This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

I answered the phone; my world shattered. My 22-year-old son, Tyler, was dead of a drug overdose. These weren't street drugs. They were drugs prescribed by a medical doctor. With drug overdoses exceeding car accident deaths, one more casualty merged with the national epidemic. One in four Americans prescribed opioids become addicted. Every 24 minutes, a person dies from a drug overdose, the majority of these are from opioids.

I hadn't buried my head in the sand. I knew Ty was addicted, but he was also in severe pain from a back injury. Scheduled for surgery the following month, Ty couldn't enter a drug rehab program until he was able to completely recover from spinal surgery. Caught in a vicious cycle, he couldn't make it to surgery without substantial pain management.

Ty also suffered from anxiety and depression, which further heightened the pain. Every approved psychiatrist listed under my insurance in Utah County was not taking new patients. Relieved to find one with an opening, three months later, the psychiatrist dropped his status as a preferred provider. "Your insurance doesn't pay us on time and they keep lowering their rates," the receptionist told me.

I located a psychiatrist in Salt Lake who was listed as a preferred provider, and my insurance company still wouldn't pay. "I don't understand," I told customer service after waiting 45 minutes on hold with another unpaid bill clutched in my hand, "Why is the doctor listed as a preferred provider if he really isn't?"

Apparently, the psychiatrist could only be covered if he was working at the inpatient unit at University of Utah, not at his private practice. Back to the drawing board.

Four months later, I found a mental health therapist that was covered by my insurance. I went with Tyler to the appointment. Heartbreakingly vulnerable, Ty was open about his addiction, his desire to have spinal surgery and enter a recovery program. The following day, the therapist called to say he would not be able to see us again. Tyler needed to see an addictions counselor.

I called the office and begged them to please reconsider. Couldn't he see Tyler until he had the surgery and could enter a drug rehab program? No, he couldn't.

Predictively, addiction counselors covered by my insurance were full. "When an opening becomes available, we'll let you know," busy receptionists repeated like groundhog day. Ty was dead a month later.

On good days, I don't blame myself, the drug companies who spent millions of dollars marketing opioids as non-addicting, the health care system, the insurance companies or anyone else convenient. But every day I am convinced there is more we can do to prevent this.

First, mental health services must be covered by insurance equal to physical health services. Addiction is a disease.

Second, medical marijuana (oils and pills) can substantially reduce dangerous opioid addictions and deaths. Our perception of marijuana as a dangerous street drug is blinding us to the benefits it has for health care, especially pain management.

Third, integrative care (systematic coordination of general and behavioral healthcare) must be accessible. Currently, few insurance companies pay for integrative care so it's rarely offered.

Fourth, pain coping strategies must be as important as pain medication.

Fifth, compassion is what is needed for individuals and families struggling with this horrible disease, not judgement and smug superiority. I'm not proud to say I was once that person who thought it could never happen to me or my family. Unfortunately, it did … and it does … and more deaths will continue unless we address this issue with heart, courage, and determination.

Michelle Taylor is the mother of three children from West Jordan.