The death of Whitney Houston, whatever the final cause, is a tragedy, but one that can also serve as an opportunity to talk about addiction; the horrible effects, the road to recovery, and, most importantly, prevention.

When I was a child waiting to be picked up after middle school one day, a high school girl told me about a party that had taken place the night before, just a few blocks from our school located on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. The girl was convinced that the party would be in the news; at the party there was alcohol and marijuana cut with PCP. That got my attention, but still, the story was not yet out of the ordinary for New York city during that time. Then she continued with the story, telling me that one of the girls at the party had a little too much of both drugs and ended up going to the roof for what people thought was some fresh air. The how and why of what happened next was speculation, but the conclusion was not. The girl ended up falling from the roof and landing on a solid metal fence below. The girl, who fortunately did not die, was from a good family, and the building from which she had fallen was in a very respectable neighborhood.

My mother, who at the time worked as a hospital chaplain, heard about the incident during her rounds. She saw this as an opportunity, which she frequently did, to use this real life example as an opportunity to create a lasting impression on my sister and me.

My mother picked us up from school that day and drove to a local methadone clinic and parked out front. We looked out of the car window at the clinic’s front door, watching people of all colors, economic backgrounds and ages enter. Some wore business suits, while others were dressed in torn jeans.

While waiting in the car, my mother told us how some people became so addicted and desperate not to be caught with track marks or because their veins had collapsed, that they ended up shooting drugs into their eyes or groin. Some users spent their life savings or stole from their families, while others became prostitutes. Many were so frightened and exhausted from hiding their addiction that they collapsed under the weight of the lies they carried. She also emphasized that the fight to keep clean was a lifetime pursuit.

My mother did not want to remove peoples’ anonymity by having us watch them walk into the clinic. Rather, she wanted us to see that the face of addiction could be anyone, no matter the clothes they wore or income they earned.

I am not advocating for people to take their children to clinics. But I am advocating for parents to take every opportunity to teach their children in a way that is appropriate for their family about the possible repercussions of drug use.

For me, as I navigated the confusing road of high school and later adulthood, I never tried drugs because my mother’s discussions with me became my comma in the sentences that make up my life story — that is, the pause that gave me a chance to say no to whatever was being passed around.

Sharon-Frances Moore lives in Vineyard Haven and contributes occasionally to the Gazette.