death from overdose – Opiate Nation

10th Anniversary Tribute

(Translation in most languages at tab to the right)

August 2, 2024

It has been 10 years since we woke up on a hot Saturday morning in August not thinking about anything in particular – other than the house projects we wanted to focus on for the day. Little did we know what had happened in the wee hours of the morning or how a knock on the door at 11am would change our lives forever.

John Leif (J.L.) had many friends in high school and university, many whom we stay in touch with. We have asked them to write their thoughts in remembrance of him on this 10^th anniversary of his death. Three of the tributes are the people who wrote the “Stories of Hope” at the end of Opiate Nation. Some of the tributes below are from friends that JL started using alcohol and Oxy’s with in middle or high school – before there was any open discussion about opioids and before their brains were mature enough to understand the deadly consequences of this particular addiction. And many went through years of struggling to get free from how opioids changed the neurological pathways in their brains. We are proud of them and love and thank them for their openness in sharing their stories and for all these heartfelt tributes expressing love for our son and for us.

Here is the YouTube link (or you can watch a mini version on the sidebar) for the photo/video tribute of JL’s life that Johanna and her cousins made: https://youtu.be/70rg4dqfFxU

My Brother

I have so many fond memories of my childhood growing up with John Leif. Our parents created an idyllic environment for us to grow up in; our mornings were spent doing our homeschool work and our afternoons were free for playing. JL and I spent many hours creating imaginary worlds with characters in Lego and Playmobil, racing his Hot Wheels cars or digging in the dirt with his Tonka Trucks. When he was little, he would also happily play baby dolls or dress ups with me, and we would create puppet shows or build forts in the living room or back yard. JL shared my love of animals, and we spent a lot of time playing with and caring for our many pets: cats, rats, hermit crabs, frogs and fish. While we had plenty of sibling fights over the years, he was the playmate I had been waiting for and I cherish the carefree time we were so privileged to have together. I wish that we could have continued growing up together into adulthood, sharing even more adventures and exploring new places. I miss him very much.

Johanna

You Are Always With Me

J. L. – It’s been 10 years – a full decade since your passing. My memory of your face is slightly fading. Your voice and your laugh aren’t as crisp in my mind anymore. Your appearances in my dreams have become less and less over the years. While I’m scared of forgetting about you, I’m relieved that I’m finally moving on. Your death has affected me tremendously, and there has been a hole in my heart that has felt bottomless for so long. Fortunately that has changed and that hole has been filled. Although I lost you – my best friend – I found another. Man, I wish you could meet her. You’d laugh because she’s exactly who I used to describe as my “perfect woman” during our long rooftop conversations while watching the sun rise after a long, rowdy night.

I have a full life though I still can’t delete your number from my phone contacts or your gamertag on Xbox (which I haven’t played in years). Life still doesn’t quite feel complete without you around. Memories of you, however, are becoming more a feeling of pleasant remembrance rather than a haunting reminder of your absence in this world. I like to think that this comes from your soul telling mine of your acceptance of the afterlife. Whatever the reason, you’ll always be with me as I enter the next chapters of my life. While I wish we were experiencing them together, I know you’re looking out and guiding me from above. I love you, my brother.

Kyle Thornton

His Death Changed Me

J.L. had an infectious laugh and smile, and a sort of curiosity like a coyote – a twinkle in his eye always. He was really damn smart and twice as funny. Also, very loyal to friends and those close to him. His death changed me, has forever changed me. The seriousness of addiction was clear before – but him suddenly being gone shook me to my core.

He’s missed, and I speak of him often to not forget him – to newcomers and men I take through the twelve steps, and to my friends and family.

Benjamin W.

He Was a Gift

John & Jude – Everyone you meet in life is someone you have no idea what effect they will have on you until you get to know them. And sometimes, people show up and blow you away. That was JL for me.

In high school, a lot was happening, and a lot went wrong for me. When I went to Social Studies with JL though, he made my day better. I can still clearly see the high school hallway during our breaks, and how I wanted to be around JL because he always made us laugh.

