A meeting in Klamath Falls on Thursday took me past Collier State Park on Highway 97. On my way home, I stopped and reminisced. Blake and I shared a tender moment at this park toward the end of February, 2013.
When Blake was suddenly discharged from Best Care Residential Treatment, because he drank alcohol he had hidden while on a home visit, we had to find another treatment facility for him. He had been accepted into the mental health court, and successful completion of treatment was a requirement for him to stay in the program which would eventually lead to dismissal of pending criminal charges. His case manager was able to secure placement for him at Transformations in Klamath Falls for 60 days of treatment..
Blake was getting healthy at this facility. He wasn’t fond of the area, but the program seemed to be working for him, and he seemed to be putting in solid effort. He spent his 22nd birthday there. Thom and I visited a couple of times, but the 2-hour drive made more frequent visits impossible, especially because of winter driving conditions.
February 14, 2013
One day at the end of February, after he had completed over 45 days of treatment, I got a call from Blake. He told me that he left the facility without permission and asked me to come and get him. I told him that he needed to go back, but he told me that his leaving meant that he could not just return, and that some stuff had gone down and he was being blamed. He didn’t elaborate much.
Wanting to get more information, I called Transformations. I was told that indeed Blake could not just return. He would have to wait 30 days before he could be re-admitted. I was also advised to leave him on the streets of Klamath Falls, a town he did not know, with no resources, and let him figure it out. I could not believe this advice! With options extremely limited, and only the clothes on his back, the disease of addiction, and a suicide attempt just four months earlier, I was not about to listen to this person on the phone. I was seeing a lack of care and compassion from a supposed caregiver. I got in my car and went to get Blake.
I called Blake when I got to Klamath Falls. He had found a bar where he met some guys who bought him a couple of drinks and smoked some pot with him. I was unhappy with these choices, but it was not time to address this. After taking him back to Transformations to retrieve his belongings, we started the drive home, and he told me his version of what happened.
A couple of days earlier, Transformations accepted a female patient who was released from jail and court ordered to attend treatment. Blake said that she basically seduced him and they had sex. This was against the rules, and Blake felt guilty about it. He told her that he was going to be honest and talk about the rule violation during group. Before this could happen, she told her counselor that Blake had taken advantage of her. The staff then questioned Blake. His perception was that he was being accused of sexually assaulting this female. He explained that he could not stay there and be treated like that. I supported his decision to leave, especially after my earlier telephone interaction with the employee of Transformations.
About 30 miles outside of Klamath Falls, we stopped at Collier State Park to use the restroom. It was a dreary day, but I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity of having Blake to myself out in nature. He was feeling defeated. I pushed Blake on a swing for a few minutes, and then we walked to a nice spot by the river. I held his hand for awhile, telling him that I was sorry things were so hard, that he would get through this, and that I loved him and would stand by him. It was a heart-felt moment, with tears from both of us.
There were many unknowns, because Blake still had not successfully completed treatment, as required by his participation in mental health court. He ended up giving up on the program, accepting a felony conviction of 2nd degree robbery, which should have been dropped to shoplifting, but he had a public defender. He was just tired of the whole thing and wanted to be done with it.
I want to pause here for a moment to talk about a mother’s intuition. Moms know their children. Some people might fault me for going to get him. Some people might say, ‘addicts lie and manipulate to get what they want.’ I’ve seen this sentiment. It is true that sometimes people who suffer from addiction do lie and manipulate. In this situation, my gut was telling me that he was telling the truth. As moms, we have to make these tough decisions. We have to do what we believe is right. We have to do what we can live with should the unthinkable happen.
This spring, after I attended a meeting in Klamath Falls, I again stopped at Collier State Park. It had been a long time since I spent meaningful time with Blake. I saw him briefly at the end of February, but he had suffered a relapse, so we didn’t spend quality time together. I was missing him terribly and feeling scared. I wanted to feel close to him and whisper words of encouragement to him. I sat by the river that day and sent out wishes for his wellness.
Then last Thursday, I sat on the swing that I pushed Blake on over six years earlier. The tears flowed. I walked the same path to that spot on the river where Blake and I had stood. I talked with him about that day, about how I wish he was still here, about the dead tree along the path, and that how even in its death, it was supporting life, just as he is now, through my telling of his story and our story.
My view from that swing has changed significantly over time. From doing what I needed to do to protect my son, to being fearful of the possibility of the monster stealing his life, to feeling a hole in my heart through the realization of that fear, the being and becoming is marked there.
