I understand the question. It's always asked with sympathy and concern. It's not that I take it the wrong way. It's that there is no right way to take it at all. It seems an outrageous question to me because I still don't know how to answer it.
"How did your son die, Mr. G?"
After eleven years, I still don't know what to say. It is easiest to say he died of a drug overdose. That usually puts an end to the dialogue right then and there. Of course nothing is that simple. He was dying of a terminal illness. He had a year or two left at best.
"Were the drugs medication for his condition, for his pain?"
No, it was heroin.
"Did he take his own life?"
I didn't think so at first, but now I'm not so sure. There was an earlier attempt I learned
about. It may have been a blessing, of course, a more peaceful death at home, versus a drawn out battle in a hospital. Wouldn't any parent prefer that? Doesn't any parent, in fact, ask these sorts of questions over and over and over again. Did I love him enough, could I have done anything else, during his seventeen year battle with drugs and illness? Second guessing is as fruitless as jealousy. It's a dead end exercise that goes nowhere.
So, what is this about?
- over 50,000 drug related deaths a year in the United States.
- over 5,000 deaths a year from heroin.
But statistics don't shed tears, and they don't climb trees, have dogs, mothers, fathers, brothers and friends. They don't have runaway thoughts and nightmares.
They certainly don't pray.
November 2, 2002. All Soul's Day. The day that my son died. The facts as I know them: he died not long after midnight after injecting himself with heroin. We had already gone to bed. He always slept late, so we didn't expect to see him until noon or later. When we hadn't heard from him by four in the afternoon, I tried his door, which was locked, and knocked loudly. No reply, but I had always respected his privacy, suspecting nothing other than extreme fatigue. Eight o'clock and I was starting to worry, but my brain refused to countenance the possibility that something was horribly wrong. At eleven I broke his door down, and found him lying face down on the floor, next to his desk. And I knew he was dead. The next hour I do not want to detail. But there was shock, tears, phone calls, and talking with the police and forensics team. The little I remember was that the officer in charge was very compassionate and professional at the same time. I did not sleep or eat for two days.
And so we prayed. We lit a candle and knelt on the floor. The flame of that candle held the remnants of our faith. Friends came, cooked for us, fed us, held us, listened to us. On the second day a remarkable thing happened, the most wonderful thing, a most necessary thing. I renewed the walking of the dogs. Two of the four dogs were indoor dwellers, and needed to be walked twice a day. Like sunrise and sleep, there was no avoiding it. It would get me moving. It would keep me from shutting down altogether. After all, we lived on a farm. There were chores to do, chores which wouldn't go away.
The compulsion to tell stories is mirrored in the compulsion to hold on to objects. We all know examples of a bereaved one delaying going through the deceased's clothing or personal belonging, often stating that they're not ready, that it's too soon. Unfortunately in some cases this can stretch into years, and the belongings turn into a shrine. Furniture and arrangements are kept just the way they were at the time of death. It is a clinging to the past in an effort to keep that past from receding.
In my case I believe that during a slow process that almost went under the radar, the peace I sought during the daily dog walk grew into a fixation on this lovely little dog which had after all belonged to my son, until I grew to believe that this dog was my only bridge to sanity. On an emotional level I felt that if anything would happen to this dog, I would lose the strongest connection to my lost son.
Visitors during the first few weeks were understandably uncomfortable at first in our presence. As the cliche goes, they "didn't know what to say". Early on I would state upon their arrival that it was only natural that they should feel this way, but that to the contrary, I wanted to talk about our son, indeed needed to, and that they should feel free to ask about and talk of whatever would help them as well. Each one's life experience constitutes their story. My son's story will be repeated by me as long as I am living, but the power of story is limited in it's ability to heal, for that moment of death divides my life into two halves that cannot be rejoined. There is everything that came before, and there is everything that followed. The power of story and of memory only supports the former. What follows will partake of other processes.