On weekends, when everyone went to parties, if I saw JL I felt safe – plain and simple. We talked and joked – there was never a negative part to being around him. I really loved the friendship I had with your son. I also really, really appreciate the respect he showed me as a friend. Although I wasn’t a best friend to him, he did impact my life and I hope you know that, because that’s due to you. JL was my friend, and I still think about him all the time.

He is happy where he is though – I know you know that – but just remember it when things get hard. I can’t even imagine the pain you go through every day. He was a gift.

Brittney Kline

Grateful for the Perspective You’ve Given Me

John & Jude – I have thought about JL often over the course of these past 10 years. Honestly, I find myself thinking about him more now that he is gone. I think about how much I have grown and changed over the last decade and wonder what changes and season of life he would be in if he were still with us. It makes me smile to think of JL having a wife and a kid and observing him being in that role.

J.L. – I miss you and I am grateful for what you’ve given me. The perspective you’ve given me, the thoughts you’ve brought to the surface, the memories you are part of and the reminder of just how fortunate we all are to still be fighting the good fight.

Rich Jacome

I Wish He Was Here

Ten years ago, news of JL’s death was unreal. I knew he was getting help for his addiction and had been clean for many months. Everything seemed like life was getting better for him. It did not seem real that he passed away. There was no tragic car accident, but a single slip of willpower. A moment of weakness, and poof! Like a vapor in the wind, he was gone.

I have many regrets with my end of our relationship. The biggest one was that I did not take the time to really get to know him as a teen and as a young adult. He was my kid-cousin, and I always assumed he’d be fine, just like myself. We were young, after all. I assumed he would have a long life and we’d have plenty of time to connect. But life is short. For him, much shorter.

His death opened my eyes to the extreme danger of self-medication and opiate addiction. I used to think of drug use as “bad decisions.” Now I understand it’s a lethal death sentence, especially now with even minor drugs laced with fentanyl. No one knows if “their pill” is the one pill that will end their life.

I wish he was here. I wish he knew how much he is loved. I wish he was not missing out on this beautiful world. I miss you JL.

Love, Cousin Justine

My Best Friend

Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about my best friend and my brother JL he was easily the closest bond that I’ve ever had in life. I have so many fun stories of JL and I find myself telling stories of him and I on a weekly basis.

JL taught me how to embrace life – he really knew how to have fun and he knew how to express how he felt about things. I would argue that he lived more in his life than most people could ever dream to do.

His intelligent and mischievous thoughts resonate through all my life’s great decisions. When I find myself talking to my own subconscious I don’t see me. I see JL.

William Skylar Helfrich

No Other Friend Like You

Dear J.L. – I’ll start this by saying the obvious which is you are dearly missed. I can’t believe I haven’t talked to you in almost 10 years. Some days it feels so long ago. Other days it feels like it was yesterday I was in culinary school, and we would talk at night and text. No matter where I was living you were my best friend. No judgment ever between us. Such a rare thing. We completely understood each other on every level. I had never had a friend I connected with on the level I did with you. I haven’t since either.

Your funeral was so surreal to me. It still hurts so bad, so often. I think of you and the things we will never get to do. Losing you and my father so close together is a wound that will never heal, no matter the time passed. I wish you could see my life today and share it with me. I think of you often and still say to myself a lot of the phrases we always said to each other. The memories we made together will always live within me. I hope to see you again one day.

Love, Matt

A Significant Impact

I never knew John Leif, but his life had an impact on me that has been significant. I met Jude & John Trang through their friendship with my own parents, and I heard their story with addiction, which so closely mirrored what I had put my parents through with my own substance dependence. When I met the Trang’s, I didn’t know any other families like mine. John Leif and I had a lot in common. We had two parents who loved us, we had a nice home life, we had options and opportunities, we were the same age. And we did heroin anyway. John Leif lost his life, but I did not. Why?

