On a bright Spring day, I got an e-mail from our chapter leader, Cathy, that said something like, “Anita, I just reserved the room at the hotel for the TCF national conference in Costa Mesa. Are you going to room with me? I have checked on flights, and they still look a little high. We can watch them for a while before we book.” Hmmmm I thought to myself. These days, I sometimes have trouble making decisions; hence, the “Hmmmm.” I didn’t hesitate long before I committed to going. I had been thinking of attending a TCF conference, and Cathy and I had been discussing it. It was a perfect opportunity to go, and she had already done all the hard work. We booked our flights, we registered for the conference, and I had my days scheduled off. I was getting pretty anxious leading up to the conference. I had lots of thoughts whirling: Why don’t I just stay home? I’m needed at work. I’m not going to feel comfortable around all of those people. These thoughts just fell in with the usual litany of things swirling around in my head about how I couldn’t possibly be doing the right thing, so I ignored them as best I could and proceeded with packing my suitcase and getting to the airport.
The travel was tiring, and the time difference was hard to get used to, but the conference was an amazing experience. It was so great to be there with Cathy and the Plotkins. They were like anchors for me. If I ever felt like I was drifting, one of them would be there. Knowing that I would see them for lunch or dinner gave me the little bridges to home that I needed to help me feel comfortable going off to workshops on my own. All of the workshop leaders were great, and each workshop impacted me in a very positive way. A workshop that intrigued me from the beginning was titled “Dealing with the Distinctive Bereavement Needs of Parents That Lose a Child to a Drug Overdose.” What a mouthful! Could this be right? Do we have something unique that should be discussed? The room was pretty full, and I was a little late. Still, I saw a seat toward the front and took it. I was enthralled with every word from there on out.
The workshop leaders were William and Beverly Feigelman. William, a sociologist, and Beverly, a clinical social worker, are from New York. Their son died from suicide after a cocaine binge. Dr. Feigelman presented the first half of the workshop, explaining statistics and results from an extensive survey they’d conducted of bereaved parents. They developed a stigma scale to assign a number to the intensity of the stigma one is subjected to from the circumstances surrounding the cause of death. Lots of charts and numbers is exactly the way to get to me. It is just how my brain works and how I can make sense of the world. Needless to say, when Dr. Feigelman started presenting the results from their survey showing that parents whose children died from overdose suffered a stigma very similar to that suffered by parents whose children had died from suicide, he had my full attention. He articulated so many things that I have been thinking but did not know how or when to say.
The second half of the workshop was conducted by Beverly, who focused more on resources to get help and how to reach out. She covered other details, but I was on information overload. Luckily, their book had just been published, so I purchased it on the spot and Dr. Feigelman signed it, “For Aron, Jesse, & all the other loved children that left us before their time. Best Wishes, Bill & Bev.”
As I read the book, I knew that this was a subject matter I was interested in. I needed to talk about it. I needed to hear from other people who could validate my feelings. I needed to figure out a way to stop blaming myself. I thought a lot about how I could accomplish this for myself. It did not make sense to dedicate the subject matter of a meeting to this. Some people would feel alienated, and some people might not want to share in the broader group. I know that I hesitate to speak sometimes for fear that I will alienate or, worse yet, scare the pants off some other young parents who still have growing and developing children. The full story with all of the details is not for the faint of heart.
Even I felt uncomfortable in the world of those of us who have traveled the path of addiction with their children for years and years and suffered the emotional and financial ravages that accompany it. But now, I want to hear it all. I want to hear it all, and I want to tell my entire story. I want to tell it because I want to stand up for myself against this stigma. And I want to stand up for all the other parents who have endured people saying asinine things like, “It was probably for the best because he just would have been a lot of trouble for you if he had lived longer.” But most of all, I want to stand up for myself against the stigma that I am placing on myself. I need to talk about this, and I need to hear from other parents about their journey. I want to clear a path to allow myself to let go of some of the blame, and forgive myself for not being perfect . . . for not being able to prevent something that was never in my control.
So I sent an e-mail to a few folks. I said I would like to meet at my house on a Thursday night. I was surprised when someone said yes. Then someone else said yes, and then someone else. Oh, my goodness I was so thrilled! And nervous! On that night, six people joined me. It was a good group, and I can say that it was one of the best things I have done for myself in these seven years since Aron died. I won’t go into details out of the same respect that I would request for my own privacy, but there are some really fantastic parents who come to our TCF chapter. We are parents who cared for our children, and we did everything we could for them. We fought for them with everything we had, and we love them fiercely even today. I still wish I understood why some stories with these battles have happy endings and ours ended in this horrific journey. Until someone figures it out, I hope we can continue this sharing.
We planned another date on a Sunday because some people could not make the short notice that I provided for that Thursday. Again, I was amazed and thrilled with the sharing on this day. I was reminded that it is possible to be a good, loving parent and still end up in this nightmare. If this group is any kind of typical cross-section, I would have to say that it is more the norm that good, loving parents can end up here. Why have I been telling myself all these years that it must be some deficiency particular to me that caused my son to make some really poor life choices? When I hear the stories of these amazing parents, I hope that someone out there thinks I belong in that group. I want to stop identifying myself as an obviously bad parent. I want to start identifying with the way I perceive all of the parents who are sharing their stories with me because they are obviously good parents and good people.
These two meetings have been such a success that we have decided it is worth it to make meeting a regular occurrence. I’m not certain how long this will last or what will happen next, but I know this is an important grief milestone for me. I have taken a small step forward by voicing the horror that follows me around every day.
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