This is a chapter of the workbook Gone too Soon: Navigating grief and loss as a result of substance use.
Leslie's story
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The night I learned that my son was dead was, and will be, the worst of my life. I am certain that nothing will ever compare to this pain.
Nothing we do in this moment, aside from hurting ourselves or others, is wrong. I screamed the word 'no' for hours until my voice was gone. I sat in silent shock while a police officer and the victim services person (close friends, as we live in a small community) sat in our small living room and spoke softly, about what, I have no idea.
Somehow I realized when I got myself to bed that this was the first night I would not awaken at 2 AM wondering where my son Jordan was. Exhausted and mentally sick, I fell asleep for 10 hours, and did not even turn over.
The morning brought shock and numbness. I was a zombie, shuffling to the bathroom, getting a coffee, going back to bed. I have no recollection of my husband being there, but he must have been on the same trajectory. The disbelief lasts for a very long time. I cried in gasps, I wept softly, I yelled at the sky. I continued to say the word 'no.' I slept 15 hours out of every 24 for a long time.
The few days, weeks, and months after losing a child are otherworldly. I welcomed visitors and the lovely food they brought but I had no other sense of emotion or connection. I felt like a person made of stone and alternately, cloud. I was not in control of anything around me. Family arrived from all over, friends were scattered through my days.
"What is death," I asked myself over and over. My boy, my only child, had vanished from the planet.
I dealt with the police, the coroner, the funeral home. I ordered a wicker basket for a green burial. Somehow I was able to rise to the occasion of the burial and the memorial. I had written an obituary, submitted it to the local paper, explaining that his was a drug-related death. I did the eulogy and spoke of Jordan's struggles with the hungry ghost. Only the grief that surrounded me made Jordan's death real. I had to console people, I had to respond to awful questions and difficult comments ("It's God's plan" is one of the worst along with "Everything happens for a reason"). I had to keep my act together in public. I had a frightening new identity—I was the unthinkable—a mother who had lost a child.
We must not only deal with the brutal loss, we must redefine ourselves. Who am I if I am not Jordan's mother? Being a mother was my job. I often felt guilty in this job because I loved it so much. Others might have to work at jobs they hated, or not have enough work and scramble to keep the home together. They might have other children, demanding partners, so many difficult life situations. But me, I had one child, time, resources, a solid family, art, friends and motherhood. I spearheaded many initiatives for kids in our small community. I was involved at the school being the Parent Advisory Council chair for 5 years.
My son and I raised funds and built a mobile skate park. We spent weekends going from one skate park to another on Vancouver Island. I was a child advocate, I was a serious mother. We allowed Jordan a lot of freedom, maybe too much. And here begin the questions and the guilt. Where did we go wrong? What signs did we miss? Why didn't we do more, why, why, why? This sense of guilt goes on for a long time. Maybe forever. But it diminishes with time too. As parents, we do the very best we can at any given moment. Often we think that our best is not good enough. And when we lose a child to drug-related harms, we are sure of it. This thinking hurts us, and while I can say that it is something we must let go of, I can also say we almost never do. We learn to live with it.
Which brings me to this: We will not get over our grief, we will not go through our grief. Our grief becomes part of who we are. Living with the pain slowly becomes the new normal. If we are lucky we will find a counselor or a support system that will keep us safe and moving forward. Over a period of time which is different for everyone, the pain softens and becomes a room in our heart. The door to this room must stay open. We must visit it and work with it regularly. If we shut the door, the pain may leak out in unexpected and unhealthy ways.
We all have opinions on the worst days, the best days, the best and worst years on this path. Unquestionably the anniversary of our loved one's death is the worst day of the year. It is good to plan the day—a ritual of candles and family, church, a walk in nature, placing flowers, something that acknowledges in a meaningful way the transition. You will find a way.
As I write this, it has been 3½ years since Jordan died. I do not go a week without tears. There is a place inside me that carries the weight of a headstone. But I am stronger for it. And occasionally now I find moments of joy.
Jennifer's story
I lost my youngest son, Dylan, almost 4 years ago at the age of 21. He had taken a street drug laced with fentanyl. Dylan was an occasional substance user but that is only a small part of who he was.
Dylan was completing a Studio Arts Program at Capilano University and was in his last semester. He was a gifted artist he loved photography and sculpting.
He had a long term girlfriend who he had met in high school. He was an avid athlete who loved snowboarding, biking, hiking, and canoeing. Dylan was your average boy next door who, unbeknownst to him, accidentally ingested fentanyl.