The Trang’s are deeply religious, spiritual people, whose beliefs guide them through life’s joys and sorrows. I have witnessed the power of their faith as it illuminates the space around them wherever they go. As for me, the question of “why?” has no answer. Why him, and not me? Why should I be so lucky? Why couldn’t he have been saved? Why should the Trang’s be the ones with broken hearts, while I get to sing and dance with my parents today, almost 12 years since I used a syringe? Neither my belief system nor my experience of life has provided any kind of reason. It is part of the great mystery. To me, the question itself is where the lesson resides: be grateful. Appreciate life’s beautiful moments and be present when life is challenging.

Through knowing the Trang’s, I remind myself to feel ALL my feelings without trying to numb, distract, or turn to harmful habits. I am deeply connected to the Trang family because of our shared experiences. My life is enriched because of them, and I keep John Leif in my meditations.

Mattea Tampio

Death: Painful or Beautiful?

(Translation into most languages at tab to right)

My husband and I recently watched the streaming memorial service for his niece who died of cancer at 51 years old. Her mother, husband, children, sister and extended family all mourning the inescapable truth that there is now a gaping hole in their hearts and lives where once a beautiful woman had lived. She has been torn from their lives like when a thief grabs a bag from your hand and you struggle and try to hang on to it but, in the end, it’s gone. Weeping is the only thing that feels appropriate.

Although it’s been nine years since our son JL died from an accidental heroin overdose, the sense of him being torn away from us remains. Whether it was the death of our son, my siblings, our parents, or friends, the undeniable fact remains that death is painful. Almost always painful for the person dying, especially with a protracted illness or debilitating condition. But always painful for those left to live with the empty space where the person they knew and loved used to reside. We will never forget the Sherriff’s knock at our door that Saturday morning and hearing him say, “I’m sorry to have to tell you…”

We all naturally focus on our loved one’s beautiful life and the memories we have of them. This is only right and good. And there can be beauty in the way someone dies – this I have seen, and this has been recorded throughout history. Regardless of the kind of death – whether by illness, accident, torture, or plain old age – history tells us about those who have faced pain and death with grace. How? Because they saw beyond this world and had hope for life in the next.

What I bristle against is the thought that death is somehow beautiful. There is nothing beautiful about the tearing away and finality of death. Sentimental and romanticized thoughts about death have never helped me when I have had to stare into the cold face of a dead loved one. I have watched people facing the intense and unpredictable emotions after the death of a loved one as they try to make sense of something senseless. Those who have no hope of seeing their loved one again and who do not have the hope of existence in another realm, often try to transform death into something else – as if the only way to survive their pain is to imbue death itself with beauty. Or perhaps attempt to ignore it altogether.

For me, I believe that there is a good God who will one day put this world back to the way he created it. In my view, death and the tearing separation and sadness that accompany it are a temporary condition of living in a fallen world. We are told that death is an enemy and that one day it will be abolished. Yet, knowing I will see my son and siblings and parents and beloved friends again one day, where there will be no more sickness or pain or tears, doesn’t change the sorrow and grief that I feel now. I am a mortal living in a physical body in a physical world facing real physical triumphs and tragedies. And until this life is over and this world is made new, death will be painful. Our response to pain, suffering, and death is what concerns us now. And comforting those who mourn and offering compassion, regardless of the circumstances surrounding their death, is something tangible that does not minimize or romanticize the pain of death.

UPDATE:

This morning, August 2nd, I just happened to find and listen to an affirming podcast on Hope In The Face of Death by Dr. Timothy Keller. It is well worth the 40 minutes of your time. He says what I am trying to communicate more eloquently and thoroughly.

https://podcast.gospelinlife.com/e/hope-in-the-face-of-death/

Regrets: Endless Stairways

(Twenty-ninth in a series of topical blogs based on chapter by chapter excerpts from Opiate Nation. Translation into most languages is available to the right.)

Our family loves the art of Dutch mathematician and artist M. C. Escher: the buildings that open into themselves, the school of fish that become a flock of birds, the circuitous stairways that go up and down throughout multiple buildings without an end point. Yes, stairways that never get you where you want to go, but keep you endlessly retracing your steps. They are no longer interesting art to wonder at. They now mirror how John and I have felt many times since August 2nd—regrets—retracing the steps of our entire lives.

