Mother's Heartbreak

A Story of Addiction & Loss

Category: grieving loss of son (Page 1 of 5)

A Can of Beef A Roni and So Much More

July 25, 2023 /

Matt,

Never in a million years did I ever think I would find myself falling apart in the pasta aisle of my local grocery store after seeing a can of Beef A Roni. The gut wrenching, hit my heart hard, kind of pain left me holding onto my cart telling myself to breathe. Tears running down my face like a hose stuck in the on position with no hope of being turned off. Oh God, I think, how am I ever going to survive the rest of my life if can’t even make it through the grocery store without a major meltdown. Seeing that can and feeling those feelings has become a part of my new life. The life I never saw coming or signed up for.

Beef A Roni was my youngest son, Matt’s favorite food. I would stock up at the ten for $10 sale and hurry home to stuff his weekly care package with all his favorite foods. Sending them off with a piece of my heart to the half way house he lived in a thousand miles away from home. A can of Beef A Roni, a connection to my son who is no more.

Then there is the scent of Phoenix. This was his smell. I can still hear his voice, “Hey Mom, can you pick me up my deodorant, I’m running low”. I’ve found myself in this same store walking to the deodorant aisle and finding that familiar blue can. I remove the lid and spray a tiny bit. Closing my eyes taking a deep breath I let my mind drift back to happier times. This is what my life has become. Finding pieces of my son in everyday places trying to keep our connection alive.

I once felt that being the mother of a son suffering from addiction was the worst thing that ever happened to my life. That constant feeling of helplessness and anxiety ruled my mind. I compared his addiction to being trapped on a very fast, very high roller coaster with many twists and turns. Never knowing what each day would bring, what was coming or how some days would end.

Mothers of addicts learn to live with the crazy unpredictability that goes hand in hand with the disease of addiction. We learn to expect the unexpected and we relish the thought of a possible period of recovery. Matts addiction became mine as I held onto the roller coaster for dear life. Praying for things to somehow calm down and allow us both a little piece of normal. I’ve since learned that being the mother of an addict who suffered an accidental overdose is waking up and finding the nightmare you feared the most has now become your reality.

Be careful what you pray for they say. I prayed for peace, I prayed for quiet, I prayed for his addiction to go away. My prayers have been answered but never in the way I imagined. I now struggle to survive in this all too quiet, empty new world. I long for the days of chaos. Riding the uncertainty on the roller coaster known as addiction now feels like a walk in the park compared to being the one left behind.

Learning to navigate through my grief is a daily process. I’m now the lone rider on a different coaster. This one mimics the other but now the ups and downs belong solely to me. There are days I wake up, shed my tears, pray for strength and somehow get through. There are days the darkness overrides my heart and I crawl through my brokenness as if it is surrounded by shards of glass. Each piercing my heart with knifelike accuracy.

For now I take it one day at a time. I pray that someday that can of Beefaroni or the scent of Phoenix will warm my heart not break it. Reminding me of the connection between a mother and her son that neither time nor space can break. For now I pray for understanding and strength as I continue to put one foot in front of the other attempting to navigate my new unchartered life without my son.

I know I will never return to the person I once was. Going back to that person is not an option. She vanished when my son died. Gone with his last breath. My grief path is my own. It’s rocky and full of broken pieces of a life that used to be. I tread lightly on days I can. I crawl through the glass on days when the pain kills and I question my survival. My grief has no finish line. It’s one day, one breath, one scream at a time. My grief is the best I can do. Navigating this path is the most painful thing I’ve ever had to do. One thing I know for sure is I’m not ok. I will never be ok. And for me that just has to be ok…….

99 Months

April 11, 2023 /

 

Matt,  99 months.  My brain counts the months as my heart screams how can this be.  How can it be true that life has continued to march on and I have been drug along in my grief.  How can this grief continue to bring me to my knees?  To make me want to scream from the rooftops that I am in so much pain?  How can all this time have passed yet still feel like yesterday?