Today marks one year since your beloved Nala jumped out of the window of the car as you neared the ocean. I can only imagine that the smell of the salty air made her lose her mind and throw any sense of caution to the wind. I remember that day, although I had no idea what happened until weeks later. On that day, your dad and I were at Oktoberfest in downtown Bend. I got a message from McKenzie, only telling me that you were going to buy liquor and she didn’t know what to do. You had a pretty good amount of ‘clean’ time at this point, but I was still hesitant to interfere. I did though, reminding you that you would be mad at yourself later. You told me to leave you alone. I let you know that, as always, I was available for you. I wish I knew what happened.
Later, you texted me that I should get a refund from the taxidermist that you paid to mount your trophy rainbow trout because he never did the job. You were concerned that you owed me money. I told you that I wasn’t concerned about it and asked if you were okay. You said you were fine, but I was scared. We made some small talk about my workouts and the muscle gains I was experiencing. You told me you were proud of me. In your next text, you said, “I seriously don’t think I could stand living without my momma.” My response was, “That’s the way it’s supposed to be – the natural order of life. Mommas’ hearts break, and they are never the same, when their children pre-decease them.” I didn’t know the heartbreak you were experiencing or the context of your texts. I imagine now that you were comparing the grief that you were feeling over the loss of Nala to the grief that you would likely feel if you lost me.
It would be a number of weeks before I found out what happened, and it was only by accident. I saw a super cute spider dog Halloween costume. I shared it on your Facebook page, commenting that Nala would make an adorable spider. When you commented “Dead Nala?” I had no idea what you were talking about. I messaged you, and you only told me that she died and that you didn’t want to talk about it. I had to text McKenzie to get further details.
My heart broke for you. Nala was such a wonderful spirit. She literally saved your life earlier that year when you overdosed in a motel room. She barked and barked until someone opened the door and called 9-1-1. You took her everywhere with you. She saw you at your worst and at your best, and she loved you no matter what – just like me.
You were just beginning to entertain the idea of getting another dog. No dog could have replaced Nala, but another dog could have loved you, and you could have loved another dog.
On another topic, Julia sent me an article yesterday that I’d love to talk with you about. There’s a woman by the name of Jennifer Nicolaisen who lives in Asheville, North Carolina. She has started a nonprofit called ‘SeekHealing’, with the tagline “Rethink Rehab.” She asserts that, “The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. The opposite of addiction is genuine, meaningful interactions and authentic connections and experiences with ourselves, each other, and the world around us.” Totally reminds me of Johann Hari’s “Chasing the Scream” when he said, “The opposite of addiction is not sobriety. The opposite of addiction is connection.” Her nonprofit gives people opportunities to confront their loneliness and lack of connection by helping them to connect, without judgment. I think it’s absolutely brilliant. I’d love to get your feedback. Here’s the article:
You were so tired of traditional treatment. Some would think, ‘well, why didn’t he just quit using then?’ I know. I also know it’s not as simple as that. You were exhausted from spilling your sad story over and over – being forced to live it and re-live it through the telling and re-telling. You were looking for alternative treatment facilities. We talked about work camps and other types of treatment. What you really wanted was wilderness therapy. You had reached out to a place in Colorado, but money was an issue, as insurance dictates the type of treatment a person is allowed to receive, even though treatment is not a one-size-fits-all piece of apparel. Not many things are.
Which leads me to this…some people believe that ‘tough love’ is the be-all-end-all solution to addiction. Because it worked for them, they believe it is the answer for everyone – that every parent should kick their addicted child to the curb, out of love. I have seen this sentiment widely spread on social media. I believe there are compounding factors that need to be considered, like mental illness and suicidal ideation. There are no easy answers, are there? I just want you to know that we did the best we could. I wish we had the answers that would have spared your life. I wish we had the answers that would have spared you from the experience of this disease.
I was honored to tell your story in Warm Springs Friday evening at their Recovery Never Ends Conference. Can you believe I spoke for 45 minutes with little preparation? I met two women who also lost their sons. It was an amazing experience. I hope you’re proud of me. I know that you know I’m a fighter, and if your story can save even one life, then I will tell it and tell it and tell it. When I talk about you, I feel close to you, so I won’t stop. I know I’m not going to stop this epidemic, but I’m adding my voice to the arsenal. Here I am in Warm Springs (wearing the boots you gifted me Christmas 2016 – you were so proud):
Courtesy of Sarah J. Frank
Dad’s been thinking about you a lot. When John came up for your Celebration, he brought a 1961 Ford F250 4X4 that he found in Medford for $600. You would love it! I hope you can visit dad while he’s working on it. He’s hoping to be able to keep it as a work truck. He’s already put new brakes in, replaced the water pump, rebuilt the carburetor, and made a key. All that, and he’s spent less than $200 on parts. It purrs, and the body is straight.