The Politics of Drugs: Purdue & the DOJ

(Seventh in a series of topical blogs based on chapter by chapter excerpts from Opiate Nation. Translation into most languages is available to the right.)

When public health is at risk, one can only wonder about the motives behind politicians’ decisions – our “public servants” as they used to be referred to – regardless of what they may say. But we don’t have to guess their motives because actions speak louder than words and the actions of the US Department of Justice (DOJ) this week regarding Purdue Pharma and the Sackler family are unconscionable. This deal is not justice for the victims and their families for this pervasive and criminal corporate greed.

A Lament and A Love Song – for Our Son

Lament for a Son is an intensely personal tribute by Nicholas Wolterstorff to his 25-yr-old son who died in a climbing accident. It is eloquent and unforgettable as he gives voice to a grief that is both unique and universal: the tortured pain of losing an individual, a child, your child.

We lost our 25-yr-old son to a heroin overdose six years ago on August 2, 2014. Lament for a Son has been one of our go-to books since that time. Wolterstorff expresses the incomprehension and sense of unfairness that, I believe, parents worldwide feel when they lose a child – someone who is supposed to bury you, not the other way around. It doesn’t fit with the cycle of life we expect – it is jarring, unsettling, bewildering, frustrating, disquieting.

In the Preface he relates:

A friend told me he gave a copy of Lament to all of his children. “Why?” I asked. “Because it’s a love song,” he said. That took me aback. But, Yes, it is a love-song. Every lament is a love song. Will love-songs one day no longer be laments?

Yet, while the book expresses the common feelings brought on by sudden unexpected death, what he doesn’t share with those of us who have lost a child to drug/alcohol addiction are the previous long years, sometimes decades, of turmoil, anxiety, fear, and depression that we experience on top of all the normal grief.

And shame.

There is no glory in being the parent of someone who is an addict or alcoholic.

Death in the time of Covid-19: The Body Bags

During the first few years of writing Opiate Nation, the working title was Saying Goodbye Through a Body Bag. As I got closer to publication, friends suggested I look for another title, saying it was off-putting and gave a depressing visual image. It took me a while to adjust to the idea of another title because it was the experience of doing just that – saying goodbye to my son through a thick black body bag in the hot August sun – that pushed me through my grief and on to writing about what my husband and I had experienced and what we hoped could be a warning for others.

Grief – It’s Just Like That

I am sitting in our Arizona room looking out past our front garden, up to the soaring Rocky Mountains and the crystal clear cerulean blue sky. It is a view I love more than any other in the world. But my heart is heavy and I can’t seem to cheer it up.

And I realized, after a few days feeling like this, that grief is just like that. We can’t force the feelings to go away when they show up. We just have to ride them out. Like being on a river in a raft, floating along enjoying the peace and quiet and beautiful scenery when you come to a section of rapids. Hopefully you have your equipment in place: helmet, life vest, paddle. You know you need to hold on, gather up your energy and fortitude, and ride it out until you are through the rough water.

Where do we find the fortitude to be able to ride out the turmoil that this life can bring our way? This world offers many kinds of coping mechanisms, most of which offer only temporary relief – diversions – like watching a movie, going on a trip, shopping, eating, using alcohol, or a substance, etc. These may work for a small dip in the waves. But what if you are thrown out of the raft during a violent upheaval from the current? How will temporary diversions and coping mechanisms fare? As we all know from experience, not too well.

The equipment we need for a healthy and stable life on this planet should be in place so that when difficult times come, we can at least fall back on it: daily habits that promote well-being; a solid community support system like AA or 12-step groups or a small accountability group; a foundation of spiritual beliefs and practices.

My husband and I rely on that equipment – the only real stability we have known in the wake of our son’s death from a heroin overdose. We keep up our daily exercise and healthy diet and sleep; we call on our close community of friends who know us well and support us through thick and thin; and lean on our faith in a God who loves us, trusting His promises. We aren’t instantly removed from the tumultuous currents, but we know we will get through. I need to remember this today.