The Loneliness of Grief

The grief of losing Sam is so lonely. Scott and I spend time together every day. We talk, cry, ruminate, and watch hours and hours of Netflix. We brought Sam into this world together and we are facing his death together. He is my rock, as is the rest of my family. I feel a collective blanket of grief covering all of us that love Sam and it brings me great comfort. However, each of our journeys through our son's death are as unique and intimate as our relationship with him and that is why we walk side by side but are each still alone.

I am Sam's mom and from the moment I found out I was pregnant until he left us, it was my job to protect him. When he was small it was easy. He could be rescued from his little mishaps and distracted from a tantrum into a game. I could feed him when he was hungry and change his diaper. Life was so good. But, as he grew older and developed a keen interest in experimentation with drugs and alcohol, his addiction grew very quickly and my ability to protect him shrank as fast. What would have happened with one or many different choices?

Monday morning quarterbacking is something every parent who loses a child to addiction does. We all try to figure out the ways we could have prevented this horrible tragedy. I have had thoughts like "I should have put Sam in team sports," but, he wasn't interested. He had his own interests, got plenty of exercise, and was an avid reader. Also, sports, don't protect against addiction. There are countless athletes, from teens to the pros, that have succumbed to drugs and alcohol. Sam was smart, curious and fearless, a powerful combination that could have lead him to do great things in the world. I hope I didn't prevent that from happening.

I feel guilt that Scott and I fought and had a very difficult divorce but I also know that many marriages end in nasty divorces and many kids, such as my other 3, thrive in spite of it. Our family didn't feel broken for too long either and within a year or two of our divorce, we were spending every holiday and many other occasions together as a family. We are a tight group and I had hoped our connection would somehow help Sam. Now, none of us will see him get married, have children, own a home, or fall into a life that he loves. This loss is deep, cutting, and permanent. I am struggling to accept my new reality.

Losing Sam sucks on a daily basis. I don't think about it for a time, then I remember and feel sucker punched. I seem to have two really bad days, then a plateau day, which feels like a gift from the universe. It reminds me that no matter what life throws at me, I will eventually find my equilibrium again.

Healing feels like training for an ultra. The hills always eat me alive. They suck the life out of me and I want to stop but I don't, I just keep climbing, slowly, to the top of each peak. As I get stronger over time, the hell of the climb never ceases but the recovery at the top is quicker because I have developed those muscles. The same with my grief.

I can't avoid or dodge my darkest times, I have to face them. Each new situation and task feels overwhelming. I have been sobbing this morning upon finding out that Sam really felt like the black sheep of our family. I have always thought that we are all weird and that he wasn't any stranger than the other 5 of us. He was my beautiful son who fell victim to an epidemic sweeping our nation, that is all. I tried to be there for him but was it enough?

Now, I regret that I didn't visit him every week in prison and I didn't write to him every day while he was there. Why didn't I? I also couldn't pick up every call from jail or prison. We talked plenty but I missed plenty too. What was so important in my life that I ever missed a call from him? That I could not take 15 minutes every day to write him a note? He kept every letter I and others wrote to him. .He truly loved every time someone connected with him there. It feels like a fight not to let these regrets swallow me whole so I try to bring rationality in.

I had 3 other kids, friends, passions, and a job while Sam was 3 1/2 hours south in prison for committing a crime. This was after numerous inpatient and outpatient rehabs. I wanted desperately to help any way that I could but it wasn't working, things just continued to get worse. I had given so much of myself before Sam went to prison, I needed time to reconnect with my other children too. I couldn't do everything all of the time and I often felt overwhelmed and completely shut down.

Sam's struggles did not diminish my other kids' need for their mom. It was an exhausting time of juggling life but I did the best I knew how, each step of the way. I sound so reasonable and confident in this thought I am not, and this is one of the reasons I keep writing, to process the loss of my son. To come to terms with the fact that I was not able to save him. To remember that I never walked away from Sam, the drugs took him away from me.

Yesterday we found out that Sam's ashes are ready to pick up. The body of this amazing little boy that was born from my own body nearly 24 years ago is now ash. The thought feels like a dagger through my heart. We don't remember if we ever actually had the conversation with Sam, whether he would prefer to be cremated or buried, but we both instantly knew what he would choose and so we did. In my heart, I had so much hope that I would never have to make that decision, there wasn't a reason to ask.

This reality is really fucking painful. Tonight, Scott and I will proceed forward the way we do every night. We will talk, laugh, snack, drink, make stupid jokes, and watch Netflix. We will talk about Sam, wish we could have done something different, try to convince ourselves he didn't suffer too much while he died, question every decision we ever made, cry, and hold each other. We will also continue to have eternal gratitude for our 4 beautiful children: Terrance, Sam, Spencer, and Lauryn.

Sam, I hope the energy of my love and pain fills your spirit. I hope you know how much I miss you. I hope your mind is clear and that you now understand how much you mattered. You couldn't feel it on earth but I hope you do now. I will love you forever.

You can't save someone suffering from addiction but you can continue to tell them how much you love them every single day. Understand they are sick. Tell them they matter. Even if they never believe it, you will know that you said it and you will never regret it.

The last thing I ever said to Sam was "I love you."