Perhaps it’s because Easter has come and gone.  Another holiday without you.  Perhaps it’s the memories that continue to haunt me of past celebrations.  Two boys with chocolate faces and hands running through the yard Easter baskets swinging from their arms as laughter filled the air.

Perhaps it’s the memories of two men laughing as they walked in my door seeing Easter baskets filled with the same chocolate they loved as boys.  

Perhaps it’s the silence that has replaced the laughter, that silence is deafening as the grief is powerful.    The silence from your brother.  The silence of those who have passed on.  The silence haunts my heart and leaves my soul empty.

Yet, I have good days.  Days where I cope well.  Days I find joy in little things.  Flowers blooming in my garden.  The dogs chasing a squirrel through the yard.  An unexpected phone call from a friend.  A clear Cat Scan.

I guess you could say I’ve learned to cope, to handle the pain.  Sadly when I think of how long you have been gone, how long I’ve had to bear this grief that’s when my reality begins to haunt my heart leaving me breathless and wanting to scream.

Some say Silence is golden.  I think of what I wouldn’t give to hear the shouting, the laughter, the voices of two little boys whose smiles were covered with chocolate……..

 

The Broken Road To Self Forgiveness

February 9, 2021 /

Matt,   I’ve spent the last 6 years grieving your death.   I’ve also spent the last 6 years beating myself up with guilt.   It seems my emotions swing between the two, but lately the guilt has been weighing heavily on my heart.

I continue to use my heart as a punching bag.   Blaming myself for your death.   I continue to see you as a helpless child instead of a grown man.

There are days I sit quietly and allow the film of our struggle to replay in my brain.   I feel like I’m split in two.   My brain tells me that I did everything humanly possible to save you.   My heart tells me I should have done more.

Lately I’ve been trying to forgive myself.   I had no idea how powerful the opioids really were.   Six years ago I did not have the information that is readily available today.   Had it been, you might have had a fighting chance.

I’m trying to place some responsibility on you as I have carried the full load of guilt for so long.   I’m trying to remember all the times I fought with you to get you into treatment.   I remember all the times my phone rang and you were on the other end telling me you were signing yourself out.    I remember the feeling of hopelessness and of being so angry that once again you decided what was best for you without any thought to how your decisions were impacting me.

Even though you are gone, my struggle continues.    I feel like I’m walking on a broken road.   Some days I’m able to avoid falling into those crevices where the guilt lies waiting to wrap itself around my heart.   Other days it seem like those crevices are unavoidable.    Days when a memory will surface.   Days when I hear of one of your friends having a baby.    Days when I am drowning in the what if’s or I should have.    Days I wonder how you would look 6 years older.   Days I wonder how  life would be had you lived.

So now I must find my way to forgive myself for something I could not control.    As parents we live under the illusion that we can control the behavior of our children.   I think the moment we become mothers that guilt gene takes over.

I go back to when I was your age.   I remember my mother trying to tell me how I should live.   I remember her attempts at controlling my comings and goings.   I also remember I did what I wanted to do despite her attempts to guide me.    As I look back, I now know how right she was.

Sadly for us, you will never have the opportunity to look back and understand my intentions were for your own safety.   So now I walk this new journey alone.   Learning to navigate this new road that hopefully will lead to forgiving myself.    I know this journey will somedays be nothing more than baby steps.   I know there will be days I slip into those waiting crevices.   I know this road will be long and treacherous.    I also know that I must find my way through……….

 

 

Love Has No Time Limits

October 19, 2020 /

Matt,   These last two weeks have been tough.   It seems my grief resurfaces with the changing of the seasons.   Fall has arrived.   The leaves are changing and the geese have begun their daily fly over.   I stare at the sky and listen to their song thinking of you.   I remember how we shared a love for watching their V formation and listening to the honking.   We would roll down car windows upon spotting them in the sky and remain silent as their sounds filled the air.

I’ve started fall decorating around the house.   Every pumpkin holds a memory.   You loved this time of year especially Halloween.   Your rubber mask remains on the shelf in your closet just as you left it.   There are days I have flash backs of you running into the house, your mask covering your face, your laughter filling the room as the dogs circled you barking with wagging tails.

