My Friend the Fighter
A mother's war against Fentanyl - and politics
I want to tell you about my friend Patrice. I need to tell you about her son, Max.
I met Patrice Lenowitz at work. She was working in the fledgling honors office, right across the hall from the English Department, and while I don’t recall exactly how we met, I remember stopping in once or twice a week to say hello and chat or gossip with her. Lots of people did that; her office was always busy, because she was the kind of person you wanted to be around. She was funny, outgoing, and optimistic, a trait I did not realize at the time was a somewhat miraculous one for her to possess.
Patrice was also very open and honest, so it didn’t take long for parts of her story to come out. She was a survivor of domestic violence. She had grown up in an abusive home, sworn that she would never find herself in an abusive marriage, and then looked up one day to realize that she was, in fact, in an abusive marriage.
When I invited Patrice to come speak to one of my classes on the issue of domestic violence, which had come up in a book we were reading, I found out, along with my class, just how unimaginably horrific her experience had been. She was lucky to be alive. She told a story that involved her ex literally trying to kill her - and then, to really drive the point home about the psychology behind abusive relationships - stressed that that was not even the incident that finally led her to leave him.
That wouldn’t come until she fully soaked in the fear on the faces of her two sons, Zac and Max. For them, she left. She sought help, and, eventually, she got healthy.
By the time I met her, Patrice was on the other side of the issue. She was an activist, working with The Center for Hope and Safety (formerly known as Shelter our Sisters), and even creating her own organization and support group, The Nurtured Parent. I imagine she was angry at herself for how long it took her to get out, but if she was, there was only one way she knew how to channel that ire: by helping others leave sooner. She couldn’t change her past, but she could try to help someone else change their future.
In the years to come, Patrice dedicated more and more of herself to activism and lobbying. She was at her best when on a mission. From domestic violence, she got involved in the fight against human trafficking.
Patrice and I never really lost touch, but in the ensuing years, we’d talk sparingly, the way old friends often do. At some point towards the end of the pandemic, something made me think of her, and I realized that it had been too long since we’d spoken. I gave her a call, and when she filled me in on what had been going on in her life, I was shocked: she had cancer, and the prognosis did not sound especially promising. But, this being Patrice, she was optimistic - and she was fighting, because she’s a fighter.
She eventually did beat the cancer. To me, it felt like, well, of course she did. She’s Patrice. She doesn’t lose fights. But to hear her tell the story, it was her younger son, Max, who got her through. He took care of her, was there for all of her treatments, and if her optimism ever faltered, his wouldn’t allow it.
In remission, she rededicated herself to activism, lobbying for the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment. I would follow her progress on social media, mostly, always amazed at her determination.
But the worst day of her life, somehow, had not yet come.
I texted Patrice to check in during the summer of 2022. She wrote back, “My son, Max, just died.”
I met Max when he was in high school. I tutored him a few times - I don’t even remember for what. Help with his college essays, maybe, or studying for the SATs. He was a great kid. Sensitive, smart, engaging…he was like his mom. She always called him her baby.
After college, Max had moved to Atlantic City. That July, when a group of friends went to see him for his birthday, they couldn’t find him. Eventually, he was found dead in a hotel room, and the autopsy would reveal that he had died of fentanyl poisoning. Like a startlingly growing number of young adults in America, Max had taken what he thought was merely Xanax, but it had been laced with fentanyl.
Patrice, obviously, was beyond devastated. But whereas just about anyone else might finally have had enough, might have determined that life was simply too cruel for optimism or strength, Patrice, once again, decided to fight. More than any time in her life, she had a mission: to spare other mothers the pain she would never be done grieving.
The victories came often, and they came quickly. She set up a Go Fund Me to raise awareness of fentanyl poisoning. She introduced a bill in the New Jersey Senate on June 5, 2023. Only 25 days later, the bill passed with unanimous bipartisan support. And on July 14, Governor Phil Murphy signed the bill declaring that day - Max's birthday - Fentanyl Poisoning Awareness Day for the State of New Jersey. Patrice’s goal is to procure funds seized during Fentanyl-related arrests, and repurpose that money towards the opening of a youth zen center in Bergen County, as a place to help young people deal with trauma and steer them away from drugs and other forms of self-harm.
Next came Max’s Law, which Patrice co-authored to focus on prevention education. Sponsored by Senator Holly Schepisi and Senator Vin Gopal, it was introduced in February of 2024, and passed the Senate Education Committee unanimously in April 2025. But on its way to a full senate vote - the last hurdle before going to Murphy’s desk - one legislator pulled out. Life-saving information is being held up at the mercy of politics.
Some people believe in the maxim “everything happens for a reason.” It is certainly comforting to imagine that we have some sort of contract with a higher power that ensures that even our most painful experiences are part of some grand design, incomprehensible to the human mind. Others scoff at the notion, believing in the randomness of human events, or, when whatever faith they have is tested in the most severe ways, they are incapable of any longer subscribing to the idea that their trauma is necessary in order to fulfill a different purpose.
Patrice doesn’t fit into either of these categories. She was determined -she did determine - that Max’s death serve a purpose. That it have meaning. It was damn sure going to have happened for a reason. And so there’s going to be some mother out there, some father, some family, whose son or daughter doesn’t die of fentanyl poisoning, who otherwise might have. There will be dozens. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Patrice will always look at this as Max’s legacy, but it’s hers. If you know her, then you know that she approached this fight with the attitude of “not on my watch.”
We’re all on her watch now. We all need to make sure Max died for a reason. Patrice has accomplished much, but I know she has not yet begun to fight.
To fight with her (if you live in New Jersey), contact these leaders and urge them to post Max's Law for a vote in a Special Voting Session this summer:
Sen. Paul Sarlo: sensarlo@njleg.org | 201-804-8118
Asm: Criag J. Coughlin: asmCoughlin@njleg.org | 732-855-7558