How Losing Both My Sons to Opioid Addiction Taught Me to Live
Reflections from an ordinary mom on love and death and the unexpected discovery of finding joy in grief.
Part 1 — Love and Death
A very busy and exhausting Saturday behind the cheese counter was finally coming to an end, but as usual, last minute stragglers were stealing my end-of-day cleaning time needed to finally clock out and go home. As I was advising a customer, handing out samples of various cheeses for their epic cheese board with forced patience, my phone lit up with a text from my ex. I’d rarely heard from Jay and never on a Saturday evening.
“Terrible news.”
I knew exactly what it was as I’d been anticipating this moment for a while.
My oldest was many things — handsome, naive, affectionate, clever, charming and impulsive.
He was also a heroin addict.
His dad had gotten the call from the medical examiner: Tommy had been found unresponsive on the bathroom floor of his Buffalo apartment, estimated to have been dead for a couple of days. He was 32.
I hung up, took a deep breath and decided I would finish what little was left of my shift to the best of my ability. I remember stumbling with the very next customer a bit before excusing myself and turning toward my coworker. “I have to go. My son died.”
It’s often said that the birth of your second child is like the second trip to the moon, lacking much of the awe and wonder that being a newbie to a pregnancy brings. I can say the same about this second most profound moment in life as well. Because, although Tommy was my first born, he wasn’t my first child to die well before their time and well before me.
Kelly was born four years after Tommy. I was delighted at how much faster and easier this labor was and Jay and I laughed at how our new boy came out looking like an adorable little Mr. Magoo.
Nursing was easier too; with Tommy it took several days to get the hang of it. It seemed that he was always over-eager for sustenance, and excruciatingly frustrated that milk flow wasn’t immediate unless he put in some work, and he would often give up quickly, angry and screaming. But Kelly sweetly latched on immediately after birth, and I wondered how it could have possibly been so difficult before.
In no time at all, Kelly’s bald magoo head sprouted lush blond curls and I fondly recall a day when I was out walking with him in his stroller, his proud big brother walking alongside.
A passerby asked Tommy “is this your baby brother? Where did he get such beautiful blond hair?”
“He came that way”, the obvious answer from a four year old.
My third pregnancy was unplanned and arrived before I was in any way ready — Kelly was still in diapers when Rosie was born. She was a fussy baby; during her many waking hours she was either feeding or screaming, and I soon found myself exhausted and completely overwhelmed.
Kelly wasn’t doing well either with the expanded family. Even while home on maternity leave, I still dropped him off at daycare every day, where I was told he was showing some of the typical signs of distress with the new addition.
His caregiver gently suggested that it would help if I let him spend more time at home with me and his baby sister, advice that carried a sting of guilt. But I just couldn’t handle the two of them alone while Jay was at work. It was actually a relief when it was time to go back to work myself, with the two of them safely in the hands of experienced on-site caregivers.
But parenthood got worse from there when one-year-old Rosie was diagnosed with a congenital liver disease and eventually placed on the transplant list a couple years later, while at the same time my husband was struggling with depression, along with drug and alcohol abuse.
It was around this time that we noticed how particularly sensitive Kelly was, and later, as he approached puberty, he would become impatient and frustrated with small everyday challenges, sending him into angry outbursts that could be quite alarming. He also cried easily, which normally wouldn’t be cause for concern, but there was a nagging feeling that his inability to regulate his emotions at his age pointed to something that wasn’t entirely normal, and it also tugged at my heart to regularly see him in such mental anguish.
And our Tommy, although never diagnosed, was showing very obvious signs of ADD, most notably an inability to focus, causing problems in school. (After graduating high school he did very well on his SAT’s, but he was unable to function in community college and would drop out after only a couple months.)
Still, life forged ahead. Three years after being listed, a secondhand but well-functioning liver was successfully installed in my daughter’s abdomen.
A few years later, Jay and I had a final talk about the effect his substance abuse was having on the family and we both agreed it would be best for everyone if he left. He was crying as he walked out the door; I was not.
And lastly, after dropping out of college, Tommy found a profession as a server in a busy high end restaurant, which suited his extroverted nature; he was able to charm his way into good tips and the fast pace of the profession was a good foil for his ADD. And, even though he was a disruptive 20 year old, often drinking too much and loudly staying up way too late with various girlfriends he would bring back to his room, he cheerfully acquiesced to moving in with friends when I suggested it was time for him to leave.
