grief & love – Opiate Nation

Shredding A Life – Losing the Future

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

Nine months after our son, JL’s, sudden death, we were gradually unearthing our grief, as we gradually unearthed pieces of his life. We were miners searching for something precious, digging through the layers of years as if through layers of rock. Or perhaps we were more like survivors of an earthquake. Our entire earth, with everything we had built on it, was suddenly shaken to the point of collapse, and we were sifting through the remaining buildings and rubble to see what was left. Deciding what to keep and what to dispose of. “Dispose of” has new and unwelcome meanings now. Clothing, personal belongings, furniture, files, photos, childhood toys, keys, memorabilia.

John’s journal entry on May 12, 2015 expresses some of our feelings:

Dear JL,

It’s dad again. We are going through more of your things and I spent a half-day shredding your old papers and notes. It is so odd that much of our lives comes down to boxes of paper to shred. This is very, very hard for me. Shredding your life.

I love you – Dad

Grief is about what is going on inside us after a loss—how we feel. We have no more control over it than we have control over other feelings. Our choice involves how we deal with it.

Mourning is the action of dealing with our loss—what we do, the common rituals, the external part of the tragedy. Again, we choose how we mourn.

Some people put acts of mourning off indefinitely – leaving a deceased loved one’s belongings just as they were when they died until they die themselves. Others, urged on by society or their own distraught emotions, will almost immediately begin sorting and throwing. For us, there were some natural milestones when deep inside we seemed to know it was time to face the loss of another part of our son’s life. The grief-work we were engaged in – being aware of the various stages of grief and facing them as they surfaced – was our internal guide. We never let societal custom or any external pressure guide us, while we did read and listen to other’s experiences.

One thing became clear: this loss of our child was very, very different than the loss of our parents or siblings. Although each of those were difficult in their own distinct ways, the level of personal pain with our son’s death was unique. He was an intimate part of who we are – of course – he came from us. As he grew and became his own person, he yet remained a part of our life and more significantly, our future. All is engulfed in a thick fog. Which is why the quote in the photo is so poignant:

When you lose a parent, you lose the past. When you lose a child, you lose the future.

A Seismic Disturbance

(Tenth 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 there is a rupture in the earth’s crust it creates a seismic disturbance, the prelude to an earthquake. Something seismic happened deep inside us the day our son died – a fissure opened, and all our energy was expelled. What followed that shock was the onset of grief and, as with earthquakes, the aftershocks. But unlike earthquakes, the aftershocks of grief continue for days and months and even years.

Separation Anxiety

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

After many years of not having a dog, we decided to adopt one from our local shelter. We found a beautiful German-shepherd/wolf mix who was 18 months old. Bella was docile, sweet and quiet. The next day, as I headed out to the grocery store, I gave her a hug and saw her watch me through the window as I got into the car.

When I returned an hour later, I was met with a shock. I found her, panting rapidly and pacing nervously in our bedroom where our wooden shutters were open and had bite marks. She had tried to escape while I was gone. I had no idea why. I immediately called the shelter. “She is having separation anxiety: she needed to escape being left alone.” We found out that she had been with two families previously when she was dumped at the shelter because she continued to try to escape when she was left alone for hours on end. They gave us the name of a dog behaviorist and we started down the long road of helping Bella manage her fear when we had to leave her at home.

Children and adults can experience separation anxiety when someone they are attached to leaves them. They can have recurrent and excessive distress just anticipating being separated from loved ones and the anxiety can be so intense that it is hard to function in everyday life. Panic attacks and physical symptoms such as nausea and headaches can occur. For me and my husband, on the morning of our son’s death from overdose, standing over our son in that body bag we experienced the ultimate separation anxiety. The overriding emotion we felt was fear: fear of the unknown future we were facing. We couldn’t visualize how we would survive without our son as part of our lives and the future we thought we all had together. He had not only been an integral part of our lives for 25 years but he was literally a part of us–the combination of our DNA that formed him as a particular and unique human being. To say that it was like having part of you taken away doesn’t describe it. This was having our hearts torn out.

We would never embrace or kiss or stroke the cheek of our son again. We were facing an existential crisis, shaken to the core, questioning our reason for living. Regardless of our strong faith that had seen us through many other deaths in our families, this separation seemed incomprehensible and cruel. It was only by falling down on our faces and waiting for Mercy to gradually pick us up that we were able to survive this traumatic separation from our son and move forward again in life.

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.

Darkness & Light

Last week, our son would have turned 31. My husband and I still wonder what that would have been like? Would we have enjoyed celebrating as he got married like most of his friends have? Would he be living nearby or in a distant state for a new job? Would he and his wife be planning to start a family and give us grandchildren? These are questions we can only visit in our imaginations, and yes, they bring pain.