You loved handing out the candy spooking the kids as you jumped out of bushes with your big bowl of candy.   Those memories remain bittersweet as Halloween will be so different this year.  The virus has changed the way we do things today.   It’s no longer safe to open your door to strangers.

As the weather cools, the need for quilts returns.   Two years ago I had a quilt made with 20 of your favorite T Shirts.   I remember picking it up and crying all the way home.   Your quilt has been tucked away in my closet since it arrived home.   On bad days I would bury my face in it’s softness hiding in my closet as the screams were muffled in your clothing.   Two days ago I put on my brave face and brought it downstairs.   As I laid it over the sofa in the den my tears started to fall.   Memories of you sitting there holding Scarlett wearing the exact shirt that was staring back at me from the quilt hit hard.

There are so many things I need to share with you.  So many things happening in my life.  So many things I need you to be a part of.  So many days I struggle to remember your voice.   I wanted to call you to let you know my first CT scan was good after finishing cancer treatment.  Your number remains in my phone contacts and so many days I fight the urge to call not knowing who or if anyone would answer.

I know the seasons will continue to change.   The world around me continues to move on.   I struggle to stay in the present.   To find a bit of happiness when those memories hit.   To be grateful I had you for 37 years.   Navigating through life reminds me of being in your boat.   Being caught off guard as an un predicted storm caught us unprepared or our  unexpected joy as family of dolphins put on a show for us.   So many emotions continue after all these years.   The most important lessons your death has taught me is never take tomorrow for granted  and love never ends……….

A Temporary Separation

September 15, 2020 /

Matt,   A mother who lost her daughter spoke to me saying the hardest part of her grief is having to bear the “temporary separation” from her daughter.   Her statement gave me food for thought.

You have been gone 5 years and 8 months from this earth.   I wonder does Heaven keep track of time?   Do those who have left us behind know how long they have been gone?   Do you realize that we haven’t heard each others voices or seen each others faces in years?

I’ve read passages in the Bible that talk of God’s time.   Psalm 90 vs. 12 states “But do not overlook this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.”

Your death feels exactly like that verse.   One day I feel like it’s been a thousand years since I’ve heard your voice or been able to share my day with you.   Then the grief hits and bam, It feels like yesterday.   I can vividly recall every second of the day that altered my life forever.  All those emotions resurface.   The sounds of my howling like a wounded animal on hearing the news that you were gone.   I can close my eyes and see your body so still, so quiet.   I remember the ride to our church to say my final goodbye.   One day equals a thousand years as grief knows no time frame.

I wonder what Heaven is like.   If time isn’t measured by God then do you know how long you’ve been gone?   Do you think about how long it’s been since we were together on earth?   Do you realize that you are gone at all?   So many questions dance through my brain.   Questions that I will never find the answers to satisfy my heart.

How I wish time would reverse back to the days before you died.   I wish we had the power to go back to the time before your demons took over.   Time is defined as the ongoing sequence of events taking place.   The past, the present and the future.   What I’ve learned is we always think we will have enough time.   Time to say the things we should have said.   Time to do the things we wanted to do.   We think we have a future to fix all those things we messed up so badly.

Since your death, time has marched on.   Time payed no attention to my longing for it to stop.   It payed no mind to the intensity of how it’s passing would impact my grief.   Time here on earth is cruel and painful.   Perhaps that’s why time is not measured in heaven.

I wonder how parents survive this temporary separation.   How do we survive the years without our children.   How do we survive all those painful events that should be welcomed and celebrated.   I wonder how long temporary will be.

How I wish Heaven had visiting hours.   Perhaps like a dream where we could talk like we used to on earth.   We could sit by the sea and you could answer all my questions.   Knowing you are safe and healthy would ease the grief and make this separation easier to bear.

I pray this temporary separation is not a thousand years.   As time I’ve found does nothing to decrease the power of grief.   I hold onto my faith that one day our separation will be over and we will be reunited forever in a timeless place called Heaven.

 

 

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