I finally felt like I had some semblance of control over my household and my life.
More relief came when Kelly took an immediate liking to the guitar after starting lessons at the local music store. Soon after, he decided he wanted to study classical and we found a wonderful private teacher who took him under her wing and nurtured his interest and natural ability.
Turns out he was very talented and I was thrilled to be living in a household filled with music, and as I went about my chores with the background of his playing throughout the day, my heart swelled. After secretly consulting with his teacher, I gifting him a good quality guitar for Christmas and although it was expensive, I felt it was worth the price to encourage his interest. He loved it and thereafter I noticed his practice time increased significantly.
After easily passing the audition, he enrolled in a performing arts high school where he flourished; it seemed this passion for classical guitar overcame his earlier emotional issues, and I told myself it was probably just the erratic hormones that came with a difficult pubescent transition that had made life so difficult for him before.
I felt so much optimism for his future during this happy time.
After finishing two years at a local community college, Kelly was awarded a scholarship to the prestigious Eastman School of Music, but decided he’d rather attend a state university to finish his undergrad studies. He would major in english with music being a minor.
I was a little disappointed, but something I noticed during his recitals was that he showed signs of significant anxiety while performing, and so not wanting to add to the pressure, I honored and supported his decision. After all, even with a partial scholarship, tuition at Eastman was through the roof and, given that the guitar isn’t even an orchestral instrument, a return on the investment seemed unlikely. I told myself that I should feel proud of him for being so practical.
The first sign of involvement with opioids came during that summer before starting college. He had been out late the night before and as I was sipping my morning coffee, he came down from his room crying. He admitted to stealing the entire cash content in my wallet, close to $75, which he then used to buy some oxycontin off the street, apologising profusely. I could viscerally feel his shame and I told him I would support him in any way I could if he felt he had a problem that warranted expert help, but he assured me it was only the one time and that it would never happen again.
He landscaped a neighbor’s yard to earn the money and promptly paid me back.
Summer turned into fall and Rosie and I were joining my brother and his family on a Barcelona vacation. Kelly wasn’t going because Tommy would be helping him move into his dorm room at the university. He had insisted he was fine missing the trip and was excited to start school instead.
The day of our departure, I went up to his room to say goodbye, chat about his next big adventure and wish him luck. Expecting that he would be in a good mood, he instead surprised me with tears. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he wasn’t really sure, but that maybe he was sobbing due to nerves. The oxycontin episode briefly entered my mind, but after assuring me he was fine, I’d really had little choice but to believe him, hope for the best and try to enjoy my vacation.
Our downsized family enjoyed a peaceful period of stability for the next several months. Academically Kelly was doing very well in school and he seemed to be making friends and enjoying dorm life. The university was close enough to travel home from on weekends, where he enjoyed spending time with me, Rosie and the family cat, Brucie, (who had chosen Kelly’s as his favorite lap).
Unfortunately the calm was to be short-lived and in the spring he called me from school.
I needed to pick him up immediately because he had been kicked out of his dorm for possession of a controlled drug without a prescription. When I questioned him on the details, he was frustratingly vague. Turns out the drug was suboxone, which I later learned is used to control opioid withdrawal symptoms.
It baffled me as to why he was relying on the street instead of letting me help him in an obvious attempt to quit. (I was beginning to understand how shame is both a barrier to recovery, and a demon that using can temporarily conquer, contributing to the spiral of addiction.) Fortunately, he wasn’t suspended from classes and he successfully finished out the semester by diligently taking the two hour bus ride to and from school every day.
Spring turned into summer vacation when Kelly was arrested on possession of a small amount of heroin and as it was a first time offense, his only consequence was to attend an outpatient rehab for one year. Finally, he had no other choice but to get help and I breathed a small hopeful sigh of relief.
But even while faithfully attending his appointments, things continued to escalate, from me finding needles and paraphernalia in his bedroom drawer, to occasionally finding him openly high at home, with droopy eyes and slurred speech.
