The last words of a 'heroin junkie': There seems to be no escape

Beth Warren | Courier Journal

Adam Cooley died mid-sentence.

The young man couldn't have known the danger as he reclined in bed at his parents' Pleasure Ridge Park home, writing a thank you note to a family friend.

On the eve of what was to be a long rehabilitation stay, and hopefully a final lifeline, the longtime heroin user did what many addicts do — he went on one last bender. But this time, in what would be the 27-year-old's last snort, something more potent and much more dangerous was hidden inside.

About an hour before his parents were set to drive their youngest son to a treatment center in Campbellsville, they found his body, cold and still.

A pen and sheet of white paper lay nearby.

Read the note On March 10 2017, Adam took a hit that contained fentanyl and started writing a letter to a staff member at The Healing Place. Adam died before finishing the letter.

But his strength, and his last words, ended there.

Adam Cooley lost his six-year battle with heroin that morning.

Resources: Where to turn if you suspect a loved one is battling a drug addiction

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His last hit on March 10 contained fentanyl — a synthetic opioid that can kill anyone who touches or breathes even a tiny amount. Investigators believe Adam sought heroin the night before he died, but the mixture he got had 20 times the lethal amount of fentanyl.

For years, Adam's parents hid his addiction. But they went public last year in a June 26 front page article in the Courier-Journal.They decided that silence allowed Louisville's drug problem to fester into an epidemic. The pair would do their part to end both.

Adam had given his support.

Brenda Cooley gasped when she pulled the Sunday newspaper out of her mailbox and saw their faces under the headline "Grieving the 'death of dreams.'" For a moment she thought about skipping church, concerned she would be greeted with looks of judgment or awkward glances.

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Instead, she said: "We were showered with love and understanding. They didn't blame us for our son's problems. They told us we were brave."

After Adam's death, the Cooleys chose to share their grief in hopes someone else can learn from their deepest hurt. This time, they're aided by their son's own words.

♦ ♦ ♦

The morning Adam died, Karl and Brenda woke up hopeful, showered and sipped coffee. Finally, they thought, their son seemed eager for rehab.

Karl went to roust him out of bed. He tapped Adam's arm, but Adam didn't respond. His skin was cold.

"I think he's dead!" Karl shouted to his wife, still in the kitchen.

Karl leaned over his youngest son and pressed up and down on Adam's chest, trying to restart his heart. Brenda ran to the room and called 911.

"Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?" the dispatcher asked.

"No, no, no!" Brenda answered through a mix of shouts and sobs.

Karl ran to a laundry room cabinet for a syringe filled with a heroin antidote. Brenda injected the naloxone in her son's thigh, though she knew it wouldn't work.

Adam looked peaceful, his legs crossed at the ankles. But his parents could already see blue blotches on Adam's arm. He was gone.

Brenda and Karl wailed.

Together, they crawled on their hands and knees to search for a needle. They couldn't find one.

Within minutes their house was filled with strangers, an EMS crew, a deputy coroner, uniform police and detectives. Brenda, determined to see her son one more time, marched past an officer to Adam's room.

She stood by his bed, in the same spot where she once taught him to say his nightly prayers. She picked up his cold hand and lifted it to her cheek.

She kissed it, the hand she used to guide in bright finger paint or in cookie dough, then lowered it to rest on his chest. Tears wet her cheeks, as she whispered for the last time, "I love you. Goodbye."

♦ ♦ ♦

After hours of weeping, Brenda took a breath and began to plan her son's memorial.

She'd once cautioned Adam that if he didn't stop using heroin, he might as well plan his funeral.

So he did.

She used Adam's last wishes, on a handwritten note he called "Funeral Arrangements," to plan his service. He picked a Christian song and The Band Perry's "If I Die Young."

Brenda also grabbed a folder near her computer and pulled out a letter Adam sent his family in 2016.

She sat on the living room couch and read it aloud to Karl, his daughter Tammy, and Aaron. She asked her eldest son to read it during the memorial.

"I can't do it," Aaron said.

But he took the letter home and re-read it. Though he'd read the words several times before, he was struck by their power.

The next day he relented.

"I think I can do it if you're not crying," he told his mom.

So the afternoon of March 14, Aaron Cooley stepped to the pulpit at Beechland Baptist Church and gripped the letter. He told about 350 mourners he hoped it would provide a glimpse at Adam's inner struggle.

He looked straight ahead and, in a soft voice, read his brother's words:

It rips my heart apart knowing it's my actions and decisions that have caused a separation from my family. I'm a dope fiend, a heroin junkie, drug addict, or just cursed by a disease of the mind. It's taking a toll on me...There seems to be no escape.

