On December 15th 1993, my birthday, I gave birth to a son whom I have dubbed as half of my heart. Connor James Sheehan arrived early at 8 pounds, 3 ounces and 22 inches. He was an inquisitive and demonstrative child. Quick with a hug, worried about everyone, he literally inhabited half of my heart, and his sister, the other half.

My birthday buddy and I crossed many milestones together. He was a brilliant child, with a brilliant personality. Quick to feel hurt, and concerned with everyone else, we noticed drastic changes on our relocation to Ohio. Our sweet boy turned into someone we didn’t know after starting high school. Just a year earlier, he was riding his bicycle two miles into town to buy me a gift -- the salespeople so impressed by him, they called me to tell me so. But by sophomore year, we began finding evidence of alcohol. We grounded him, took away privileges. Once we even removed the door to his room. No matter what we did, he still wasn’t the same kid.

I went to the schools constantly for help, intervention... anything. But he was brilliant even with his low effort. He could still pass his courses. Yet, not once did a teacher reach out to say there was an issue, other than he didn’t do his homework. Concerns from the school were academic, not social-emotional. I found myself constantly reaching for help, therapy, medication, guidance. The school had very little to offer. In their mind, he was passing. At the time, that seemed to be their only goal.

By the time Connor turned 18, we had little legal recourse. Connor was an adult in the eyes of the law, but without the adult ability to make good choices. College, which we prayed was the answer, wasn’t anything close.

Connor spent his 21st birthday in the hospital with his jaw broken in three places. He had stood up to someone beating on his friend and managed to get sucker punched. The end result was a jaw wired shut and a bunch of pain pills. Slippery slope.

Later that year we had to have Connor put into rehab. His drugs of choice were marijuana and Xanax. My sweet sensitive boy was desperately trying to self medicate. The next five years became a horrific journey of trying to get him help as we watched his mental illness and addictions drag him down.

On July 26, 2020, amid the COVID pandemic, Connor was found dead in his apartment in Cincinnati, Ohio. The Xanax he got on the street turned out to be fentanyl. Our prior lives ended, and a new life began with the commitment that this should never again happen to another family.