We took it down to the marina last Saturday night. It was the night after the harvest moon, so it was really bright. I guess I don’t need to tell you this, because you were there. Thanks for visiting. I found it so comforting. Seeing you dancing with the moon was beautiful. (Not everyone will believe, but I do!)
Tomorrow marks two months since you departed this earth – well, by the doctors’ calculation. I believe you actually left on the 21st. Not one day has passed that I have not cried – multiple times. I told you that this would change me, and when I look at pictures of myself now, I can see it in my eyes. I hope to get my spark back. I’m not always sad, but there is always a sadness. I wish I could hug you.
I love you my dear son, to infinity and beyond. You were the first real love of my life. Fly high, be free, and visit anytime.
Our family does not subscribe to or identify with any particular religious sect. From my mid childhood through my teen years, I experienced the beliefs of the church that I attended with my family as suffocating and ostracizing – not something that I chose to continue when I was ‘old enough’ to make decisions for myself.
As a parent, I’ve often wondered if not attending a church was detrimental to my family, and in particular, my children. Although I came to a point in my life that I decided against church attendance, I did enjoy many of the social activities and sense of belonging to a community that church offered. We didn’t expose our children to this environment. We didn’t deny them either though. Our youngest son attended church with a friend’s family, and that was perfectly okay with us. I believe that what we did do is live in alignment with our values and beliefs, which brings me to ‘love and faith.’
On the day that Blake overdosed, we spoke on the phone and we texted back and forth a little bit. He was going to get his sleeve finished and he was asking me what I thought about the final tattoo.
In our phone conversation after this text, he asked me what I thought about him changing the script. I told him that it’s his story, and that his tattoo should reflect that. Since then, I’ve had a lot of time to consider these words and his choice to include them on prayer hands.
In her appearance on Oprah’s SuperSoul Sunday, author Susan Monk Kidd provided her definition of prayer as “the attention of the heart.” This is a definition that makes the most sense to me. This means that we can be in prayer at any time, in any place. It is not something that needs to happen in a certain position, with certain words, or in a certain format. We can live our life in prayer by living in a way that expresses how we want to see the world. For instance, intentionally being kind can be a prayer because the attention of our heart is focused on being kind.
I don’t know if this is the definition that Blake would assign to the word prayer. Blake had spent the 20 months before his passing in Los Angeles. He attended AA and NA meetings regularly. He never mentioned church attendance to me, so I don’t believe that was part of his life, but I do know there is a religious tone to AA and NA, even though they are secular. I also know that the sober living home where he resided was owned by a couple of Jewish brothers and that they brought their beliefs and practices into the house. Blake was free to choose his path, of course, but the Blake that I knew was more spiritual than religious.
Using Kidd’s definition of prayer, ‘Keep the faith’ on prayer hands, would translate to keeping faith the attention of the heart, except he would have exchanged ‘Keep the’ to ‘Love and.’ This changes the meaning of the tattoo pretty significantly – the translation now that love and faith is the attention of the heart, or his heart. I think this reflected the way that Blake sought to live his life and the point in time in his life.
Over the last eight weeks or so, I’ve had the opportunity to learn about my son from the perspective of other people. So many of his friends have told me about his love for people, that he loved unconditionally. To love and be loved was vital to him – food for his soul, even though he often did not believe he deserved love and could not love himself. He was an empath from an early age. I remember one evening when he was just two years old. We were in the WIC office waiting room. There was a younger baby there who was upset and crying. Blake was very concerned and wanted to take the baby a toy to help the baby feel better. Blake had a natural way with people, being present with them in ways that they needed him to be.
I recently watched Trent Shelton’s “Trust the Process” video on YouTube. In it, he speaks about his experience as a child planting seeds with his grandfather. I highly recommend watching the video (I’ll drop the link below), but for the purpose of this blog entry, I am adopting Shelton’s definition of the word faith, which he defines as, “Believing something is growing even when you can’t see growth taking place. That gardener knows that something is going on beneath the surface even if it doesn’t show up until months later.” I think faith was hard for Blake. Perhaps the intended tattoo would have served as a reminder that he was growing, even if he couldn’t see it.
I do not own any rights to this video. I am sharing it for your enjoyment and contemplation.
With prayer, the attention of the heart, centered on love, Blake’s soul food, and faith, the belief that he was changing, or becoming, or growing, into the person that he wanted to be, even when he couldn’t see it, this would have been a beautiful and powerfully symbolic tattoo. Of course, I can only project my understanding of his thoughts based on my own experience with him. I knew him pretty well though.
