by Shanna Campbell

Created on: March 16, 2009

The reaons for addiction are various and confusing. One popular theory is that the abuser is trying to fill a hole in their lives with the drug, or using it to escape the harsh realities of their lives. I find these beliefs to be very true, though that was a hard fact to admit some years ago.

I'll be 22 in a few weeks. I grew up with a regular family in a very normal neighbourhood. My father was absent at best, being a truck driver and entrepreneur of sorts. My mother stayed at home with my older brother and my much older half brother filling the father figure role in my life. I excelled in school. I was a straight A student, excelling in English and grammar. When I was about 5, my grandfather died. I didn't really care, I didn't know him that well. The following year, my Nana died. This time I cared- I had refused to say good bye to her the day before she died, opting to watch the rest of The Fox and The Hound instead. She had promised me she would never die, after I had gathered the concept of death from a soap opera when I was about 3. At 5, I felt betrayed, and longed to see her again. I didn't understand why I couldn't. When I was 7, my Papa died as well. I suppose it all has something to do with being born so late in life. My parents were in their late 30's when they had my brother and I. At an early age, I understood death and had been to more funerals than most of my friends to this day.

When I was in the 6th grade, my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She had been mis diagnosed with a growth in her breast some years back, and the cancer had spread to the marrow of her bones. She thought she had bruised her tail bone. Turns out her entire hip was eaten away by the disease, hallow like a shell. I had to come to terms with the fact that my mother was going to die very soon, whether I liked it or not.

What many people do not understand is that cancer patients are like guinea pigs. Since there is no cure yet, drugs are test willingly by patients desperate for a chance, even if their chances are slim. My mother lasted the longest out of her test group- 3 years. This was 2 years longer than her diagnosed expectancy some years before. I saw her decline in front of my eyes. She was a beautiful woman, a model when she was younger, and the best mother anyone could ask for. To see her die in front of my eyes was something that will haunt me forever. One day she complained that her night gown was itching her back. She couldn't move her arm over her head,

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