DFireRN

Discharge Instructions for Recovered Opiate Overdose Patient. By Deanna LaForce RN
          	Dayna (ER Nurse): (softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder) "I’m so glad you’re safe now. Let’s go over what comes next, okay? First, promise me you won’t use alone anymore. If you do, have someone with Narcan nearby. Can you repeat that back for me?" 
          	Boy: (nodding slowly) "Don’t use alone… keep Narcan close." 
          	Dayna: (warmly) "Good. Here’s a Narcan kit — carry it always. If you feel dizzy, confused, or can’t stay awake, call 911 immediately. Even if you feel ashamed. Your life matters most. Can you say that?" 
          	Boy: "Call 911 if I feel… wrong. Don’t hide it." 
          	Dayna: (handing him a resource sheet) "Perfect. Now, here’s a 24/7 helpline — just text or call. No judgment. And this clinic (points) offers free counseling and meds to help cravings. Will you visit them tomorrow?" 
          	Boy: "I’ll try… the clinic. And call if I need to." 
          	Dayna: (squeezing his hand) "Relapse happens. If it does, come straight back here. We’ll help you restart — no shame. You’re not alone in this. One day at a time, yeah?" 
          	Boy: (voice cracking) "One day at a time. Thank you." 
          	Dayna: (smiling softly) "We’re rooting for you. Let’s get you home." 
          	
          	I can write this way because I’ve been there!

DFireRN

Discharge Instructions for Recovered Opiate Overdose Patient. By Deanna LaForce RN
          Dayna (ER Nurse): (softly, placing a hand gently on his shoulder) "I’m so glad you’re safe now. Let’s go over what comes next, okay? First, promise me you won’t use alone anymore. If you do, have someone with Narcan nearby. Can you repeat that back for me?" 
          Boy: (nodding slowly) "Don’t use alone… keep Narcan close." 
          Dayna: (warmly) "Good. Here’s a Narcan kit — carry it always. If you feel dizzy, confused, or can’t stay awake, call 911 immediately. Even if you feel ashamed. Your life matters most. Can you say that?" 
          Boy: "Call 911 if I feel… wrong. Don’t hide it." 
          Dayna: (handing him a resource sheet) "Perfect. Now, here’s a 24/7 helpline — just text or call. No judgment. And this clinic (points) offers free counseling and meds to help cravings. Will you visit them tomorrow?" 
          Boy: "I’ll try… the clinic. And call if I need to." 
          Dayna: (squeezing his hand) "Relapse happens. If it does, come straight back here. We’ll help you restart — no shame. You’re not alone in this. One day at a time, yeah?" 
          Boy: (voice cracking) "One day at a time. Thank you." 
          Dayna: (smiling softly) "We’re rooting for you. Let’s get you home." 
          
          I can write this way because I’ve been there!

DFireRN

I’ve spent years in the ER watching futures dissolve. Kids like Ethan—straight-A athletes with letterman jackets and hollowed-out eyes—are why I’m writing The Lotus Mark. They’re why I can’t stay silent.  
          
          I’ve held hands as Oxy overdoses stole their breath. I’ve charted the progression from curiosity (“just a Vicodin”) to fentanyl. The news talks about “opioid crises” in sterile statistics. But this? This is blood on my scrubs, mothers screaming in waiting rooms, teenagers coding under fluorescents while their phones buzz with dealers’ texts.  
          
          Ethan isn’t just a character. He’s every kid I’ve seen trade textbooks for vials, their potential erased by a system that monetizes despair. The Los Osos crew? They’re the shadow economy thriving where schools and clinics fail. Lily’s jasmine perfume and Javier’s blade aren’t fiction—they’re the seduction and violence peddled to kids who think they’re bulletproof.  
          
          I’m writing this because I’ve coded numerous teens. Because ERs are triage zones for societal collapse. Because when Ethan hesitates over that vial, it’s not just a plot point—it’s a scream into the void: We’re failing them.  
          
          This book isn’t a warning. It’s a flare. Let it burn through the apathy.