Garrett Brown opened up his life to Bangor Daily News reporter Erin Rhoda, and the public, by allowing her to follow him for what turned out to be two and a half years. Through a partnership with the BDN, we present this excerpt of the full story. It contains adult language and drug references, and may not be suitable for young readers.
By Erin Rhoda, Bangor Daily News
Augusta, Maine
Feb. 20, 2015
The shed was barely tall enough to stand in and had no windows. Yet Garrett Brown folded himself inside and used an empty plastic pen to give himself his reward: two lines of heroin, each less than half a gram.
Garrett, 20, had started college at last. His mother, Traci Brown, drove him to South Portland — about 75 miles from her home one way — for classes, but he told her he didn’t need a ride that day. He’d been so good. He’d finally found a place to live in Portland, so he could be closer to school, and was moving in a few days. He hadn’t been doing heroin as frequently. It would be his treat. Two friends joined him in the shed.
He was always coming so close — to having the life he wanted, but also to dying. Perhaps his tolerance had decreased when he wasn’t using, or the drug was stronger than usual this time. Whatever it was, he stopped breathing. One friend slipped away.
But the other stayed to call 911. A dispatcher told her how to do cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and she kept Garrett alive, her hands pumping his heart.
One hour earlier, Garrett’s aunt Trudy Kopyc had crossed the backyard and didn’t notice anyone there. All was quiet. Suddenly, police were knocking on her door, saying they were responding to a possible overdose. She didn’t know what they were talking about. When she stepped outside, she saw an emergency crew hauling Garrett around the corner of the house, holding him by the arms and legs.
A paramedic administered naloxone, which reverses the effects of an opioid overdose, and Garrett woke up in the ambulance, shaking with cold. His teeth were chattering so hard the paramedic couldn’t get a thermometer in his mouth. Someone asked him if he knew what had happened.
At that moment, he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember doing heroin. He didn’t even know he was in Augusta. All he felt at that second was the horror and pain of being alive. And guilt.
At that moment, he didn’t remember. He didn’t remember doing heroin. He didn’t even know he was in Augusta. All he felt at that second was the horror and pain of being alive. And guilt.
To read the full story, click here. This excerpt appears through a partnership with the Bangor Daily News.