Since my son died last year of a heroin overdose, the most common response from others has been “I can’t imagine!” Losing your child is unimaginable. A parent is not supposed to outlive their child. It’s contrary to the natural order. He was only twenty-five and never became the beautiful person he was meant to be.
When the call came that he had died (“This is Officer A from Precinct B. Sorry to tell you that your son is dead. If you want to see him before the medical examiners take his body, he’s at this address…”), I faced the choice to either allow it to do me in or pick myself up and move forward.
Existential questions have flooded me: Where is there meaning now that my child is gone? Who am I now? What is the purpose of my life? Not only the loss of my beloved son, but other losses in my life–relationships, hopes, dreams–became attached to my grief, as if it were one huge tidal wave.
How do I swim in this vast and turbulent sea, out of sight of the shore or a single buoy? I’ve learned to just keep swimming. I keep my legs and arms continually moving to keep from drowning. I’d promised my son I would go on and live a full life. I uncovered strength I never knew I had. Every day I practice the art of perseverance.
Watching my son’s illness was preparation for confronting his death. Over the eight years of his disease, I’d received numerous calls from the police, heard shocking medical news (including after a suicide attempt), came to terms with his homelessness during a cold, snowy winter. I learned how to survive the ups and downs, the uncertainty, my inability to fix his problems. I developed an inner resilience, an ability to tolerate and even embrace the seemingly impossible. I didn’t know then that those skills would serve me now; it was a training ground for endurance, for which I am grateful.
Persevering actually offers gifts. I see more accurately the proper proportion of things. What really matters rises to the surface, and circumstances that might previously have unglued me fade from significance. Unexpected support has been showered upon me from some special people, including my son’s compassionate doctor, who continues to mentor me through my grief. As I persevere, still unsure where I’m headed and what it all means, my heart has grown and my compassion has deepened. My enduring love for my son helps me keep going.
Alison Hartman
Baltimore, Maryland
3 thoughts on “Keep Going”
I appreciate so much the honesty in this piece. I truly cannot imagine the grief you are feeling, but I might have some idea. Three years ago my only child, a daughter, was diagnosed at age 31 with an aggressive cancer called Ewing’s Sarcoma. This is usually a childhood or teenage cancer, but hers came later. It is not the kind of cancer that could be prevented by different lifestyle choices. It is a matter of havig an genetic mutation, one that is not inherited. 2022 was filled with surgeries, chemo, countless visits to doctors, hospitalizations, and fear that bordered on hysteria at times for my daughter. My job was to stay calm and help her practically and emotionally. During the midst of this medical crisis, my husband suffered a major heart attack and required triple bypass surgery. My days grew even busier. I realized after a few weeks that I no longer had time for worries and fears. I just had to get up in the morning and start walking into the day
Three years later my husband has fully recovered, and my daughter is cancer-free. None of us know what the future holds. Only now can I stop moving so quickly that I FEEL the trauma and gratitude at a deep level. My best to you, Alison, with your journey.
Thank you, Kathy, for sharing your story with me in response to my piece. You have certainly navigated such treacherous waters. I am impressed by your perseverance and tenacity. And I am so happy for you that things played out with such positive outcomes. We do not know what is around the corner. Never in my wildest imagination did I think my son would become an addict, suffer from trauma which was revealed after his death, and die before me. Fortunately there have been unexpected gifts, deep meaning and creativity that have been born out of this loss.
Thank you for your compassion.
Blessings for you and for your son.