Tristan

Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Physical Violence, Mental Heatlh, Death

April 2020

Tristan was 21 and had taken off to live with his friends. He had been coming and going from his various family homes since he was 17. This time around he was staying at a house just past the Louisiana state line. His friends were having a party and everyone on the guest list was known for their drastic partying ways. Drugs and alcohol in near unlimited quantities. Tristan had never wanted to be part of the life he consistently found himself in. To him though, this was his only way of bonding to another human being. Of being part of something, anything because the alternative for him was to remove himself from this life altogether. He justified his actions with his friends by saying that he wasn’t as bad as his older brother or that he wasn’t as bad as his mom or even as bad as his friends. He would say, “I’m not a homeless junky.” And that was true, he was a functioning member of society, he held a job, paid taxes, and showed kindness to others. What did it matter if he couldn’t go a single night without getting high? What did it matter that he drowned himself with alcohol and drugs daily if he was still working? The night of the party was like every other night, some people brought alcohol and others brought drugs. Tristan decided that he would catch a good buzz and ride his high all night, he didn’t have work in the morning and the girls were allot of fun. Someone offered him a pill, saying it was Percocet. Tristan took it and continued his party. Not knowing that he would only barely survive the night. All because that pill that he was offered was laced with fentanyl.

It was the call I knew was coming, only I didn’t know it was coming. Tristan, the baby, the youngest, was in the hospital. 2:53 AM. Nate called my phone, repeatedly until I groggily answered with, “What?” I hadn’t even looked at the caller ID, which would have been the first sign of something being wrong if I had bothered to check. Nate never called, much less at nearly 3 o’clock in the more. “It’s Tristan,” he said, through a broken voice. Looking back, it is clear he did not want to be the one calling me. I sat up straight in bed, I knew what that meant. Tristan had finally added a substance to his body that had won. “He’s been rushed to the ER, they found him unconscious and naked in his front yard. He’s alive, but they don’t know if will pull through.” I hurriedly got dressed and rushed to the emergency room alone, I didn’t wake my husband, I couldn’t tell him the news of his brother without knowing everything. I needed to protect him for a little while longer. When I arrived, the hospital informed me that I was the only one who had shown up, his emergency contact, my mother-in-law who shared her son’s love for foreign substances, had not answered the phone. Ironically, months later she would scream in my face because I didn’t answer her calls in the middle of the night. They told me Tristan had been given Narcan, he was in bad shape, but he would survive, that I could take him home in a few hours. I felt my body relax as tension released, tension I didn’t even know I was holding on to. Tristan came home that morning and we tried to get some sleep. When I got up I made him pancakes, noticed that he had a square bruise on his head and cried as I begged him not to put me through that again.

August 2020

23 years old and Tristan had moved back in with his mother and her husband. He got along okay with them and he was working again. This time he was working 60 hours a week and didn’t have time for much else. But he was finding the time. Tristan was still taking whatever he could find. He was stealing pills from his entire family and even neighbors. He was trying though. He fought every day for his freedom. He didn’t want to do these things, he didn’t want to steal or get high. He needed to. He felt as though this was the only way to get by. This month his step-father, Jerry, would die of COVID and his mother would secretly relapse on drugs at the loss of her husband. Like her son, she would take whatever she could get her hands on.

A few days later, a hurricane would ravage New Orleans. Tristan’s frail grandmother and uncle lived in New Orleans. His entire family and him would gather any and all supplies they could, load up three cars for his grandmother and uncle. The morning came to make the two hour drive and Tristan and his step-brother Sam (who’s father had passed 3 days before) would get on the road, Tristan driving. His nerves had been bad since Jerry’s passing and now with the stress of taking care of his New Orleans family, Tristan found himself convinced that he couldn’t get through the day without something to take the edge off.