Aaron paused. He took a breath to calm himself, then continued.

Some of you will never fully grasp or comprehend this ... I'm stuck, trapped, owned, miserable.

Adam named his brother, half sister, niece and nephew and parents. The ones he didn't want to disappoint.

They are really awesome people, which makes this addiction even harder. I try and do the right things. It just seems as though my brain is being controlled by a force very foreign to me. Almost like I'm possessed.

I have every intention to quit today, but tomorrow will be a totally different story.

Adam wanted to make his parents proud. And he wanted a relationship with his brother. He knew his addiction harmed both.

I'm fully conscious and aware of my actions. It's just that my obsession overrides everything. Mom and Dad, I feel the same pain you feel. It hurts me to hurt you.

Aaron Cooley reads letter written by his brother Adam who died of a drug overdose Aaron Cooley reads a letter of apology addressed to his parents that was written by his brother Adam who died of a drug overdose.

Inside the church sanctuary, the Cooleys stood feet away from the stainless steel urn and greeted hundreds who came to mourn Adam, support his family and affirm a minister's message: The way we leave this world's not what defines us; Adam was more than his addiction. Friends talked about how Adam was known for jokes and sarcasm, like his dad. And hugs and encouragement, like his mom.

In a private moment in the greeting line, Karl pursed his lips, widened his eyes and insisted:

"Well, we lost this one. But we gotta keep fighting."

♦ ♦ ♦

Two weeks before Adam Cooley died in his childhood bedroom, he and his brother Aaron soared in the air and back down again on rows of indoor trampolines.

They clasped hands with Aaron's 3 1/2-year-old daughter, Emma, and bounced until the men's muscles ached.

The brothers couldn't stop laughing, a glee they hadn't shared for years. That lightness reminded Aaron of their childhood outings to Rough River, where the boys shrieked and laughed as they fought to push each other off tubes and bounce wildly over ripples.

Nine days later, Adam met his regular dealer in a drab alley behind the Second Street McDonald's dumpster, not far from morning drive-thru customers. He ended up five blocks away, sprawled on a concrete sidewalk in an unrelenting downpour in full view of motorists on Broadway.

Strangers called 911. White man, brown sweater, jeans. Collapsed on the sidewalk. An ambulance crew rushed in, revived Adam with an antidote and carted him to Jewish Hospital.

Aaron and Brenda hurried to Adam's bedside in the emergency room.

Brenda, who had been in this spot before — hovering over her son after another near-death overdose — asked him this time: "Adam, what is your bottom?"

"Death," he said.

Aaron leaned down to hug his younger brother and deliver a message:

"I love you. Don't do this again. I don't want to have to come back here."

Aaron felt the warmth of his brother's hands patting his back, though Adam was still groggy. Adam faintly replied, "Love you too."

It would be their last words, their last embrace.

♦ ♦ ♦

When Brenda and Karl first read Adam's letter in June, 2016, they knew he was struggling but didn't realize his words would foretell his end.

He had already battled this addiction for five years.

Why am I still alive? My misery and inner pain continue to manifest inside me and there seems to be no escape.

The blunt reflections jarred his parents. This Adam seemed so far removed from the happy, sarcastic jokester raised in a quiet suburban neighborhood of brick ranch houses, sidewalks and well-groomed lawns. A childhood of T-ball games, swimming and a regular spot in a church pew. Water skiing, church camping trips, guitar lessons.

The outgoing kid who liked to fish with his dad and toss his petite mom in the lake had become a young man who seemed deflated. While his parents continued to pray for Adam's recovery, both secretly feared the drugs would win.

Adam felt it too.

I have a strange feeling that I might die from this disease.

I'm still here when sometimes I wish God would just call me up because I'm ready.

Karl and Brenda languished for a long time, their daily activities centered on a constant fight to rescue their son.

Laughter inside their home hadn't been heard in years. Guitar strumming and the couple's harmonizing stopped, too. Vacations were canceled.

They stayed in crisis mode, pummeled by alternating waves of disappointment, panic, anger and sadness. There were thefts of Brenda's medication, her mother's wedding set, Karl's tools. Many manipulations, pleas for money for college books or tennis shoes, actually used for drugs.

Karl kept his slacks and gun near his bed in case he was jolted awake and needed to rescue his son from a flop house or sketchy street corner. Some days Brenda was too weary to make it out of bed.

Adam gave up on his dream of police work and lost job after job.