Blake’s absence leaves me with these words, this insight into his thoughts and his heart in his final hours. They take on new meaning and a bigger significance to me now. Keeping him ‘alive’ and honoring him, I aim to continue letting his life teach and guide me.
Before I went to bed on Saturday night/early Sunday morning, I saw the article that The Bulletin published about the Central Oregon Walk for Recovery. I was front and center, standing on the stage behind the podium where I spoke to the crowd, the photographer having captured me wiping a pain-filled tear from my eye. When I woke up Sunday morning, I received a text showing the article on the front page. I was a bit stunned but so filled with honor to have been given first, the platform to be heard and seen as a mother who lost her son to addiction, and second, to have been able to bring awareness to the stigma that so many individuals and families hide from in an effort to protect themselves.
Courtesy of Andy Swanson
I woke up Saturday morning feeling a bit frantic. I forgot to buy mozzarella cheese for the clam dip, the balloons were still not marking the way to the site for Blake’s Celebration, I didn’t have coffee for my morning shake – I was seeing everything that had not been done and feeling so much anxiety. Thom kept reassuring me and telling me everything would be fine. I eventually left the house with the box of t-shirts to pass out to our friends and family who would walk with us.
Courtesy of Cecelia Rodriguez
I also knew that I was going to speak at the event. I was interviewed on the phone by a reporter from The Bulletin on Friday morning. I wasn’t sure of the format of the event, what I needed to say, or how I was even going to do this. I’m not a big planner when I speak, so that wasn’t the part that was causing so much agony. My insides were quaking, and my mouth was dry.
Arriving at the event, I carried the box of shirts to the staging area. I was met by some friends who had already arrived, and they immediately took over organization of the shirts, while I spoke with the event organizer and other key event people, and a reporter. I was convinced I would need a chair on the stage so that I wouldn’t fall. This feeling that I had is a feeling that I’ve sporadically experienced since Blake’s passing, but not to this extreme. It is a feeling of being out of balance, not like vertigo or dizziness, but like the Universe has been tipped suddenly and I need to hold on to something to maintain my footing.
It was then time to stand on the stage. At the very last moment before climbing the steps, I decided to read my Mo[n][m]ster Madness poem. My dear friend and soul sister asked, “Are you going to be able to read it?” I shrugged, knowing I probably wouldn’t, but I was going to try to separate myself from my grief and give it a go.
With the podium to lean on, I introduced myself and immediately had to take a few seconds to try to compose myself. I knew this was going to be hard, and it was. I also knew that this was just the first time I would tell this story, and that it would eventually get easier. But I had to get through it on that day, especially for him. He was brave, each time he fell and got back up, he was so brave. I would be brave too.
So with tears in my eyes and a wavering voice, I plowed through. I told a little about his story, read my poem, and talked for a minute about the stigma surrounding the disease of addiction. One of my final statements on the stage was that Blake would expect nothing less from me. I know this to be true. He knew that his ‘mama don’t play.’ He saw me fight for him and his brother and so many other young people. When I exited the stage, I felt a wave of relief.
Here is a video of my talk:
Courtesy of Darla Brandon
I received so many hugs, condolences, and words of appreciation from members of the recovery community. I met a mom whose son, 13 months in recovery from heroin, spoke after me. She said she had been looking at the picture of Blake on our shirts, and thought how he reminded her of her own son.
We all joined and completed the walk, and met back at the staging area for a picture before dispersing for final Celebration preparation.
Courtesy of Heather Keough
Back at the house, I finished making the clam dip, changed my clothes, and donned Blake’s ‘Naked Winery’ hat. It was 75 degrees and sunny, and I was planning to catch some rays while celebrating my beautiful boy. I threw on a swimsuit that reminds me of something a James Bond girl would wear (because I believe in the ability of clothing to shift attitude, and I wanted to feel a little bit determined) and put the t-shirt back on over it. I was late, but I was feeling my go-with-the-flow attitude return.
The Celebration of Blake’s Life was perfect. So many people showed up to remember him and support us. It was casual, with hamburgers and hot dogs served from the grill, and many other dishes provided by family and friends. The stories told were funny and filled with love and grief. The weather did not hold up though, and turned from sunny and warm, to chilly and downright blustery. We chalked it up to Blake showing us his presence. There was a white egret that flew up and down the reservoir while we were there. I tried to capture it in a photo, but it eluded me.