Still, he continued to do well in school, while also performing as a valued member of a local mandolin and guitar ensemble. I was surprised to learn that many addicts can still function in day-to-day life, at least for a while anyway.
Since rehab alone didn’t seem to be working we decided to combine it with a visit to a psychiatrist; together with his outpatient counselor we considered that he might be suffering from depression, and perhaps what he needed was a safer alternative prescription drug to replace the opioid that may be providing relief. Unfortunately that wasn’t to be. The doctor insisted he needed to get sober before any other treatment would even be considered.
I was feeling that I had run out of options when the following spring on my way home from work, I received a call from his outpatient facility. I needed to pick him up and immediately and drive him to check into a fulltime rehab center. But what about school? The counselor assured me that the situation was urgent. This time I breathed a big sigh of relief! Maybe this would be the beginning of the end of our terrible ordeal.
I hoped to god that his stint in rehab would be successful and we could put all of this sorrow and darkness behind us. A hope that was amplified when, on one particular day while he was away at rehab as I was tidying up, I lifted the case holding his beloved guitar.
I immediately felt a jolt to my insides on discovering it was unexpectedly light, instantly realizing that it was empty inside.
When I picked him up on a Friday after two weeks at the facility, I was so happy to see that he very much resembled his old self. He seemed really optimistic and very much committed to following his post-rehab instructions.
I was also relieved that he wanted to spend some time with his dad in a rural, nature-filled part of upstate NY, where he had previously been successful in staying clean, because that following week, Rosie and I were to travel on a much anticipated trip to Scotland. We would be touring the Glasgow School of Art, where she had just been accepted. Now we could enjoy our trip knowing that Kelly would be enjoying his happy place, safely in Jay’s hands and not alone in the house with his demons.
I vividly remember so many details of the precious gift that was that weekend.
After we got home from the facility, we ordered pizza and enjoyed watching Ryan Gosling in the movie Drive together as a family. Saturday was a neighborhood community cleanup day and Kelly and Rosie participated together while I went thrifting. Dim Sum was Sunday morning where Kelly recounted, almost fondly, of his time in rehab, telling a funny story about some silly drama around the cancellation of popsicle night. Afterwards we found fresh garbanzo beans at the market and tasted them that evening for the first time, alongside a roasted duck.
In between time spent with family Kelly attended daily check-ins with outpatient rehab.
I was unaware, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of how hard it must have been for Kelly to resist the draw of the opioid high during that weekend. In hindsight I realized his spending so much time with us was probably more out of a desperate attempt to stay clean than anything else. (It would be weeks later, as I was going through his stuff while cleaning out his room, that I found the rehab discharge report, recording his prognosis as “fair to poor”. I was immediately taken aback, but later distressed at how accurate it had turned out to be.)
Tuesday arrived, the day Kelly would be taking the 10 hour bus ride to Buffalo and the day before Rosie and I would be off to Glasgow. That morning our household buzzed with activity with me getting ready for work, Rosie getting ready for school and Kelly listening to a Bach cello suite in the living room, impatiently waiting until it was time for him to leave.
As I was putting on my blazer, Kelly indicated that maybe he would walk with me on the way to the station. I told him that I’d love for the company, but then he quickly changed his mind, saying that that plan would get him there too early.
Neglecting to reflect on why he momentarily wanted to be with me, I shut the door behind me and left Kelly alone in the house with his music. It was 7:45 am.
Etched in my memory is how gorgeous that Tuesday in April was, warm with brilliant sunshine and a gentle breeze. My heart was lighter than it had been in a while and I was anxious to get the workday over with and set off together on the adventure with my dear daughter.
The mood changed abruptly soon after arriving at work with a call at my desk.
It was 9:30 am.
They had found Kelly lying unresponsive in the street of a neighborhood known in Philly as the badlands, where the dealing and use of drugs was rampant; I was to come to the emergency room ASAP where I would get more details.
I hung up with my heart thumping wildly in my chest, and I realized my immediate task now would be to call Jay, who was eagerly and excitedly awaiting the arrival of his son. After dialing to make what was probably the most difficult call of my life, my heart sank as he answered with a cheerful “hello”, tinged with joful anticipation.