“New Orleans has no power,” “Many left homeless after hurricane wipes out neighborhoods in New Orleans,” The news was the same no matter where you looked. The 2020 August Hurricane had come for a visit, and like the drunk uncle, it had left a path of destruction. After spending two days reaching out to everyone we knew, my husband and I had loaded up both of our vehicles, along with his twin brother’s truck, and Tristan coming with another vehicle of supplies for my husband’s grandmother and uncle and their neighbors in New Orleans. My phone rings, its my mother-in-law, rolling my eyes, knowing that yet another set of drama was fixing to come my way, I answered. I wasn’t prepared. “Tristan overdosed; he had Sam in the car with him. They can’t meet you. Tristan drove the car into a poll. Sam is okay. Tristan is laid out; they’re trying to revive him. Don’t tell Grandma, her heart can’t take.” I had to look at my husband and his twin, to tell them once again that their baby brother had ingested something. With pain in our hearts, we had to continue on to New Orleans, to deliver the supplies. Tristan, miraculously, came home to us that night. I begged him, we all begged him, not to put us through it again.

Everyone else arrived in New Orleans as planned, when asked about where Tristan and Sam were, they lied. They told them that Tristan’s car wouldn’t start. This upset their grandmother and uncle. Tristan was supposed to be bringing them a generator so that they could have power. Tristan truly didn’t understand how much his actions affected those around him, those who loved him and relied on him.

Tristan made it home that night, once again he had taken something laced with fentanyl and barely made it out. He nearly took his 19-year-old step-brother Sam with him.

Tristan continued on though. He hadn’t totaled the car and Sam was okay. To him, he had avoided consequences. On top of that, his mother didn’t have the energy to enforce any consequences and Sam didn’t have the energy to be angry as he was deep in the grieving process. Tristan had started feeling as though he couldn’t avoid his cravings. He sat in his room and just stared at the wall.

48 Hours Later. We held my father-in-law’s funeral and we had all returned to my mother-in-law’s house so that she wasn’t alone. That was when Tristan said he needed to go pick something up, he would be gone 45 minutes tops. No more, no less. An hour and 45 minutes had passed and I get a call, Tristan says he doesn’t feel well, he’s pulling over. I had a gut feeling, we shouldn’t have let him go, he shouldn’t have been left alone. We arrived at the gas station at the same time as the ambulance. He was surrounded by police and EMTs, and the police asking me every question under the sun. I cried as I told them, Tristan Masters, 7/26/97, he’s 23. He’s only 23. He just did this 48 hours ago. It’s fentanyl. I know it. His body on the ground, convulsing. His body would go unnaturally still and then he would begin to choke and his stomach would cave in under his ribs. I can never unsee this. His two older brothers and his 19-year-old bonus brother all stood there at my side, like me, staring on helplessly. After watching another dose of Narcan enter his system, and waiting several hours, he came home with us. I begged him not to make me see him like that again.

December 2021

Tristan is 24 Years old. He’s been clean for 4 months. He has a stable job and even a sweet girlfriend who just wanted the best for him. Tristan started being around family more, his skin was clearing up and he was beginning to gain weight. He had happiness in his eyes. Things were really looking up.

Tristan’s girlfriend broke up with him. She wanted someone who had their life together, not someone still building their life, her words. He called out of work that day because he couldn’t handle the break-up. He lost his job from this, he had called out the week before for being sick and the manager thought he wasn’t reliable. Tristan began to feel despair once more. He ran into an old friend when he went to the gas station. An old friend who brought back an old habit. He took the pill, stood there talking, and then got in the car to go home. Only. He didn’t make it home. He couldn’t find his way home. He instead found his way off the side of an old bridge and upside down in the river below.

My phone started ringing at a quarter past 1am. “Hello?” I wasn’t awake or ready for the voice on the other end.

“Is this Clarissa Kline?” I couldn’t breathe. I knew these calls now.

“Yes, what’s happened?” she paused. She paused. They never pause.

“Do you know a Tristan Masters?” My heart was in my throat. In that moment, I wanted to be able to say no, to say they had the wrong number. It was all a mistake.

“I…is he okay?”

“Ma’am, there’s been an accident, he’s been taken to Mercy Grace Hospital. You’ll need to get there.” He’s alive. That’s all I heard. He’s alive.