Here is a video that Google Photos so kindly put together for me with some of the pics and videos I took:
There were many funny stories, stories of his stubbornness, stories of his goofiness and good nature. One story filled my eyes with tears. A friend that he had during elementary school drove over five hours to be with us on this afternoon. She had written to me on an earlier date telling me that she didn’t have many people that she kept in contact with during that time in her life, because most people bullied her. Not Blake. He was always kind to her. During the Celebration, she told us all how her single mom didn’t qualify for free lunch, and there were days that she came to school with no lunch and no lunch money. On those days, Blake would either share his lunch or give her his lunch. Oh, my heart!!! She also told me that Blake is the one that sparked her artistic creativity. Another person told how he talked with a homeless man with a guitar in the park for a couple of hours one afternoon. He was selfless and loving, my beautiful boy.
Courtesy of Heather SumpterCourtesy of Cecelia Rodriguez
After the stories, we packed up and many of us headed down to Sheep Bridge, one of Blake’s favorite, if not his absolute favorite places to fish. Thom told a story about a fishing adventure with him there, where, with waders on, Blake fell into a hole in the river and was completely submerged for a moment. (Blake had many instances like this and always came out almost unscathed.) Thom told about Blake’s favorite fishing lure, J-11, which he had encased in a vacuum-sealed bag, along with a four-pound rock, and some of Blake’s ashes. He scoped the area out a couple of nights earlier to find the perfect place for Blake’s ashes to land, so that we would know exactly where we could visit him. Thom then tossed the bag into the water, AND IT FLOATED!!! Even in the afterlife, Blake’s destination will not be determined by someone else.
Courtesy of Cecelia RodriguezCourtesy of Cecelia Rodriguez
Our beautiful boy, you were and are so, so loved and such a blessing to so many! Be free!!!
Thank you to everyone who showed up and those who were with us in spirit. You eased our pain for a little while, and we will remember always. We love you all! I think the day couldn’t have been better if Blake had planned it himself.
And I definitely think he had a hand in this day….check out the orbs in the following pictures, and one of the purple balloons marking the way to his Celebration that mysteriously floated overhead in the exact location where his ashes were dispersed.
Courtesy of Gregory Cruz Courtesy of Gregory CruzCourtesy of Gregory Cruz
Just a couple of pics since then – the frittata I made for breakfast the next day – I felt like I was cooking with Blake in the kitchen:
And yesterday, while I was at the kitchen sink, a big robin came and sat in the planter in front of the kitchen window. Then two other robins flew in and landed on the small tree nearby. Of course Blake would bring friends. When the other two birds flew away, I asked the bird in the planter to stay so I could get a picture…
The monster in you unleashes the mom-ster in me Begging and pleading for the monster to set you free Setting aside the needs of all else Believing my fight can reclaim your health
F*** off! you say The monster controls the games you play Lying, stealing - perception blurred by the sickness The mom-ster would do anything to light up the bleakness
It’s natural for me to take care of you To kiss away the pain and apply the glue To keep you from falling apart All while attempting to shield my heart
Deeply connected as we so are My body knows from afar Echoing the monster's roar through my veins I remind mom-ster that only you can break the chains
My love for you goes to infinity and beyond Mom-ster would feed monster and annihilate that bond As long as you're breathing, I have hope That you find your reason to turn your back on dope.
To be continued…..
It’s monster for the final win I'll never be mom-ster again I held your hand and kissed your forehead So hard to leave you in that hospital bed
During your final inpatient detox We had one of our text message talks You sent a verse of a poem that you'd written to me Your fight with the monster, you wanted to be free
“Thought so deep I’m going to drown In my head and all around I am blind with open eyes Filled with salt from tears I cry Days are long, sleepless nights A better life, nowhere in sight."
Oh my beautiful, beautiful boy I will not let monster steal my joy Your freedom came at the highest cost Mama bear, not mom-ster, the monster crossed
I know you’d want me to be happy for you No more fighting, like a bird you flew Months earlier, I told you that if you left this earth You'd take a part of me with you, for what that was worth
So many people are coming together to celebrate your life You were and are loved, despite your internal strife Stories of your kindness fill me with pride I welcome you always, my heart open wide.
Like every morning, the alarm goes off, I grab my phone and stop the noise. Phone in hand, I head to the bathroom. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, on this day I notice I have a text message:
There is an instant pit in my stomach. I was just texting with Blake last night before I went to bed. I immediately call Sidney. “It’s not good,” he says. He tells me that Blake overdosed in the bathroom after smoking Fentanyl. (It maddens me that I even know how to spell that!) Someone did CPR, but they had a really hard time getting and then keeping a pulse. He apologized for the call, and I can hear what he’s saying, and I cry.
