He sat silently weeping in the corner. His hand shook terribly as he reached up to wipe his eyes. Misery was etched across his face.
“You didn’t stay at the treatment center.” He had not even lasted a day. “What happened?”
“My wife cried so hard when she left me there. I couldn’t stand it.”
“What about an outpatient center? A day program?”
“Maybe,” he said, noncommittal.
Each visit, fewer family members came until finally it was just him.
And each visit there was less of him. His body was swollen and bloated, faded. A once strong man, now made a shadow. It was hard to stand by and watch. Not as hard as living it, though, I was sure. How he could continue to do this to himself was a testament to the power of addiction.
“You’re going to die.”
“I know.” Then he smiled. “This is the one way I can kill myself and the family still gets the life insurance payout…”