After a taxi ride to the hospital, the attending physician told me that even though there was good news in that they were able to retrieve a heartbeat, the situation was dire. Kelly was on a breathing machine, and given that his brain had been deprived of oxygen for an indefinite amount of time, the possibility of severe damage should he recover was significant.
He was completely unresponsive and it was hard to know how much awareness he had in his state, but I sat with him for several hours before taking a short break to force down a cheeseburger. Jay arrived in the evening and Kelly was pronounced dead at 4:15 in the morning.
The cause of death was listed as anoxic encephalopathy following cardiac arrest due to drug intoxication. He was 21.
W e left the hospital that morning with the body of our son in the sterile bed, his feet jutting out from under the blanket, covered with the socks he himself had put on less than 24 hours earlier. We left with the breathing tube still taped to and protruding from his mouth, now quiet and still, having been disconnected from its previous life-sustaining apparatus.
On our silent drive home, the city just before dawn was utterly quiet and peacefully calm, and it was strange to see the places that were so mundane and familiar to me in my before life, looking somehow eerily dissimilar, now that I was viewing them through the eyes of what felt like a different person.
We arrived home with Rosie asleep upstairs, and I remember Jay going outside into the yard for a smoke, where I joined him and shared a long tearful embrace as night gently turned to day. And at that moment a brief gust of wind blew a shower of cherry blossoms over and around us, as if the universe also embraced the momentous event that had just occurred.
But now was the dreadful task of reporting the news to our loved ones, first to Rosie upstairs and then with a wakeup phone call to Tommy, followed by Jay picking him up and bringing him back where we could all be together as a family. I called my brother and he offered to pass the word on to others, as I just couldn’t bear to continue.
Rosie was quiet and seemingly numb, but Tommy’s emotions were typically transparent; at one point, grimacing with anger and despair, he turned around to face the wall and briefly pounded it with his fists.
After some family time spent with few words, we decided that breakfast was in order, and Tommy and I workedtogether in relative silence as we made egg and cheese sandwiches. The process helped us momentarily feel that all was still well with our world and that we would be ok.
The food relaxed my exhausted mind and body, and so I silenced my phone and finally retired to my bed, sleeping soundly until well into the afternoon.
Part II — The Unexpected Discovery of Joy in Grief
Every experience has its element of magic. I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value. — Hermann Hesse
Jay left before the weekend and in the days that followed, a welcome return to everyday routine was mixed with tasks that were anything but. Those tasks included our son’s cremation arrangements, providing a copy of the death certificate to recoup our flight costs to Scotland, and writing thank you notes for donations to The Gift of Life; our request was the least we could do after being informed that Kelly’s organs would not be suitable for donation.
Fortunately Jay and I were in agreement with regards to a funeral — there wouldn’t be one — and our families were very supportive of that somewhat unconventional plan. In fact, I was a little surprised and wondered if they, like me, felt relieved not to have to go through the ordeal.
Instead, our family and loved ones comforted each other over takeout pizza and beer at my place, while the cremated remains sat in Kelly’s room. (Later that summer they would be brought by Tommy to upstate NY where they would sit on the mantlepiece in the home of their Granny, alongside her beloved husband.)
Emotionally, Rosie and I were holding up fairly well. During the two weeks of bereavement time from work and school, the spring weather was glorious and we spent those days taking long walks, shopping and enjoying home-cooked dinners, profiting from the nurturing company of each other.
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Having Rosie home with me was a great comfort during the moments of intense sadness, which would come and go almost like labor, in waves. I found it interesting that the end of Kelly’s life would remind me of its beginning.
I am fortunate in that Rosie also shares my appreciation for life’s simple pleasures, particularly in preparing meals and consuming them, and I was grateful that I still had a good appetite, as well as little trouble sleeping. In fact, I started to wonder if there was something wrong with me. Was this just the denial stage that I’d heard so much about?
I spent some time exploring the subject of grief on the internet; I was curious if the unexpected relative ease with which I was dealing with the sudden death of a child was normal.
I stopped when I finally found the answer I wanted to hear.
I came across Columbia Professor George Bonnano, a bereavement expert, whose research found that in fact, most people demonstrate natural resilience, experiencing stable functioning despite significant losses. (The reason that this might come as a surprise to most people is that those who don’t suffer debilitating symptoms are not among those who seek treatment, so they are under the radar for studies on how humans manage grief.) He argues that this resilience is actually the most common outcome to loss and trauma.