Thom is outside the bathroom. “What’s going on?” I come out and recount what I just heard. I look up the number to Cedar Sinai Medical Center and am connected to a nurse in the Neuro ICU. She is harshly honest about his condition and her expectation. It is more than I can take. I feel like all of the air has been sucked out of the room, and I am somewhere unfamiliar. I am fading away and present at the same time.
I don’t know what to do. It’s Tuesday. I’m taking the summer camp kids to Adkins Blueberry Farm today. I’ve got to pull myself together. I think about what Blake would want me to do. He wouldn’t want to be the cause of letting the kids down. So I pick my soggy self up and head to the shower. I text my co-worker and let her know what’s going on so that she knows the reason if I seem out of sorts. I also decide to drive my car to the blueberry farm instead of riding the bus with the kids.
The idea of getting to Blake doesn’t seem viable at this point. We don’t have money for unexpected travel. I have the summer program that I designed, wrote grants and did fundraising for. In addition to this being my passion and summer income, the kids are depending on me. Blake has overdosed before, and I’m hoping with everything I have, that he will fight his way back, and that this will be adios to the monster, once and for all. There is one undeniable difference though. In the past, Blake was the one to call and tell me that he overdosed.
I welcome the distraction of excited and wonder-filled children at the blueberry farm. We enjoy lunch, pick berries, explore the farm, have a snack, and pack up for the bus ride back to school. During this time, I receive a dire message from Blake’s father that he has talked with the doctor and Blake’s organs are failing. He also tells me that the hospital had my number written down incorrectly and they would be calling me, as I am the one responsible for medical decisions. This just cannot be.
Out in the blueberry field, I get a call from Blake’s nurse. She reports that he is doing a little better. The social worker is there for me to speak with. We go over family composition and I ask her if I should be there. She promises to keep me updated on if or when I should be there. Before I get off the phone, the neurologist is there to speak with me. I remember speaking to him while trying to help children get their blueberries weighed and paid for. I remove myself as he tells me about Blake’s condition, promising that they are doing absolutely everything they can to help Blake. I give permission for Blake to be put on dialysis.
After getting the youth back to school and sent home, I go home, where I fall apart. I’d like to drown myself in a bottle of vodka, but I know that is exactly what I should not do. Blake needs to hear my voice, so I find the text of “The Giving Tree,” Blake’s favorite childhood story, and record myself reading it. I also record myself singing “You Are My Sunshine.” I send these recordings to his friend McKenzie, who is sitting with him, and I’m relying on for instant contact and updates. (Here are links to the videos. I couldn’t figure out how to embed them here.)
I somehow made it through the next two days. I had a scheduled tattoo appointment on Wednesday. I was going to have a tattoo finished that was started three weeks prior. When I arrived at the studio, I was told that the tattoo still needed more time to heal before it could be finished. In a moment of spontaneity, I asked if I could have something different done since I was there. The last conversation that Blake and I had was about the tattoo that he was going to get to finish his sleeve. He was going to get prayer hands with ‘Faith and Love’ written on them. I decided to have the words ‘faith’ and ‘love’ written in script around my wrist with infinity symbols joining them.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. I felt like I needed to get to Los Angeles to be with Blake, but I didn’t have the money to get there. We had made arrangements for camp to be covered if I should need to leave, so I felt confident about that. I just didn’t have the funds. I was posting regularly on Facebook, and so many people asked me if they could do something to help. I really couldn’t think of anything, except this, but I hated the thought of asking. I hated the thought of not being with Blake even more. With some encouragement from a close friend, I turned to my Facebook community.
The feedback was incredible! Money started pouring in! By 10 o’clock that evening, I had enough funds to purchase a one-way ticket to LAX and pay for three nights in a hotel close to the hospital. I also had enough money to purchase a ticket for the flight back, but I wasn’t sure what date I would need to fly home. There were additional funds for food and transportation. I was, and continue to be, in awe of how so many people have come together to support my family. (We have required additional financial help due to the Thom’s travel, the length of time we needed to be in Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, no less, and earnings lost.)
I arrived at Blake’s bedside Thursday night. It was shocking to see him this way, but I put my ‘Mama Bear’ face on and went into action. Talking to him and playing songs for him, while of course singing along, I thought for sure he’d wake up and tell me to shut up. I was wishing he would.
From the hospital, I went and checked into my hotel room. I got a little bit of sleep and arrived back at the hospital after attending an early morning AA meeting with many of Blake’s recovery family members.
