When I read about “Sharing My Story” I thought, “I don’t have a story to tell. I can tell you about a loved one, but is it really my story to tell? After much contemplation, I realized that I did have a story. Although the pain of addiction was not mine, the hollow ache of the aftermath is. My story is about picking up the pieces, as my life was forever changed by losing someone I loved deeply to an accidental overdose.
That Friday morning began just like any other day- the chaos of getting kids up and ready for school foremost in my mind. I just missed a very early call from my brother and I instantly thought this was the other shoe that I was expecting to drop. My mother was dying and every time my brother called it gave me pause; good news can always wait until after breakfast. I just “knew” that my mom was gone. I dialed my brother again and again to confirm the news, but my calls went straight to voicemail. Maybe I was wrong? Just then, my husband came in saying my name in a hushed tone that screamed “bad news”. I “knew” my brother had called him next. All I could say is, “I know, I know” because I knew my mom was gone. Only SHE wasn’t.
My nephew was gone. Suddenly. Without warning. My memories are hazy as to how I ended up on the ground, but the news shattered me and rendered me useless for days. I had been just 19 when my nephew was born, before I had kids of my own, and he became my life, my “baby” and my first love. He couldn’t be gone, this had to be a mistake. I wanted to hear that the news was wrong and that he was coming back. He wasn’t.
My family NEVER talked about the extent of my nephew’s drug use. Recreational alcohol and drug use while growing up was our “normal”. I had known through the family grapevine that my nephew was in treatment at some point in his younger years. I knew that he smoked marijuana and drank alcohol still, but I hoped (silently) that he was done with the “hard stuff”. I thought about it, but I didn’t feel like this issue was my “place” to ask about it, so we all moved on, hoping that it was all better now. It wasn’t.
Everything appeared under control; sure, he had a lot of growing up to do, but he was a valued member of our family. He participated in all family events and had many friends and strong relationships; he worked, took classes and had finally moved out of his father’s house. He was making changes, getting his life together. Or so it seemed. He wasn’t.
What I learned later was that he was having a great night before this happened; that his best friend had died that same week, two years prior, of an overdose; that he had a bottle of Narcan next to him as if he could have saved himself; that he was trying hard to save himself and to “get better”. He didn’t.
The memories of that morning will live forever in my mind, as will the guilt that I could have done something more to help him. I’ll never forget how I cried for 2 weeks straight or that I had to tell my kids that their cousin was gone- and why. The recollection of how alive he looked in his casket lives rent-free in my head; I wanted him to get up and give me one last laugh and a hug. He didn’t.
I miss him terribly and the reminders of him growing up, for 28 years, leaves an ache in my heart. I wish he were still here. This tragedy was avoidable. He was not alone. We could have helped- we should have done something more; my family misses him dearly and wonders every day how we could have changed the outcome. He is not coming back and we are left, broken-hearted, picking up the pieces.
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