ORANGE COUNTY, Calif. — Standing atop the roof of a 17-story Marriott hotel in Irvine, Calif., Greg Mech saw all of Orange County, but he didn’t dare look down. The height, he recalls, was anxiety-inducing.
“I was absolutely petrified,” says the 59-year-old financial adviser from Laguna Beach.
Still, he mustered his courage.
He inched toward the ledge and spun his back toward the ground. And it was in that moment, he says, it occurred to him that his oldest son James — who had lived under the darkness of depression since he was in middle school — confronted his fear every day just by getting out of bed.
“He was a far stronger person than I was standing on the rooftop,” Mech said.
So the grieving father took one step down.
BRINGING ATTENTION TO ADDICTION
Secure in a harness and with his hands gripping a rope, Mech slowly rappelled down the side of the hotel in June 2015, part of a series of events to raise awareness about addiction and to help grieving families such as his feel less isolated.
Mech and his wife, Lianne, belong to a growing number of Orange County families reeling from the deaths of loved ones from opioid overdoses. They found James dead of an accidental overdose of fentanyl — the most potent opioid on the market — and other drugs two days before his 27th birthday in December 2014.
That year, fatal drug overdoses in Orange County rose to 377, and the majority, 263, involved opioids, a group of drugs that, along with heroin, includes such prescription painkillers as Vicodin and Percocet. The next year, those figures climbed again, claiming a record 400 lives, according to Orange County Coroner data.
For many, opioid dependence begins with pain — to recover, for example, from a molar extraction or hip surgery, or to cope with chronic inflammation. That was partially true for James.
But his parents say his long struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs began much earlier and was complicated by depression.
He spent the majority of his high school years at a therapeutic boarding school, and during his senior year of college, he sought treatment for alcohol abuse at the Betty Ford Center. So, at age 25, when he hurt his back while working a landscaping job and was prescribed OxyContin and fentanyl, Greg and Lianne counted the pills, trying to make sure he didn’t take too many.
They hadn’t known he was double-dipping. After his death, they discovered in his bedroom prescriptions for opioids from multiple doctors he had sought out. That’s called “doctor shopping,” a common practice by patients in states — California included — where doctors are not required to check electronic prescription drug monitoring databases.
They also uncovered his personal writings, which painted a picture of how he felt living with depression:
“Those are the good days. The days where I can just smile and relax. … . Where I feel in control, where I’m ready to handle my responsibilities to myself, my family, my work, my life.
“On the bad days … I see everybody walking over me as I fall deep into the gaping black maw. I land in a sea of filth, rot and despair.”
PROGRESSING STEP BY STEP
James felt alone, and in talking about his addiction and in the aftermath of his death, his parents did, too. They knew James suffered from a disease — one that can change the parts of the brain that affect judgment and behavior control — but they didn’t feel like they could share details with friends or family without being judged.
“What am I going to tell my friends? ‘James drank Listerine last night and couldn’t wake up this morning for his sister’s birthday?’ ” Lianne said.
“With cancer, people know what to do,” she said.
They send cards, cook food, drive patients to chemo appointments. But addicts are often demonized, and they aren’t typically offered help or sympathy.
To overcome the stigma and to find meaning in James’ death, Greg signed up for a rappelling event hosted by the nonprofit Shatterproof. The organization enlists thousands of volunteers to rappel from buildings as tall as 40 feet in large cities, with the goal of drawing attention to addiction.
“We wanted an extreme event,” founder Gary Mendell said. “This is an extreme disease.”
“There’s also a nice metaphor with recovery: The hardest part is the first step,” Mendell said. “You go step by step, looking at the sky, looking at your friends and family as they’re cheering you on, until your feet safely touch the ground.”
