Mother's Heartbreak

A Story of Addiction & Loss

Page 11 of 41

The Darkness Rolled In

March 8, 2022 /

Matt,  today is a beautiful day.  The sun is shining.  The sky is a magnificent shade of blue.  I should be able to enjoy the beauty but today my darkness found me.  

I never know when it will return until I feel it building like a storm churning out at sea.  Just off my horizon threatening and ominous.  There are times it dissipates before hitting but today it hit full force.

I never know what brings it on.  Perhaps it’s the memories of our lives before your death.  Perhaps it my loss of the life I lived before my cancer treatments and surgeries.  Perhaps it’s the guilt for not understanding how your chronic back pain drove you to seek relief through poison pills.  

Now that I live with your pain my thoughts turn to how horrible it must have been for someone so young to endure daily pain.  I feel like I’m re living your life as a lesson only to be learned by experiencing exactly what you did.  

You injured your back.  That injury led to surgery.  That surgery changed how you were able to work and live.  Your limitations forced you to give up your business and to make lifestyle changes no one your age should ever have to make.  You lost your ability to do everything you loved and masked the pain both physical and emotional with pills.  

I injured my back.  A tumor was found and surgery followed.   Cancer was found.   That surgery changed how I was able to live.  No longer could I do any of the things that helped keep the darkness away.   No more riding my bike screaming into the wind.  No more yoga where I could stretch and twist and breathe the grief away.   No more digging in the dirt, planting colorful flowers to ease my pain. 

Now all I have is time.  Time to remember, relive, and rethink every moment of how life used to be.   Time to pray for peace in dealing with the losses of my life.  Time to remember life when the memories weren’t coated in grief.  

 

 

I Don’t Want To Be This Me.

February 20, 2022 /

Matt,  Before your death, I was perfectly happy with my life.  I thought being a wife, mom, grandmother and nurse was my total purpose in life.  I was content going through life doing my thing and never gave a second thought to changing the path I was on.  

Then you died……….

My world as I knew it was on a tailspin.  Fractured beyond repair.  I was holding on for dear life trying to catch the pieces as they spun beside me.  My foundation  was crumbling.  Trying to find stable ground was unending as I fought to accept my new reality. 

I never knew that grief and pain would have the potential to change the trajectory of my life, but indeed it did.  

I found myself unable to return to being that Nurse who took care of other mothers precious children.  I no longer had that wall that protected my heart from their heartbreak as they said goodbye to their babies  born too soon.   I feared I would go to pieces with them as I now understood this horrific pain..

So I withdrew from life.  I was the one who needed care and time to sort out what my soul could handle.  I felt lost and alone.  

It’s funny looking back I now understand how the pain one suffers leads the way to helping others through the same pain.  I get that the loss I’ve experienced is not mine to shelter but it’s mine to share as so many others walk this path .

It continues to surprise me how out of horrible pain comes strength.  I never knew I could be fearless and bold when speaking to others about your struggles in life.  I never saw myself an advocate for Substance Use Disease and the treatment required to save lives.  

I never saw myself as a published author of the book that shares my grief with the world.  I never saw myself as the leader of a support group for moms who have heard the words “ your child died from an overdose”.  

Today I am surrounded by women who like me have used their grief to offer hope and compassion to so many others in our club.  This club is not a popular one.  It’s not a club members want any part of, but this is our reality.  

I don’t want to be this me.  I was to return to the past, before your death and live life according to my terms.  I want to return to the before part of my life as now it has become the after.  Life is now split in two parts.  

During my journey I’ve come to realize there is no going back to the life I desire.  The path is a one way street.  The future is not the one I anticipated but it’s the only one I’ve got.  💜

 

And Just Like That It’s Been 7 Years

January 3, 2022 /

Matt,  today is your seventh angelversary.  I asked for a sign that you are at peace and I woke to a snow storm.  You loved the snow.  The last time it snowed like this was when I was trying to fly your body home from Florida.  Flight after flight was canceled due to the inclement weather.  I would go outside as the snow was falling staring into the sky asking if this was you.  

Today feels like it did the very day 7 years ago when I found out you were gone from this earth.  It’s called muscle memory.  My body hurts.  Every muscle, every bone remembers the shock that hit as I heard the words “ It’s Matt, he’s dead”.  

