Let me start from the very beginning.
I knew Ed back in high school. He had already graduated, but we hung around the same group of friends, same streets. One summer night in 1984, I ran into him at a bar. He spilled a whole beer all over me and the table. I should’ve been mad, but I laughed. We went out the next weekend, and by the second date I knew. I loved him. Seven weeks later we were engaged. June of 1985, we married. And here we are, 36 and a half years later, still together.
In 1990, I found out I was pregnant. Jeremy. I’ll never forget the pink test, the rush of joy. At 16 weeks I saw him on the screen. Back then ultrasounds weren’t as fancy as now mostly shadows. But I saw him. My boy. Beautiful. I named him right then.
Five months later, October 18th, 1990, at 6:18 a.m., he was born. Eight days late. I still remember the feeling of him leaving my body, like magic, like something outside this world. He was placed in my arms, and when I whispered “hello,” he turned his head. He knew me. My voice. His mom. Instant bond.
Our family grew Rebecca in 1992, Daniel in 1995. Jeremy slid right into big brother mode. The boss. The other two just seemed to know it. Funny how kids sort that out so fast.
At four years old, Jeremy went to his first soccer practice. That was it. From then on soccer, soccer, soccer. Playing, watching, coaching, even dreaming it. It wasn’t just his passion, it became ours too. Autumn meant three different soccer schedules. Looking back now, Jeremy shaped our whole family life with that love.
At 13 he tried out for a tough club, Real So Cal. He made it. He worked hard, nonstop practices, games all year. He thrived. Won three national championships in a row. Honestly, those years between 13 and 18, I think those were his happiest. Purpose, discipline, confidence. He even got a scholarship to play at CSUDH.
He graduated high school in 2009, started college, made varsity as a freshman. We loved watching him play. On his birthday, they even had the announcer call it out and the whole crowd clapped. He beamed.
But then the grades slipped. Travel, games, classes it was too much. By sophomore year he wasn’t eligible to play. He could’ve fixed it with one summer class. Just one. But the commute into LA felt like too much, and he chose city college instead, planning to return. He never did. He always said that was his biggest mistake.
Santa Barbara came next. He and a friend rented a beach place. Classes turned into parties. Money ran out. He moved home with two pit bulls. I said no at first we already had a dog, pits had that “dangerous” reputation. But I knew he’d never give up Gus. That dog became his second passion. The way he loved and trained Gus gentle, patient, so proud I remember thinking, “He’ll take care of me one day.” He wanted to be an EMT, a fireman. I thought his future was set.
Then came heroin. 2012. He was 22. Someone at a party offered it. He was down, lost without soccer. One bad choice. One yes. It changed everything.
At first I didn’t know. Weed, sure. Drinking, sure. But heroin? I couldn’t imagine. Daniel finally told me, flat out, “Mom, Jeremy’s doing bad drugs.” I guessed through a list. Acid? Mushrooms? No. Then it hit me heroin? He said yes. My world stopped.
First rehab, August 2013. We did an intervention, he went in, came out clean. I believed him. I was so happy, thought he was cured.
Second rehab, 2015, after I found him overdosed on his bedroom floor. Syringe, spoon, lighter. He swore he’d never touch a needle, but there it was. Paramedics revived him. My heart broke again.
Third rehab, 2017. He seemed determined. Even started Vivitrol shots. They helped. He was set to start a real EMT job that April. Bought khakis the night before. Said this was his chance to start over. A new life.
But on April 26th, 2017, I found him. He never made it to his first day. My boy was gone.
Months later, they arrested the dealer. Chris. He even wrote us a letter. No excuses, no lies. Just remorse. Asking forgiveness. I never thought I’d give it, but after prayer, I did. I felt Jeremy would want that. And something inside me lifted.
Jeremy fought hard. He wrote goals, prayers, affirmations. He tried. I respect him so much for that. Losing him shattered us, but out of it we built the Jeremy Castro Foundation. To help others fighting the same battle. To give them another chance at life.
Jeremy’s story didn’t end with his death. His fight, his love, his compassion it lives on.
