A gift born of addiction
It's one of those images he will never be able to shake. There were all the little signs that led up to the moment -- the missing money, the declining grades, subtle changes in appearance, the constant tardiness, changing moods.
And then Jim and Nancy Bildner reached the end of what he would later describe as "a parent's seemingly endless reserve of hope." With his son in bed, they turned over the boy's knapsack on the rug of their study and braced themselves for what would fall out.
They stared as small bags of heroin, needles, swabs, a Brooks Brothers tie cut into a tourniquet, all tumbled onto the floor, settling amid a physics textbook, English literature books, and a package of animal crackers. There was also the cellphone, filled with the names of dealers.
"It took me a good five minutes -- or so it seemed -- before my eyes allowed my brain to register what was falling out of that pack," Bildner wrote to me in a recent e-mail. "The rest, I'm afraid, is history. That scene will never go away."
Bildner awakened his boy and pulled off his shirt to check for the track marks that were the final proof. His 18-year-old-son, Peter, described by every teacher he ever had as an ideal student and a sensitive youth who cared deeply about the world around him, was a drug addict. On the Friday night of a Memorial Day weekend, the Bildner family, which had so much in life, so much money, so much love, had nowhere good to turn.
That began their three-year journey that would end in a tragedy that seemed infuriatingly predetermined. It would take the family through a half-dozen often quirky rehab centers in several corners of the country. It would involve therapists who offered contradictory diagnoses and opposing treatments.
Often it was simply absurd. The Bildners met a burned-out doctor who was basically running a prescription factory from his decrepit office. A staff member at a local hospital wouldn't accept their son during a Friday night relapse because there was no one around to process a credit card payment until Monday. Brochures were fraudulent, costs staggering, advice nonexistent.
"There's this revictimization of the families, people wiping out their IRAs, their 401ks, remortgaging their homes, in a process in which no parent says, 'Enough is enough,' " Bildner said.
In urban areas, poorer families grapple with the cuts in state-funded treatment beds. In wealthy suburbs, parents are often slow to confront the stigma of drug addiction.
"You hit the Internet," Bildner said. "They give you some names, and you go through it. It's hopeless, and you're completely out on your own."
The end came in Florida. Peter failed to call his parents for a couple of days, which was unusual. Calls to his cellphone kicked straight into voicemail. Bildner reached his son's case worker from a nearby treatment center and asked him to go to his apartment.
The caseworker got no answer, so he went inside. He was actually on the phone with the Bildners when he found their son dead on the couch.
"It was in real time," Bildner said.
Some parents set up Internet memorials. Ambitious ones start scholarships. Jim and Nancy Bildner have given a pot of money to Massachusetts General Hospital to launch a clearinghouse for drug-addicted teenagers and their families.
The program will accept calls and visits regardless of the hour and the finances. It will assess the child and refer him or her to a reputable treatment center. It will steer the families through transitions, provide help during relapses, and consult constantly through the rehabilitation. It is set to begin in July, small in scope at first.
"We want to create a place at Mass. General where you can call and say, 'My son or daughter is addicted to heroin,' and they can either help you or guide you," Bildner said.
It's the gift from one set of broken-hearted parents to too many others who will desperately need it. Such is the legacy of young Peter Bildner.
Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com. 