Those discoveries remain controversial, but I decided to take them at face value, stop worrying about it and be glad that I was one of the lucky ones.
However, as the days went by, I began noticing that my response was more than simply a return to stable functioning. Although on the outside few would notice anything different, I felt as if my soul had undergone some sort of mystical transformation.
I found that my senses were heightened. I was amazed at the vividness of the colors of leaves and flowers and I noticed that sounds that normally would have simply been heard as background noise caught my attention and made me pause in my tracks. Birds sweetly chirping, neighborhood kids chatting and giggling, even people yapping on mobile phones filled me with joy at the extraordinary realization that I was alive in such a magical world.
I remember attending a dance performance where I found myself so moved that my eyes filled with tears, and I asked myself “why am I here, at this moment, privileged to witness such a gorgeous expression of human artistry? What in the world did I do to deserve such a thing?”
As I went about my daily errands, I found myself charmed by those around me, even those behaving badly. It was as if I had X-ray vision, able to separate their outward temperament, a simple product of genes and experiences, from their very core essence, which I could only describe as love.
I felt the expanse and goodness of the collective consciousness of the universe, as I was now acutely aware that I was part of it and it a part of me.
Perhaps this was a hint of what those who enjoy a dose of psychedelic mushrooms feel, and I wondered if these same brain receptors were somehow triggered by my tragic experience.
But as days turned into weeks I was happy to get back to a new normal as I returned to my job in a new innovation role that I liked, and celebrated Rosie’s graduation from high school with family.
Over the summer, we enjoyed a trip to NYC to explore a couple art schools where she was also accepted, as she decided to study closer to home.
I vowed that we would vacation to Scotland at a later date.
I’d found that during this time, those strange feelings had subsided a bit, taking a backseat to real life. But in hindsight I realised that they were still there, fueling some important life decisions I would make over the next few years.
While he was still living at home, Tommy was diagnosed with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (EDS), a connective tissue disorder, after surgery failed to correct a recurrent shoulder dislocation. He had been prescribed Percocets after that surgery and after he moved out on his own, I had been unaware that he was able to continue the prescription for years to manage pain related to the subsequent dislocations.
It wasn’t until after a visit that occurred the second Christmas following Kelly’s death that I found several bottles of prescription opioids, along with the paper containing his doctor’s order, inside a backpack he had accidentally left behind. An immediate emotional gut punch left me feeling so dizzy that I had to sit down.
The moment of Tommy’s angry outburst against the wall after learning of Kelly’s death crossed my mind: was it possible that he had been feeling immense guilt?
Was he the one who first introduced Kelly to the opioid pills that caused him to eventually steal from his mother and overdose on heroin?
I’ll never know the answer because I never confronted him. It was easier to just pretend I hadn’t snooped into his bag. And as he was a full grown adult, it was none of my business, and I knew full well from experience that there was nothing I could do to help him anyway.
My excuses became a shield against a spiral back into the ugliness of the recent past that I just wanted to leave behind. I felt as helpless then as I did before; my only option was to desperately hope that Tommy would be more successful than his brother in surviving his addiction.
As with Kelly, the symptoms of Tommy’s addiction gradually escalated and Tommy found himself without a job after being fired from the one as a restaurant server.
He had been there for three years and was beloved by his customers and boss alike. Not only was he the chef/owner’s right hand man for the FOH, they had grown to become friends, and when Rosie, Jay and I dined there as a family following Kelly’s death, Chef Joey kindly gifted us the meal as a gesture of sympathy.
Afterwards, we went back to the kitchen to say a few words, and he told me that his mother, also a Regina, taught him everything he knew about cooking. He remarked on how Tommy often said the same about me.
Two years later he had to fire Tommy for stealing from the till.
Tommy insisted to me that it was some sort of mistake, and he kept that lie with him to his death.
But he continued to live a conventional life, landing a job as a construction workers’ apprentice soon after joining us on an extended european vacation that started with a visit to Scotland, promised three years earlier to Rosie.
The moments that transpired on that vacation, although exhausting due to the sheer intensity of his spirit, are those I treasure to this day, and I thank the heavens that I made the decision to spring for the airfare so that he could come.
