A Story of Addiction & Loss

Category: Uncategorized (Page 1 of 5)

You Are My Starfish

 

Matt, I wrote this for you.. 

In all my years of walking on the beach I’ve never found a starfish until yesterday. I felt like a child again as I picked up this fragile, precious creature and held it in my hand. I could feel the tickle as its tiny fingers tried to attach itself to my hand. It was such an incredible moment just standing there holding this incredible creature.

I began to think of the Starfish Story. The one where the little girl was on the beach throwing as many starfish back into the ocean when she is approached by a man. He asks why she is wasting her time as she can’t save them all. As there are thousands along the beach. He tells her she can’t possibly make a difference. The young girl listened as she bent down picking up another and throwing it into the sea. I made a difference for that one she replied to the man.

As I stood there recalling that story I began to cry. I started to think of Matt and all our children as starfish. How so many never made it back to the sea. How people ignored them. Walking right by without a helping hand or kind word. How so many Shunned them and stigmatized their disease.

I thought of the insurance company as that man who tried to discourage the girl from saving them. How those so called professionals told us to practice tough love letting our precious starfish suffer to survive.

I thought of us as the welcoming sea. Always there, always reaching, pushing harder and further until we could grab them and hold on to them placing them safely back to our sea.

I held that perfect, precious creature in my hand and told Matt I was so sorry for not knowing how to save him. For not being that perfect parent who had all the answers. I made a promise to him that this tiny creature would never struggle to live as I knew how to save him.

I walked out into the freezing sea, I stroked the starfish and said a prayer. I prayed that it would survive and would somehow understand that I would never walk by knowing that I could make a difference 

Grief Takes No Holiday

Matt,  today is Thanksgiving,  my 8th without you.  You would think after all this time the weight would be lighter.  The grief would have lessened it’s grip on my heart.  

I woke today with that familiar lump in my throat.  That feeling of choking that has become a part of life since you left.  I wanted to stop and scream that I just can’t do this anymore.   

I have so much to be grateful for.  Today, Mike and Heather are coming over.  It’s the first time since Covid that we will be spending a holiday together.   He’s frying the turkey like he did your last Thanksgiving at home.  If I close my eyes I can see both of you standing together outside by the fryer, your breath floating in the air as you laughed at a private joke 

Oh how I wish you were here.   How I wish I could look out my window and see you both standing side by side.  How I wish you would walk in my door yelling Hey Mom we need some help. 

Today my grief will be mixed with gratefulness.  Missing your presence at the table.  Your smile. Your voice.  Missing your teasing about my cooking.   I will be grateful for the presence of your brother.  Some of his mannerisms are so much like yours.  The tilt of his head.  How he speaks using his hands.   The way he stands around the table guarding the turkey before everyone gets to praise him for his masterpiece.

I never saw a time when you would not be here.  Never ever imagined the emptiness your absence would create.  I will forever long for your presence.  

I pray Thanksgiving in Heaven is beautiful.  That you are surrounded by love, peace and light.  That one day our souls will be reunited and my heart will be full once again  💕

 

Your Legacy

Matt,  when I was made aware of how and why you died, I knew I had to do something to prevent another from suffering your fate.

Knowing that your death was preventable lit a fire in my gut and gave me the courage to fight the broken system of sober living homes that played a large part in your death. 

After finding out that the operator of your so called sober home had no license or certification to even open a sober home I was completely blow away.  So in reality he operated a boarding house, preying on the vulnerable population that you were part of.  For $200 dollars a week you got nothing.  No peer support, no meetings, no supervision, just a bed in a room you shared with other men.  

The operator did whatever he wanted.  Kicking people out in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on their back.  And with you dropping you off at a motel after you relapsed at 2:30 in the morning knowing you were in distress.  It was just too much trouble for him to call 911, take you to an Emergency Department or a treatment facility. 

He had no one to answer to as he played God with the lives of those living in his facility.  Sadly, when I did my research I found that this was the norm with sober homes.  Anyone could buy or rent a property and label it a sober home.  There were no certifications or licenses required .  Mind blowing since you have to have a license to cut hair in every state.  I’ve never known of anyone who died from a bad haircut!

During my advocacy work, I’d been involved with working on 6 bills all having to do with Substance Use Disorder and how it’s treated in Delaware.  I knew that Sober Homes needed to be licensed and regulated.  I knew the operators must be held accountable by a governing body to protect the individual’s living in the homes.

Our Bill was born in a Bob Evans restaurant after I requested a meeting with a House Representative to discuss my research.  Like me she was appalled at how Sober Homes operated and agreed that we needed to enact legislation to prevent this industry from taking advantage of vulnerable people.

This Bill was first drafted in 2019.  Being derailed by my cancer diagnosis and then Covid.  It was supported, then not supported.  Funded, then not funded.  I felt like I was back on that roller coaster like I was when you were in your active addiction.  

I knew I could never give up, so I kept advocating, reaching out to both the House and Senate telling your story and sharing my research.  I started to feel like it would never happen.  I thought it was a lost cause and I was going to have to live knowing there would be many more Matt’s who would suffer your fate.  