“Thank you,” I don’t remember the next few moments. I must have hung up. I must have gotten dressed and put my hair in a clip. I must have found my keys and started my car. I must have made the decision to allow my husband to sleep. I must have driven the 40-minute drive to the hospital at felony speeds because I made it there in 20 minutes. I must have done these things because I was suddenly in the sterile room where the fluorescent lights beat down on my eyes while I stared at the mangled body that they said belonged to my baby brother. He wasn’t okay, but he was alive. Arm broken in three places, leg broken in two, 5 broken ribs, cracked skull, shattered pelvis, blown pupil, busted lip, and too many scars to count. The doctors were in and out of the room. Someone brought me coffee, it was awful, and I drank every drop. So many questions. Do you know what he was on? Is he an addict? Is there any family to call? If he has more family, you need to call them. Call them? Call the family? How? How do I call his four brothers and his mother? How do I call his father? His grandmother? I sank to the side of the bed and the room began to spin and everything went black.

I came to with the nurse who brought the coffee saying, “Baby girl, you’re going to be okay.” Another thing I didn’t know how to do. I didn’t believe I would ever be okay again.

I recovered and started making phone calls, within the hour, the room was full of tears and screams of pain and horror. I stepped back into a corner trying to breathe. I still couldn’t breathe.

Tristan pulled through after several close calls. I cried when he came home. I begged him to get help. I begged him not to do this to us again.

May 2022

Two months from turning 25 an immature and lost Tristan had moved back in with his mother. “Tristan, this is my new boyfriend, Mickey. Mickey is going to be living with us from now. You will be respectful.” Mickey smiled at Tristan and Tristan instantly held a hatred deep within him. Tristan’s mom gave him a stern look to ensure that he understood that he was to be on his best behavior. She would blame him if Mickey was angry or left. She never could take responsibility for her own actions. Eventually Tristan would warm up to Mickey, or rather, Mickey’s supply of drugs. Tristan no longer needed to go looking for drugs. No need to steal. There was an endless supply right in the living room.

Mickey was creating compliancy. He soon became violent towards Tristan’s mom. Nothing new, his mom always chose violent men. Tristan had always defended and protected her as needed but this time it went too far. He attacked Mickey with a bat. He made contact with Mickey’s head and that was it, Mickey went down. Tristan threw the bat and ran. He disappeared without another word. No one knew where he had gone.

April 2023.

It had been three years since the first phone call and I was a pro at handling a situation I wish I knew nothing of. That’s when the phone rang. An unknown number. “Is this Clarissa? My name is Jack, I’m a friend of Tristan’s. He always said I should call you if something happens.” I couldn’t respond for a moment as I held on to, “If something happens,”

“Yes. Has something happened?” I knew the answer, but I secretly hoped this unknown man who called himself Jack was simply testing the line. I wanted him to just be testing the line.

“He’s in the hospital. He’s had a stroke. His kidneys aren’t functioning. He’s not conscious, they don’t know if he will wake up this time.” Everything in me froze, I went into auto piolet. I called my mom, informed her I was dropping off my daughter. My daughter. My daughter who adores her Uncle Tristan. I got gas in my car. I called my husband and his siblings, and we agreed to meet at my mother-in-law’s house. We didn’t want her alone when she found out. She screamed and cursed God. She took several shots of liquor to calm her nerves and then wanted to drive herself to the hospital. After an argument over keys, I got her in my car, away from driving herself. At the hospital, they informed us he was awake; however, he would be on dialysis for the rest of his life. Twice a week. For the rest of his life, he’s 25. By the time he would make it to 26, if he made it to 26, it would be 25 rounds of dialysis. 104 rounds a year. I begged him, please, do not to put us through this again.

July 2023

He made it to 26. His kidneys had regained function. He had another chance at life. 9 weeks clean. He fought hard against his demons. He was trying to form relationships again with those who loved him, and so many loved him. He was so tired though and in so much pain. One pill wouldn’t hurt.

“Is this him?” The coroner showed me a lifeless body and I had to confirm that it was my little brother. He was gone. They found him in his bed, curled up with his blanket, he had overdosed and no one was around to find him this time. His body had given out.

The following week was a swirl of pain and tears and asking ‘why?’ to anyone that would listen. Tristan had so much to live for, so much that he was supposed to do.

A sea of black clothing and flowers too alive to be part of this. We had to say goodbye.

And I had to accept that none of us would ever be the same and he was never going to put us through this again.