It was as if the universe had whispered to me just do it, you’ll thank me later.
The three of us spent time in Edinburgh and Glasgow before joining my brother and his family in Italy, Tommy’s presence added to what turned out to be a fun and memorable trip. He was socially fearless and made navigating the complexities of a different culture joyful rather than awkward, seducing the locals with his charm and wit.
Everyone loved Tommy. He had a way of making whoever he was with feel that they were the most important person in the world. From his customers, employers, teachers and childhood friends to love-struck girls, it seemed everyone wanted to be around him.
But dark days that were filled with more lies also continued. After being evicted from the home he shared with a friend, his dad took him in, and Tommy started stealing from him regularly. Jay had a giant jar that he would put spare change into as a way of saving for a rainy day, and he had amassed quite the fortune. But once his son moved in, he kept noticing a diminishing level of the coins.
With a heavy heart he had to kick him out, with Tommy continuing to insist that there was no problem, despite what Jay could see with his own eyes.
Fortunately since Tommy had been living away from home for several years, and now over 500 miles away in upstate NY, Rosie and I were shielded from the day to day drama that we had to endure with Kelly, and were able to live our lives in relative peace.
Rosie had met her future husband Alex in Edinburgh during that wonderful vacation. They had immediately hit it off and continued with alternating visits to NYC and Edinburgh, a happy twist to the disappointment of missing out on our original trip.
Things would be changing for me as well. After my transformational experience with grief, I had begun to grow disillusioned with my 30 year career at the same corporate job, and it became clear as day that my only reason for staying was financial. With each company layoff, I crossed my fingers hoping I would be included so that I would be forced to make the change to my life that I desperately wanted, with a severance package that would almost certainly be included.
I dreamed of travel and yet to be imagined possibilities, living with the freedom of figuring things out as I went along.
My former self would have been too worried about what happens after the money runs out, but after witnessing death up close and personal, I would no longer let the fear of risky decisions limit my possibilities. I was more than ready to live a new life, unencumbered by the chains of responsibilities.
Ihad always thought the trendy idea of being able to manifest the things one desires was silly new age nonsense, but an event that occurred while I was hoping for a change made me rethink my perspective. Because sure enough, a voluntary severance that was historic for the company in its scope, was made to all employees of a certain age. With my many years of service, mine was staggeringly generous, offering two glorious years of full pay and benefits.
I had turned that certain age, the minimum of 55, just a month earlier.
But rather than the concept of manifestation, there was another idea I’d once come across that made more sense, simply that “chance favors the prepared.” We were given four weeks to decide but immediately after receiving the email at my desk, I waltzed into my boss’s office and let her know I was accepting the offer.
The first thing I did was book a short term rental for 3 months in Paris and submit notice on the house I was currently renting in Philly. I got rid of most of my belongings, pretty much just giving them away. After Paris there was a month in Berlin and then back to France, this time Lyon, where I would spend another year.
As I was nearing the end of my severance, I returned home to look for work.
My dream job had always been that of a cheesemonger. The world of fermented foods had always been an obsession of mine, with cheese being at the top. But I soon sadly discovered that once I’d started collecting the basic adult responsibilities of a mortgage and kids, the pay in that field was woefully inadequate to support a middle class lifestyle.
I took a peek at my corporate pension.
I saw that there was an early retirement option and even though it was less than half my former salary, it was more than enough to make it work. I realized that with my new minimalist attitude, I needed far less than I’d thought in order to be happy.
So I collected my reduced pension and ended up spending two soul-satisfying years working behind the cheese counter of a specialty foods emporium, one of an iconic family-owned chain of stores with a long Philly history. It was during that stint which brings me to the beginning of this two-part essay, where I had the dreaded phone conversation with Tommy’s dad, informing me that another son was now gone.
That loss hit me quite differently than the first, like that aforementioned second walk on the moon.
Since Kelly was still living at home, his life was intertwined more tightly with my own and his loss felt more stark. Also Kelly’s death was the event that separated my former self from my new self, and this unfortunate event seemed just a tragic part of my new normal. Kelly was also a different kid; he was more sensitive and seemed more insecure, more vulnerable, which contributed to making his death sadder and more regretful.