One day my phone rang with the news I had prayed for.  Finally, after 3 years of back and forth, the Bill had gained enough support to be brought before the House for a vote.  I remember sitting there.  I remember my heart beating so loud I could barely hear anything being said.  The vote was a unanimous yes!  I remember feeling like I was dreaming as the congratulatory hugs enveloped my heart. 

The next week we were before the Senate.  Once again my heart was racing as I sat silently praying the members would feel the passion I felt regarding my Bill.  I remember holding my breath as the voting started, closing my eyes feeling the tears run down my face.  One by one I heard yes, yes, yes.  Another unanimous vote. 

My dearest son, my beautiful boy, the Matthew D. Klosowski Act was signed into law by our Governor on August 1st, two days after your birthday.  As I stood next to the Governor and watched him sign our Bill into law, I could picture your smiling face.  As the cameras flashed and the clapping began, all I could think of was you.  

This Bill is your legacy.  Your name and story will forever be remembered.  My gift to you for all the world to see.  Until we meet again.  All my love, Mom  

 

 

 

The Invisible Cord From Earth to Eternity

Matt,   Today is your birthday.  You should be turning 46.  I should be buying a cake, a card, and a little something for you to enjoy.  Instead I’m spending the afternoon serving burgers and hotdogs to the hungry and homeless in the city.  

I really wanted to go to the beach.  To sit on the sand.  To drive by your house.  But I’ve done that on your past birthdays and it has always left me so broken with all the why’s and what if’s that I knew I should not do it again.  

I wanted to do something different today, so I brought your favorite foods to the Emmanuel Dining Room and spent time with amazing people who serve others every day.  When I walked in I began to feel like I made a mistake, but as people began to introduce themselves I felt like I was absolutely meant to be there.

When I told them today was your birthday but you were not here to celebrate with me, another mother came over to me and asked about you.  I was able to share your story with someone who when I looked into her eyes I knew she also knew that grief of child loss.  It was an immediate connection as she then shared her sons story. 


A feeling of peace came over me as I watched those being fed smile and look my way with gratitude.  I felt a connection to you in the eyes of strangers.  I remember you sharing your food with a homeless man and in that moment I knew you were there standing next to me rooting me on as I tried to change a sad day into something meaningful.  

I’ve read there is a permanent bond, an invisible connection between a mother and her child.  Today I felt you.  I saw your smiling face in every person we served.  Today my heart was full of joy and love.  So grateful for the years we had together.  For all the birthdays you were here to celebrate with me.  

Today I felt you smiling down on me giving me the strength to make it through this day.  You and I are connected through space and time.  I live to honor your life.  Until we meet again I wish you a beautiful birthday dancing on the stars.  Forever in my heart ♥️

 

You Are The Light

Matt,   The project named IntoLight was started by a mom like me who also lost her son from an opioid overdose.  This mom is also an artist and to find her peace she began to draw her son’s pictures during different phases of his life.  I guess she felt closer to him as I do to you writing this blog.  

One day she decided to start drawing portraits of other mothers children who like her son have died from an overdose.  When I met her she told me she wanted to humanize addiction and hoped that when people visited the art exhibit they would be moved by all the beautiful faces staring back at them. 


The exhibit opened on a Thursday night.  I was amazed at how many people were attending.  Sadly so many were members of my support group and had become dear friends.  

As we gathered together in the lobby I could feel the anxiety and sadness in the crowd.  It was almost palpable.   No one really wanted to be there. What we wanted was our children to be alive and well.  We wanted more birthdays,  more adventures, more time.   But we were all robbed of those dreams and now the reality of life was upon us again.  

The exhibit was on the second floor.   I remember climbing the stairs surrounded by so many familiar faces,  those faces trying so hard to conceal the pain that flowed through our hearts as we knew that soon we would be facing those portraits of our beloved children.  

The portraits were arranged A-Z  making it easy for everyone to find their loved one’s location.  As I walked through the door I was immediately aware of my mask starting to crack.  I wear this mask in public to pretend that I’m ok.  To keep those at a distance who will look at me in pity or with shameless contempt when they hear your story. 

I slowly made my way around the room.  I was in awe of the hauntingly beautiful eyes, smiles and faces staring back at me.  So many were the children of my friends.  I recognized their faces from pictures shared during our support group, but seeing them all grouped together was an entirely different experience.  Their portraits took on an essence that a photo could never capture.

Before I knew it, I was looking directly into your eyes.  I felt my breath catch in my throat.  I wasn’t prepared for my body’s response to seeing your handsome face staring back at me.  I felt as if you were there standing next to me as I searched your face imprinting your image upon my brain.  It was as if time stood still and I could feel your soul reuniting with mine.  Although I was surrounded my many I felt enveloped in a cocoon of sadness, silence and peace.  

Leaving the exhibit, I felt as if I was leaving a piece of my heart behind.   The last thing I ever dreamed of or wanted was to have a beautiful portrait of you hanging on a wall in an art museum project that is attempting to bring awareness to and humanize the disease that would sadly end your life.  

I will continue to look to you to light my path as I continue my journey alone.  My grief brings darkness but you my beautiful boy will always be my guiding light. 

 

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