Q: from a mother who lost a child to overdose
A: thoughts on grief, feeling, and what's eternal
Folks who know me well know that I am not a fan of small talk.
In fact, if I have to engage in more than a couple minutes of it, I start to get squirrelly and uncomfortable.
When I recently learned from the Circle of Chairs community, that you wanted me to start doing some Q and As, I was all in.
Dig into the tough topics?
Yes, please.
What I didn’t expect was to receive this first question in my in box the day I announced this offering.
Get ready and grab your tissues.
Photo by Jordan Whitt on Unsplash
Q: Try as I might there are numerous things that pull me back to the day of losing our son to an overdose. Then my eyes well up and I feel like I can’t breathe, how do I ever stop these thoughts and feelings?
A: Thank you for asking this question. Grief is a long valley.
While I am going to respond to your question the best I can, I know my limitations as a writer and mother. I have not experienced this unimaginable pain, though I know that hundreds of thousands of parents have experienced overdose loss in the past decades.
Many of us, too many of us, have also experienced the overdose loss of other family members, parents, friends, neighbors, and colleagues.
When we experience the very worst of life and unspeakable trauma, as you know, our minds, bodies, spirits, and souls can be crushed in many ways.
When you share that the memory of the day of your son’s death brings back pain so visceral, you feel it in your body and bones, and it nearly takes your breath away. This trauma response is normal, considering what you’ve experienced, and no doubt, you have talked with mothers and other parents who have experienced the same.
Overdose loss: How can we keep breathing when this unimaginable happens?
The title of a famous book on trauma for a reason, “Your body keeps the score” means that our bodies hold onto the trauma and respond for us, sometimes, when it feels like too much even for our minds and spirits to respond.
Your body takes over the grieving process as it takes your breath away.
My “answer” for you, if I can call it this is to lean into what your grief is doing. If it wants to take your breath away, let it.
Feel that pain, notice it, take deep breaths, replacing despair with another truth that may be tough to say: “I don’t know what to do, but my eyes are on you.”1
Now, you may not identify as a religious or spiritual person (I’d love to hear more about this in your life), but for me, when I’ve been overcome with grief, this saying from an old book really centers my heart. I may be lost in grief, sadness, overwhelming emotions, even physical responses (for me, panic attacks) of one form or another, but what I’ve learned over time is that I can take my thoughts captive, turn them from those that overwhelm and remind me of death, to those that point towards Life.
When you feel your mind pulling you toward the day of your son’s death, can you re-focus on a day that brings you joy, though it may still carry the tragic?
Maybe the day you found out you were pregnant or the day of his birth?
Maybe when he first waved goodbye on his way to school or the first basket he got in a basketball game?
Perhaps, remembering the light that came back in his eyes after a time of sobriety?
Keep these joyful moments close, dear mother, so that when grief threatens to take your breath away, you have something eternal to hang on to: the Love of a mother for her son.
Sending you and all of the parents who have lost loved ones to addiction all the love today.
*
Do you know the grief of this loss? Introduce yourself in the comments or send me a message. I’d be honored to hear from you.
If you are looking for support for overdose loss, reach out, and I can connect you with resources in your local community.
2 Chronicles 20:12
A message to all mothers of addicts, as well as other loved ones of those who struggle and fall victim to the disease of addiction:
I know that nothing I say can fill the void where loved ones once lived, but please know that, as the son of a mom who tried to remain close to me, oftentimes despite her better judgment, that nothing she could or could not have done brought me out of the path addiction was taking me; it was something beyond our control and understanding. So please don't assume that you could have done more, or that you should have behaved differently, because the most important thing to convey to any addict, ever, clean or using, is your love and reassurance that they matter, even and especially when they don't believe you, because in those final moments of each person's life, it is the thoughts and feelings felt from the love of others that fills our heads and hearts, and it is that that allows us the comfort and courage to cross over without fear. Knowing we're loved is perhaps as close to heaven as we will ever get, but when it comes down to it, if that's all there is, maybe that's enough. A mother's love, for me, is enough to keep that hope alive. Be well, stay safe, and live free.
It will be seven years in November since we lost Joel. I’ve found my purpose in guiding other families through their pain - a trauma that began long before the actual death. Although I’ve done a lot of personal work there is still much to unpack and work on. Grief is a long journey through all the feels - from unraveling pain to joyful memories and back and forth again and again. 💜