Or was it because I had already given up on Tommy once I learned he suffered with the same affliction that I was previously powerless to control? I was expecting it, and that lessened the blow. I sometimes wonder if I should have fought harder for him; that maybe it might have made a difference in the outcome.
But Tommy was an complicated person to say the least. He thrived on human relationships, yet didn’t give a damn what others thought. His massive spirit filled a room, but he could be either incredibly likeable or hugely annoying. He lived with an energy and intensity I’d never come across before, embracing anything and everything he could — physical pleasures, music, literature, affection, pride, joy and grief.
Perhaps this intensity was so overwhelming that he needed to tame it with drugs and alcohol, breaking hearts and leaving those who loved him desperately wishing he would choose less dangerous, destructive means to quiet his soul.
But whatever the reason, Tommy courageously lived life completely on his own terms, taking full responsibility for his own daring and impulsive choices. Some may have considered this selfish, but his insistence that he liked himself just the way he was left me with little guilt that I should have, or even could have done more.
After two years, I left my job selling cheese because I wanted to go back to France, potentially for good, and spent some time preparing for the move and applying for a visa. Two months later, as I was finalizing plans, the COVID pandemic hit, which ended up derailing them by a couple of years.
But I was in no hurry; I was enjoying the leisurely life of retirement with Rosie furloughed from her daycare job and living at home with me so she could save for her UK spousal visa. We took full advantage of the period of unlimited free time, watching various netflix series together with guilty pleasure.
Like many others during lockdown, I learned how to culture my own sourdough starter, applying my knowledge of fermentation to make some breads of various sorts, as well as a pizza crust that I was proud of. Rosie also did a lot of cooking, immersing herself in asian cuisines, mostly Indian and Japanese, and I was the lucky guinea pig.
I bought an ice cream maker and we had fun making exotic concoctions. Persian rose with saffron happened to be our Brucie’s favorite and as he was growing very old, we were happy to indulge him in his preferences.
These are among the most precious memories that I have stored away, accessible any time I need a pick-me-up whenever life again gets difficult.
After the worst of the pandemic started to subside and the world opened up again, I resumed my project and eventually found myself successfully living in the city of Marseille.
It’s been four years now and life is good. VERY good. Relocating to a different country is not without its challenges, but that’s one of the reasons I did it. The struggles with learning a new language, navigating the legendary french bureaucracy and fitting my identity inside a whole new culture have made me feel even more alive.
The theory that nothing exists without its opposite has a place in many philosophies, and I often use this idea to help explain the surprising and complicated feelings I’d experienced during my grieving period.
I still recognize hints of those in times where I feel simultaneously happy and sad. Filmmakers and storytellers sometimes use this technique to manipulate an audience to tears and it’s the one that has always worked for me. Rather than the events themselves, it’s the bittersweet moments that arise from tragedy that tend to make me cry.
If I’m out walking in the sunshine on the pathway overlooking the big blue Mediterranean, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world, I’ll sometimes feel a spark of that same wondrous sensation that had lived adjacent to my grief in the early days following Kelly’s death. And I’ll find that within that spark, there is also an unmistakeable hint of the ever present memory of what was lost. And more importantly, the vague subconscious awareness of what will be lost. And this is what brings me to actual tears, tears of joy at the miracle of my very existence in the world.
Loss is simply a part of life. And it’s not only the inevitability of death, but the continual loss we experience while those we love are still alive, the loss of who they once were.
I lost the baby version of Kelly less than a year after he was born. Every parent knows this loss as they’ll remind us to treasure the time we have with them. Because they grow up too fast.
But what would it be like if they remained babies forever?
What would our days be like if a spectacular rainbow was always visible in our skies?
If tree leaves remained throughout the year, never having the opportunity to show their brief spectacle of brilliant colors, before all of them falling dead to the ground?
What would life be like if the sun never set?
If the meal never ended?
If a kiss lasted forever?
As a famous musician/philosopher once said, all things must pass.
Good things will always come to an end, but it’s the impermanence itself of those things that makes life magical.
And loss is the price paid for joy.
“I’ve had incredible strokes of luck and incredible strokes of bad luck, and that’s probably the human condition. If you’re lucky.”
— author unknown
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