I felt so hopeful when I got to Blake’s side. His eyelids were open, and he seemed to be opening and closing them in response to stimulus. His pupils were not tracking, but they were reactive. There was a machine set up that tracked his brain activity, and it indicated activity when people were talking. He was in there! He would have a CT of his brain around noon, which would allow a more definitive prognosis. I left the hospital for a walk while he was having the scan done.
Walking back into his room after the scan, I knew the findings were not good. Blake’s nurse was incredibly compassionate. There were multiple people working around Blake, and when I looked into her eyes, I saw what she knew. The doctor came by within about an hour and explained that there was more edema, or swelling, of Blake’s brain than when he arrived, that while his organs’ functions seemed to be improving, his brain was deteriorating, and without brain function, he could not survive. I had to have the doctor repeat this to Thom on the phone and then repeat it to me in the hall – outside of Blake’s room.
I couldn’t breathe right; I was nearly hyperventilating. I was taken to an office, where the doctor, nurse, and social worker talked with me. I asked the doctor to make it simple for me. He said, “Your son is dying.” I could not not understand those words. I yelled, “I DID NOT WANT TO BE A MEMBER OF THIS CLUB!!!” I think I may have even said ‘f-ing club,’ using the actual word. I remember dropping a few f-bombs during this meeting. They were all very understanding, telling me how hard it was for them as well, especially given his young age. They asked me questions, and listened to me talk about him as a person. I know they genuinely cared.
A Unitarian chaplain was called for me. I was told she only had 20 minutes but could meet with me briefly before she left for the day. She stayed for at least an hour. I told her the story of Blake, how he came into the world, how he taught me so much, how I knew that if he could have achieved recovery in this life that he would have been a healer. As I was telling her about his ability to heal, it dawned on me that he had been a source of my own healing – that because of him, I was able to find strength. I told her that he was a gift to me and that I wasn’t angry. She asked me what I wanted to do – if there was a ritual that I wanted to perform for him.
I had no idea. The only personal experience I have with death and hospitals is experience that I did not believe Blake would want to be part of. I told her I wanted to bless him, to thank him for choosing me. I wanted to let him go and wish him well.
We walked back to his room, where we stood over him. The chaplain led me and two people who love Blake in a blessing. I wish that I would have recorded it. It was beautiful. I was able to say to him, while holding his hand, every thought. I expressed gratitude, pride, awe, and as always, unconditional love. Finally, I granted him peace and encouraged him to drop by anytime.
Later that night, with my cousin and her husband visiting, Blake gave us another show with his eyelids. I would talk to him and kiss his eyebrows, and he would open his eyes. Thom called via Facetime, unable to get to us until the next day, and Blake opened and closed his eyes in response to Thom telling him that he needed to get up so they could go fishing together. It gives me comfort to know that Blake knew I was there. I believe he was letting me know.
Upon my arrival to Blake’s room early the next morning, I could immediately feel Blake’s absence. There was a distinct different feeling in the room, and it was the first time I allowed myself to cry in his physical presence. I knew he had gone though, and it was too much. I read some stories to him, and sat with him, holding his hand, but I didn’t feel like he was there. The machine that had previously indicated brain activity was now indicating brain inactivity. That machine was removed by the end of the day, along with a few others that were no longer necessary.
Thom arrived mid-afternoon. When we left the room for a walk together, he told me that he didn’t think Blake was there anymore. I told him about my feeling when I entered the room that morning. Then Thom told me a story about an interesting thing that happened that morning at home before he left for the airport.
Thom came out of our bedroom, and as he was going toward the kitchen, he sensed movement in the living room. He went to check it out, and there was a bird stuck in our wood stove. Now mind you, our living room ceiling goes all the way to the top of the second story, so our chimney is about 20 feet long. The bird flew down the 20 foot chimney and then got through a closed damper, only to find itself stuck in the stove. Thinking it odd, but not giving it too much thought, Thom opened the door of the stove, and the bird flew out. He then opened the door, and the bird flew off into the sky.
“That was such a Blake maneuver!” I squealed, through my tears. “He found the only entry into the house, only to find himself stuck!” It was kind of typical for him to do things out of excitement, without thinking about the outcome. I could only imagine that, as this bird, he was upset with himself and clicking through the scenarios of possible outcomes. I don’t know how all of this works, but we choose to accept this as a gift and message from Blake. Thom couldn’t get to Blake in time, so Blake went to him.
It would be three more days before Blake was officially declared brain dead. We spent time at the hospital, and more time out of the hospital doing things and eating things that Blake enjoyed. We ate sushi and Mexican food. We had made-in-front-of-us chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. We walked and talked and laughed with Julia, a love of Blake’s who we hadn’t seen in a few years.