Countless great opportunities have been squandered and taken for granted ... I'm sick and tired of letting goodhearted people down.

You have been the best and most influential parents/mentors/teachers that any boy could ask for.

♦ ♦ ♦

In the weeks since Adam's death, Brenda and Karl mulled over decisions they made as parents. But they're sure they loved and nurtured their children as best as they could.

Adam became a heroin addict anyway.

They tried every tactic to pull their son from his addiction. Christian counseling, prayer, pleading, prodding and one treatment program after another. Even methadone.

Adam died anyway.

The Cooleys want other parents to watch for warning signs, like the ones they feel they missed. Like when Adam, who loved golf, skipped lessons at Butler High School to smoke joints with friends. Brenda and Karl were upset. Karl, himself a recovering alcoholic, had warned the boys at an early age. But he and Brenda hoped the marijuana use was fleeting teenage rebellion.

After Adam dropped out of criminal justice classes at the University of Louisville, he moved into the basement of his parent's home and couldn't hold a job. His parents were frustrated and fought to pry him off the couch. But they viewed their son's lack of motivation as youthful angst.

Brenda and Karl initially weren't aware their son's occasional drug use had morphed into an addiction.

When Adam could no longer find or pay for Opana or other pain pills, he switched to heroin — cheaper, more pervasive and more deadly.

Resources: What to ask doctors about opioid pain meds

Adam told a bevy of lies to hide his addiction but eventually confessed that he first injected the poison at age 21. He fought its grip until his death.

♦ ♦ ♦

Sometimes Brenda waits for Karl to leave the house so she can release a piercing scream.

Other days, she shouts at the son who can no longer hear her, "Why did you do this?"

She walks into the bedroom where Adam died and pulls his favorite red Cardinals ball cap off the wall peg and smells it. Or curls up on a bed wrapped up in his pale blue fleece blanket and sobs. She worries his scent will fade.

Karl Cooley, a Vietnam vet, grieves more quietly. But one day he crawled up behind his wife of 39 years, draped his arms across hers and cried too.

Other times, he posts on Adam's Facebook page. "A big piece of me is missing. So hard.

"Went out on the boat today. Sure missed my buddy."

Karl knows his son's friends still view the page, so he posted a warning: "For those of you who are fighting this battle. Fight harder and pray harder.

"Remember the odds are against you with heroin. Don't start, if you have started, get help."

Brenda and Karl Cooley replay the hours of their last day with their son over and over, anguished they missed something.

That afternoon, Adam asked to borrow his father's new black 27-speed bicycle to get some exercise. It seemed harmless. But, even in the suburbs, dealers lurk just a short ride away.

Karl noticed that Adam returned high. He kept a watchful eye on his son, not realizing Adam bought more hits that were hidden in little baggies — a discovery police made too late.

When the family's pastor arrived at the Cooley's home to counsel Adam, he didn't realize Adam was high.

Adam greeted him with a hug, then pulled out paper to take notes before the two plopped down on the living room floor.

Adam was chatty and boasted about his job in maintenance at the Brown Hotel.

He told the minister he was ready for the program in Campbellsville, a more rural location far from the downtown Louisville spots Adam frequented for drugs. Adam had already talked to a couple of recovering addicts, now mentors at The Healing Place, who waited for his arrival.

"I'm gonna do that for my parents. I owe them," Adam told the minister. "They never gave up on me."

As the pastor sat beside Adam, the two discussed Romans 7:21-25 — the same Bible passage Adam emailed his mother last year to help her understand the root of his struggle.

In reads, in part: "Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me...waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner ... What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?"

Adam told Love he didn't want to die or hurt himself. He hoped his recently renewed Christian faith would steady him.

But he was tired.

Karl came to the living room and joined the pastor and his son, sitting on the floor as the three men prayed for Adam's release from this disease.

Adam's letter to his parents last year showed he had been weary for some time.

I need a peace I haven't felt in years.

In his youth, Adam relished short summer car trips to Rough River Lake, where he seemed happiest. Here, Karl taught him to ski, fish, jump off cliffs and belly flop onto a tube.

Though he tried, no drug could take Adam back to that feeling of calm.

In his funeral arrangements, he made a final request.

I would like to be cremated and dumped in the rough river.

So on a summer day, Brenda and Karl Cooley will carry their son's ashes back to the lake to rest in the still waters.

Adam’s parents, Brenda and Karly Cooley, plan to honor his final wishes: "I would like to be cremated and dumped in the rough river."

Reporter Beth Warren can be reached at 502-582-7164 or bwarren@courier-journal.com.