This week I got a call I never wanted to receive, informing me that my son, Ceilee, had been found dead in his bathroom, apparently of a drug overdose. I can only conceive of this as every parent's nightmare.
Ceilee had been struggling to put his life together for years, which included some serious bouts of depression. At some point drugs entered the picture and his mother (Annie, my ex-partner and dear friend) and I were slow to read the signs that that was part of the equation, which significantly complicated his chances for recovery. (While I don't have details about what drugs he was taking, or in what concentrations or frequency, none of that matters now. Dead is dead.)
Ceilee leaves behind a daughter, Taivyn (16), and a son, Connor (13). My grandchildren. While it had been my hope (as well as my plea to him) that their need for a stable father would be sufficient incentive for him to right the ship, it was not to be. While I do not understand drug addiction, neither do I judge those who succumb. There is no question but that it can be an awful scourge—one that has touched me this week in the most personal of ways. Both his mother and I made attempts to talk with him about his drug use, but he never opened up with us about it. I reckon he always thought he could control it; rather than the reverse. Now, a light has been extinguished that will never shine again.
Today, there is a hollow spot in my soul, and I am feeling profoundly sad. For me, for Annie, for Taivyn & Connor. There are no winners.
I had hoped to never experience the demise of either of my children, but here I am. This week, I have been living under a brooding, endless cloud, wandering kaleidoscopically from one precious memory to another, knowing there will be no new ones coming. The book is closed.
While it's hard to imagine that I'll ever laugh again—I know that, eventually, I will. I also know that it's important to be fully available for the grief, and that it's not something that can be hurried or scheduled. Further, I know that untold numbers of other parents have walked this lonely, shadowy road before, and that sustains me in my misery.
Writing about this helps. At least a little.
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