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I Couldn’t Save Him—But He Saved Me
March 6th, 2008 was my first night back in Texas. I wasn’t home for spring break to rest—I came back to see a doctor about my spine. My spinal fusion had failed, and I was in so much pain I could barely function. Though my parents hadn’t fully believed I was sick, they had become increasingly worried after months of phone calls filled with desperation and tears. I was barely hanging on, physically or emotionally.
And then, while I was facing my own unraveling health, I got the call.
My roommate told me that our friend Scott had overdosed. Prescription pills—his usual escape—had taken him too far. He was unconscious, not breathing, and in that moment, I felt entirely helpless. I told my roommate to start CPR and call 911, but inside, I was collapsing. Scott was one of my best friends. My cheerleader. My light in a dark time.
Just hours later, I was in a doctor’s office being told that my surgery had failed. I was labeled a medical anomaly. They said they could manage my pain, and handed me a prescription—for the exact type of drugs that had just taken Scott’s life.
I stared at the paper, horrified. If Scott—strong, bright, and full of love—could fall into the trap of pills, what would stop me from doing the same? This was the first time I looked a doctor in the eye and thought, No. I didn’t know what my options were. I just knew I couldn’t follow that path.
Scott’s death shattered me, but it also woke something in me. I could no longer accept a life numbed by medications and shadowed by despair. His passing was the beginning of a lifelong quest—a promise to myself that I would find a better way to live. Even if I didn’t know how yet.
If you’ve ever felt like there’s no way out, I promise: there is. You just haven’t seen all the doors yet. #EhlersDanlosSyndrome #AutonomicDysfunction
