfather’s plan was to stop us from spending every quarter we got our hands on buying RC and Nehi sodas from Mrs. Lillie down the street. After he put the vending machine on the front porch, he quickly realized that his household members weren’t the only ones buying drinks from the machine. All times of day and night, we would hear people walking up on the front porch to buy drinks from the machine.
My grandfather was also a wise man.
He knew that all work and no play does not make for good children. So, when it was time to clock out, he let us play. And play we did.
On July 3, 1976, Daddy closed shop.
I was 11.

The Dad She Will Remember

memories photosMemories are scripted by the person remembering.

Was he really that nice?

Was she really that mean?

Were times really that good?

I am asked these types of questions all the time.

People read my newspaper columns and wonder did the memories I write about really happen the way I remember them. Then, when they see me, their questions begin. Most of their questions are about people we both knew and, sometimes, have slightly different recollections of.

“I remember her,” one person may recall. “She was pushy and had to have everything her way.”

And my response might be, “Well, I thought she was a bit wishy-washy.”

“Really?” the person is likely to respond with a dumbfounded stare. “We have to be talking about two different people or you have amnesia.”

I don’t have a problem when I encounter someone whose memories differ from mine. That’s because, like beauty is in the eyes of the person looking, memories are scripted in the minds of the person remembering.

During the past eight years, I’ve had the sometimes arduous task of scripting memories for my niece, Kennadie, because she doesn’t have her own memories of her dad, who passed July 16, 2008 when she was a year and eight months old.

My brother Ken’s two sons were older – 10 and 21, when he passed, so they remember him. Sometimes, I have to fill in the blanks for them, but their memories of him are mostly their own.

When I’m with Kennadie, she often makes “if my dad was here” comments, but she doesn’t ask me a whole lot of questions about him. I think it’s because, even though she’s a little girl, she’s wise enough to know that her uncle has not fully found that happy place when it comes to remembering her dad.

However, this past weekend during our family reunion weekend in Jacksonville, she couldn’t resist bombarding me with questions about him. I think hearing family members, young and old, talking about Ken, made her want to know more.

I answered most of her questions truthfully.

“Did my daddy come to the family reunions?” she asked. “And did he have fun?”

“Yes and yes,” I answered.

“Did my daddy talk a lot?” she asked.

My uncle Moon didn’t give me time to answer. “Yes, and that’s where you get all that mouth from,” he responded.

My responses to a few questions were sugarcoated.

“Did you and my daddy argue a lot?” she asked.

“No,” I told a little white lie.

We argued all of the time. It wasn’t because we didn’t get along. It was because I was the big brother who thought it was my job to always tell my two younger brothers what to do.

Kennadie’s questions didn’t cease.

By the time we made it back home, she had relived some of the 42 years I spent with her dad. She knew how fun loving he was and how nitpicky he could be. She knew his favorite color and his favorite sayings. She knew how much he loved his family and how much we loved him. And she knew he wasn’t perfect.

Memories are scripted by the person remembering them, so the brother I remember is the dad she will remember.

And, in his absence, that’s what he would have wanted.