Heroin doesn’t just take lives—it tears families apart in ways that words can hardly describe. For a little over a year, my daughter fought hard to stay clean. She stared her addiction in the face, battled it fiercely, and promised me she would never go back. I wanted to believe her. She said, “Daddy, I don’t want to go back to that stuff ever again.”
I reminded her of something I once said at a Narcan meeting: “If you can’t beat the dragon for good, I will be the one to zip you up. But until then, I’ll be there for you every step of the way.” That wasn’t cruelty—it was a vow from a place of deep love.
Our bond was strong, filled with laughter and support. Time and again, I bailed her out of trouble, hoping my love might protect her from the poison that was trying to consume her.
But love wasn’t enough.
At 5:50 p.m., a detective from Eastlake Police called to tell me my daughter was gone—taken by an overdose. I collapsed in the snow, sobbing as if I were a child.
When I entered her room, I saw a sight no parent should ever witness. The drug had stolen not just her life, but her dignity. There she was, sitting upright with stiff, clenched fists, like she was fighting for life one last time. Her skin was blue, veins bulging, and jaw locked tight.
They warned me not to touch her in case drugs remained. But she was my daughter, so I put on gloves and helped her one final time. I spread out the body bag, laid her inside, and zipped it shut—keeping my promise. It was the last act of love I could give her.
This isn’t a call for sympathy—it’s a serious warning.
Heroin shows no mercy. It doesn’t care if you’re young or old, rich or poor, Black or white. It invades any home and shatters everything you cherish. Don’t be fooled — it could happen to you.
If you love someone, say it. Hold them close. Tomorrow is never promised.
Rest peacefully, my dear Karisten Lyn Shermann. My heart aches, but my love for you will never fade.