I close my eyes and feel my soul break as I hear the guttural screams that came from my being as the reality of those words found their way into my brain.  I remember and return to that place of disbelief and breathlessness.  The moment I too wanted to die before you got too far away.  In my shock and grief I thought I could catch up with you as we left the pain of the world behind together.  

My brain, like a projector continues to plays the events that happened the week of your death.  Every detail burned into memory.  Every feeling burned into my soul.  


I look at your pictures.  I touch your urn hoping to break the spell that your death has cast on this day.  I must survive as I know this grief has no plans to go. 

Seven years feels like yesterday.  It also feels like forever.   💜🙏🏻




New Year Same Grief ♥️

December 31, 2021 /

Matt,  Seven years ago you wore this hat celebrating what we thought was going to be the best year ever. You spent New Years Eve at a meeting and posted how great it felt to be doing the right thing.

We texted and I told you how proud I was of you and how amazing the new year would be for us both.
We were excited about seeing each other in February and began making plans for my visit. You were so proud of all your accomplishments in Boca and wanted to share your new life with me.

Seven years ago I was walking on air. Feeling like we finally made it through the horror of your addiction. Feeling like life was returning to how I dreamed it could be.

Little did I know that on the 3rd day of 2015 our world would come crashing down and new year’s would take on a new meaning for me.

Today I sit fighting to breathe. Today I can remember like it was yesterday. Today I want to turn back the clock and change the trajectory of our lives.

New Year’s Eve has become bittersweet. The grief is hanging like a cloud ready to burst. The ground is quicksand waiting to swallow my soul.

Seven years ago we watched the ball drop one thousand miles apart. My heart full of hope and dreams anticipating the joy of celebrating your new life.

Tonight my tears will fall as I watch the ball drop remembering the dreams that will never come to be. Tonight the ball falling to the ground symbolizes my life.

Seven years ago……….💔

It’s So Much More Than Just A Tree

December 25, 2021 /

For so many the holidays are a time of cheer.  Decorating homes and family gatherings are a huge part of everyone’s plans.  The expectation of a perfect holiday season is evident every where you look.  From the Hallmark Christmas movies that play 24/7 to the Christmas music that starts before Thanksgiving begins. 

Seven years ago my holiday celebration came to an abrupt halt.  My youngest son, Matt lost his battle with addiction.  I was so broken that hearing  “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” left me running out of the grocery store with tears running down my face.  

Prior to his death, Christmas was my favorite holiday.  I was that person who decorated every room in my house.  I was that person singing Christmas Carols and watching every episode of Home Alone over and over.  I would immerse myself in finding the perfect gift for everyone on my list.  My kids called me the crazy Christmas lady and I loved it. 

After Matt’s death, nothing mattered.  My only decoration on display was my nativity set. I gave away our tree to a needy family and never put up another. The holidays became a painful reminder of his absence.  We were no longer that happy family gathered around the tree in past holiday photos. 

The years went by.  Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years became days I learned to survive.  I’d go to church. Have family and friends over.  Going through the expected traditions all with a broken heart. 

I don’t remember when my heart began to heal.  I don’t know how or why I began to feel joy.  Or when the memories of prior holidays began to become less painful.  I do know it snuck up on me.  Hearing Christmas music while grocery shopping no longer sent me running for cover.  Seeing trees brightly lit caught my attention as I stood before them remembering trees that once graced my hallway. 

My healing has been a slow process. I’ve read that losing a child demolishes you.  If you have ever witnessed a demolition you know that what was once whole has been completely destroyed.  The process of rebuilding especially when it’s a life can and does take years. 

I’ve learned grief has no time frame. Grief doesn’t up and leave after you survive all those firsts as society wants you to believe.  I’ve learned I had to acknowledge my loss, live my loss, feel every bit of my pain before I could once again begin to feel the joy the holiday season can bring.

This year a beautiful tree graces my hallway.  The white lights remind me of twinkling starts.  My Nativity set is at home on the mantel. Santa’s and snowmen have found their way out of boxes to fill once empty spaces.

I know Christmas Day will continue to hold a painful reminder that Matt won’t be home to celebrate.  I know there will be tears.  This year there will also be joy as I sit near my tree that symbolizes not only Christmas but my healing heart.  ♥️🎄

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