Note: Today in Florida my son attends two funerals, both for young men. This post is for survivors.

 

Recently, two mothers who each lost a son to overdose invited me to lunch – just to sit and talk.  We sat overlooking a sunny harbor where boats breezed by. Their sons had died within weeks of each other.  They even had the same name.  Until the boys’ deaths, the two women hadn’t known each other well.  Now they would forever share that unfathomable space where a parent prays never to be…facing life after the loss of a child.

Openly, they spoke of their grief, still raw after just two years.  What they talked about most was the reaction of relatives, colleagues and close friends.

“If my son had died of cancer,” the mother said, “neighbors would have poured into my house with hot soup and dinners for the week.  Instead, what I got was mostly nothing, not even a visit. I guess people just don’t know what to say.”

One close friend, after a year had passed since the young man’s funeral, simply snapped, “Isn’t it time you got over it?”

Another offered, “Others have it worse than you.”

And perhaps the harshest of all were those who said nothing but sat tight-lipped, believing the young men had brought it on themselves.

I asked these mothers, what should we say?  How can we combat a despair so profound that no one can fully comprehend unless experiencing it?

Some might respond, it’s the same as when a child dies from any tragedy.  I think not.  Addiction carries its own peculiar hell for survivors.  Stigma, shame and isolation enshroud the family the same as in life.  Mothers are loathe to share their sorrow for fear of being shunned or – worse -even blamed for their child’s death.  They fear that revelation will prompt the banal, harsh and hateful responses that are far too common.

“Say you are sorry,” they both said. “Say my son’s name.  Sit with me.  Listen.”

And so I did.  I said Daniel’s name.  It was all I could do.  It was everything.