The reason I'm telling you about Dylan is to let you know that I have experienced firsthand what you are going through right now. I know the agony, despair, and anger that you are feeling. I want you to know that what you are feeling is completely normal. Grief is not linear and you will have mood swings, grief bursts, and anger towards the person(s) responsible for your loved one's death as well as anger towards your loved one for taking the drug. You might feel guilt that you weren't able to protect them, to save them, and that somehow you are responsible for their death. You might find yourself asking yourself, did you not love them enough, were you too lenient or too strict? The one that is the hardest to accept is that you might feel a sense of relief that the worst has happened: you no longer have to fear what might happen. That stress is no longer present, but now you have to accept the death and learn to live without them. It is said that we grieve deeply because we love deeply, I know that I wouldn't want it any other way.
When I received the news about Dylan it felt like I had received a blow to my stomach and all the air left my body. From that moment on I was numb and felt like I was living in a dream-world.
At first, due to the stigma of his death, I refused to tell anyone how he had died but after approximately 10 months I began to feel that I was being disrespectful to my son and his life.
I introduced a support group for people who had lost loved ones to substance use. I then proceeded to get involved with advocacy work. I travelled to the UN, met provincial and federal politicians including Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. I fought relentlessly for the rights of our substance users.
In the 4 years since Dylan's death I have been on an emotional rollercoaster—disbelief, anger, frustration, guilt. What I could have or shouldn't have done. The first year I felt like I was buffered in cotton batting. In the second year, reality set in with the realization that he wasn't ever coming back. I wouldn't see his goofy smile or hear him tell me "I love ya, Momma!" This was my "new life": a life sentence of living without my child.
At the end of my third year, those emotions have faded into the background. I haven't forgotten Dylan and who he was. I still mourn him and find certain times of the year are harder than others: birthdays, Christmas, and his Angel Birthday (the anniversary of his death).
I still experience grief outbursts, which sneak up unexpectedly, but I am in a much better place than I once was. I celebrate Dylan's life, his love of art, and his belief in Eastern Teachings. I have come full circle. I still like my time alone to think about Dylan but I am no longer acutely grieving. I know that Dylan would want me to be happy and to live for him and I’m now able to do this. I am living my new "new life."
Emily's story
I lost my 17 year old sister 9 months ago, from a cocaine and fentanyl overdose. My unfortunate reality, that I'm still exploring.
Losing her has been the most painful experience imaginable. The death of my only sister left me with an open wound that will never heal. It's a feeling like having to continue on with life, with only half a heart.
There are many mornings filled with anger, denial, disbelief and many, many tears. Her passing left me with a feeling like I was drowning all the time. People told me, "It will get easier", but that made me even more upset, because it wasn't getting any better. It wasn't until about 6 months after her death that I felt something lift a bit of weight off my heart. However, it was half a year that went by, where I felt like I could barely keep my head above water.
My little sister suffered sexual abuse and interference at age 14, from a known predator, who unfortunately was never charged. The abuse lead her down a destructive path of addiction for many years, to numb her painful experiences. When she tragically died in the original abusers' motel room, 4 years later, a part of me died with her. It was like I was robbed of something I worked so desperately to save, for so many years. And I'm still fighting.
There is a constant ache in my heart for all the memories we won't get to share together. My sister, Heather, is my best friend in this world. I become flooded with thoughts of never getting to see her smile or hear her laugh again, and those are unbearable. My sister and I will never be able to hug and kiss each other again. We won't be able to sing aloud to our favourite John Mayer songs together. We won't be standing proud to watch each other get married. We won't get to hold our nieces and nephews, and help each other through motherhood.
I will never get to see her dance again.
All of these thoughts leave me with a lump in my chest, because my sister and I planned our lives out together. It feels as if she's been ripped away from me forever, when neither of us ever deserved that.
Losing my sister has given me a re-evaluation of life that I never wanted. As much as it's been the most painful, overwhelming, never-ending, uphill battle I've ever had to endure, what stems from all the pain is love. LOVE. LOVE. LOVE. The amount of grief I have felt losing her, is proportionate to the amount of love I have for her. There is so much agony, because our love runs so deep.
The death of my little sister has shown me the true beauty of life. There is goodness, even in the bad. It's brought me to a better understanding of who I am as a person, and helped me see the preciousness of my life, and those around me. I take pride in the little things, because they do matter. I can see some of the light, beneath the dark. No, it's not easy, but the loss of such a special loved one has brought me back to reality. I miss her so much that it's helped me appreciate and be grateful for the things I do have.
Losing a sibling is like an ocean. It ebbs and flows. Sometimes the waves are rocky, sometimes the water is calm. You just have to learn to swim.
