Adapted from The Only Life I Could Save: A Memoir, by Katherine Ketcham. Sounds True, April 2018. Reprinted with permission.

I walk down the hallway to my husband, who is sitting on the edge of our bed, his head in his hands. “I’m going to talk to Ben. I’m going to talk about treatment. Do you want to go with me?”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” Pat says. “I’m afraid he would feel ganged up on. And I might lose my temper. I’m afraid of what I might say.”

“I’m afraid, too,” I say, bursting into tears.

Pat puts his arms around me. “Let’s practice,” he says. We go over the words, repeating them, creating little scripts I can carry around in my brain. I’m worried about your health. I’m here to listen. I want to help.

I remember what my friend Debra Jay, the clinical interventionist, once told me: “I often say to families, memorize a few lines and use the broken record technique, repeating the same line again and again. If Ben uses the blame game to get you off track, respond with the words, ‘That may be true, but today we’re talking about how drugs are hurting you and hurting our family.’”

I also remember the advice another friend — Joyce Sundin, also an intervention specialist — gave me months earlier: “Use simple phrases, such as ‘That sounds really painful.’ Depending on the situation, you might follow that up with, ‘Would you like it to be different?’ Don’t get caught up in the drama or try to bail him out or offer the wise sage stuff that so many parents try. Remember, the pain comes from natural causes when the person is allowed to experience the fallout from their drug-affected choices. Pain is the motivator or springboard to a different place.”

And I remember a scene from the TV series Boston Legal. I replayed it several times, writing down the words, memorizing them. Denny is feeling sorry for himself and lashes out at his friend Allen for not being on his side. “You can accuse me of many things,” Allen says in a soft, loving voice. “But not being on your side isn’t one of them. I’m afraid for you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

And I remember that while it is important to speak with compassion and kindness, pleading with Ben on the basis of love is not a good strategy. Right now, he doesn’t love himself. He is hurting. He is in the deepest imaginable kind of pain. Speak to the pain, Kathy. Speak to the pain.

I walk to Ben’s bedroom, knock and open the door without waiting for a response. He’s sitting on his bed, his head in his hands. He looks up at me; in his eyes, I see despair.

I sit down next to him and reach for his hand. He lets me take it.

“You need help, Ben,” I say, my eyes filling with tears. “You are not yourself. Something is wrong.”

He starts to cry. I hold on tight to his hand. He takes a deep breath, ragged with emotion. “Okay,” he says. One word.

I struggle with all my might to keep my tone even. “Will you go to treatment?”

“Yes.” He’s sobbing now, shoulders heaving. “I need help.”

I put my arms around him, and we hold on to each other for a long time. He’s here, I think. He’s still here. I lost him, but right now, in this moment, he is back with me, flesh and blood and bone.

Katherine Ketcham has co-authored 17 books, 10 on the subject of addiction and recovery, including the New York Times bestseller “ Broken: My Story of Addiction and Redemption,” with William Cope Moyers. Her latest book is “ The Only Life I Could Save: A Memoir.” Ketcham has led treatment and recovery efforts at the Walla Walla Juvenile Justice Center in Washington State, and in 2009, she founded Trilogy Recovery Community.

Originally published in 2018.