On our son’s FB memorial page and our Instagram this week, I posted a photo of the desert after a storm when a rainbow appeared, with this quote: “As in nature, so in life: it takes both clouds and sunshine to make a rainbow.” I have been pondering these apparent paradoxes in nature and in life, especially the concept of darkness & light. While reading A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser, I was reminded again of how we felt from the moment we heard the words from the sheriff’s mouth: “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your son is dead.” Sittser lost his mother, his wife, and his daughter together in a head-on collision by a drunk driver and says, “Sudden and tragic loss leads to terrible darkness.” Yes. Existential darkness.

He describes a dream of seeing the sun setting and running frantically west toward it in order to remain in some vestige of light – but the sun was outpacing him to sink below the horizon. As he looked back over his shoulder, utter darkness and despair was closing in behind him. He later realized that “the quickest way to reach the light of day is to head east, plunging into the darkness, until one comes to the sunrise.”

The Ghosts of Grief

My husband and I just returned from a long trip – away from our home, away from all the reminders of our son’s life and death. One would think that being ‘away’ from those physical cues would minimize, or even alleviate, the consistent thoughts and feelings of our now-absent loved one. But it doesn’t.

I don’t know whether that is something to lament or cherish. I find both emotions surface at alternate times. What did strike me while we were away – away with our daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughters having lots of fun and constantly occupied – was that as soon as I had a moment alone and still, my son returned to center stage.

And it reminded me of a friendly ghost – those ones I grew up seeing in old cartoons and movies – the ones that continued to visit their loved ones and prompt them to do something, or help relieve them of guilt, or reassure them of their love.

What made me especially think of this connection was that I found myself saying inside “Not now – I don’t want to think about you now – it’s too emotionally draining, and I need to stay in the present with those I can actually love and be with now.” And, surprisingly, I find that I am able to push the memories and sense of his presence aside. The ‘ghost’ vanishes, at least temporarily. This is definitely a progression in grief. For the first year or two after JL’s death, I was not emotionally able to make this choice. Many times I was physically present with those around me but emotionally re-living some moment from the past.

It causes me to wonder if the real reason I am now taking this step is to avoid pain and if so, does that pain mean I have unfinished business with my son’s death? I’ve thought much about this and believe that is not the reason. It is more just avoiding the pain that surfaces with reminders of my son and a life cut short. And I think that pain will always be present because death, although it is our common fate, is not how things should be. I believe we are beings who were created for unending life and everything in me longs for the actual reunion I will someday have with my son, whatever that may look like.

I never want to lose the sense of my son’s presence, and the reminders of his life. So, I’m OK with the occasional ‘ghost’ appearing in my mind, even at inconvenient times, and accept it as part of the cost of life, love, and death.

Grieving The Living

For many, 2017 was a year of loss: a job, a home, a relationship, an opportunity. For between 120,000 parents to well over a million friends and relatives of the 60,000 persons who died from opiate overdoses in 2017, the new year will be a continuation of the grief process. Once we are forced to enter this unexpected, unwanted, and uncharted new territory, we have no choice but to travel through it. With support from our communities of friends and God’s love, we will somehow come out on the other side. If we have grieved honestly and fully, we will be better people who see others through different eyes.

But what about those who are living with a loved one in active addiction, or in a recovery program for the umpteenth time, or whose whereabouts are unknown? What is their 2018 going to be like? I can tell you, because my husband and I were there a few years ago. We were in constant flux between hoping against hope as we prayed and waited for a miraculous change, and discouragement and depression as we watched our young adult son struggle against an unrelenting foe. We were grieving the loss of the son we loved and raised and had hoped to see move successfully into adulthood. We were grieving the living.

Dr. Susan D. Writer wrote an excellent article on “Grieving the Living” posted on the Coalition For Healthy Minds website: http://cahmsd.org/grieving-the-living. The short article is well worth the read, but here are a few highlights:

“For those of us who have a loved one who struggles with mental illness or addiction, we are all too aware of how we can ‘lose the living’. When that individual is in the throes of…any unmanaged mental illness or addiction, their behaviors are altered. They are not themselves – or at least not the version of the people that we have grown to know and love. In some instances…we can only watch as they spiral down a dark or dangerous path. No matter what the outcome, our relationship with this loved one changes as a result of what we are experiencing, separately and together, and we often feel a deep sense of loss. But we must grieve the relationship of the past if we are to create a new one in its place for the future…though there may be remnants of the person we knew ‘before’ the illness or addiction, the change has occurred and all of us must learn to adapt… But we all must honor these changes in our loved ones and recognize that if we are to have any relationship with them we need to learn to adjust and adapt on our end… Grieving is a process and a necessary part of life…In order for us to realize the potential for a new relationship, with new opportunities for connection and intimacy, we must grieve the old relationship, and essentially ‘grieve the living’ to allow for life to move on… On the other side of grief is growth. And on the other side of grief is also acceptance and peace. But most importantly, on the other side of grief is love.”

I don’t know if while grieving our living son we ever got to consistent acceptance and peace, but the love between us all remained, even up to his last phone call to us the night before his death. And for that, I am eternally thankful.