On the day that our beautiful boy was declared brain dead, we went to the beach that he had taken me to the summer before. I let the ocean waves wash over my body and attempted to comprehend my new club membership status.
I’m writing this on International Overdose Awareness Day. This is only the final chapter of our lives with Blake’s presence on this earth. There are many, many chapters of Blake’s life, but I write this one today, to spread awareness. The disease of addiction does not discriminate. It is a vengeful disease that destroys lives and families. It lives in the shadows because of shame. And in the shadows, it grows. When we start talking about it and shining a light on how to truly help people who are afflicted, only then will we start decreasing the number of people dying and the number of individuals and families left trying to find their new ‘normal.’ When one suffers, we all suffer.
To be the sibling of someone who struggles with addiction comes with unique challenges. I’d like to introduce you to Lucas. Blake was five years and two months old when Lucas came into this world on April 15, 1996. (An interesting side note that Blake brought to our attention: Blake shared the month and day of birth with Abraham Lincoln, while Lucas was born on the anniversary date of Lincoln’s passing.)
Blake was pretty excited to be a big brother, and we were excited that our family was complete. Lucas was a great baby. You could set your watch by what he was doing. For instance, when he would wake from his afternoon nap, he would sit up in his crib and quietly occupy himself until someone came to get him.
Blake’s pride in being Lucas’s big brother extended beyond sibling rivalry or any perceived unfairness in how the two of them were parented. The bottom line was that Blake would protect Lucas, taking a stand against any of his friends that would pick on his little brother – reserving that right only for himself.
Those early years seem so long ago now, but I remember camping trips, Disneyland, Tahoe, trips to the wine country, Marine World, birthdays, holidays, meal time, stories, and weekend morning cereal and cartoons. Life was pretty good. Blake had some struggles with school, but all in all, these were simple times.
Things began changing when Blake was thirteen and Lucas was eight, although Blake’s trouble in/with school had become near constant by this time. Alcohol and marijuana entered the scene sometime during Blake’s 8th grade year. It was at this time that he was also diagnosed with chronic severe depression. Shortly after his 14th birthday, we knew we were dealing with something bigger than teenage ‘rebellion’ or risk taking. Things escalated so quickly that I feared, for the first time, that we were going to lose him.
Lucas quietly witnessed the chaos. He wasn’t one to create a fuss. His only reaction was shutting down. One Friday before the end of the school day, with Lucas in tow, I quietly withdrew Blake from school, checked him out, and escorted him to our packed car, where I told him we were taking a road trip to his Grandpa’s house. While that was the plan, I left out the part about going from his Grandpa’s house to a wilderness therapy program, where he would stay for at least 30 days. When Monday morning rolled around, I told him about the plan. He eventually got in the car, but not before running into the Umpqua River, prompting me to call the police for assistance.
I tried to spend special time with Lucas. Every child needs and deserves special time with their parents. I knew though, that Lucas needed it more. So much attention, out of worry, fear, anger, and frustration, was being paid to Blake, that there was little time or energy left for Lucas. I imagine our home was not a place where Lucas felt safe or seen. I know this because I had the experience of being the sibling of an addicted younger brother, and I remember a constant fearing of and resentment toward him and my dad and step-mom. I was also the quiet one in my family, careful to not cause problems, but feeling unseen, unappreciated, and even unloved at the same time.
One of my favorite memories of time spent with Lucas while Blake was away at wilderness therapy is when I took Lucas to San Francisco, just him and me. We walked all over seeing the sights, visiting the zoo, eating yummy food, and on our way home we stopped for a tour of the Jelly Belly Factory.
When Blake was released, 60 days later, Thom, Lucas, and I all went to pick him up. At that time, we began looking into moving from Reno to Central Oregon. We were encouraged to move Blake away from the people and places he had become associated with, as a move would give him a better chance at continued recovery.
At the end of the summer of 2005, we packed up our lives and moved to our new home. The same people, with the same problems, perspectives, and histories arrived in their new beautiful surroundings. Everything was new: new jobs, new schools, new neighbors – but we were the same. It wasn’t long before the turmoil would return.
There were arguments, periods of family members ignoring each other, and disagreements over how to discipline Blake. At times, the tension was impenetrable. All the while, Lucas navigated silently.
Things weren’t all bad. Blake loved working, and before his 15th birthday, he got a job doing prep and even cooking at an Italian restaurant. Like most teens, he didn’t spend much time with his family, as work, friends, and school (not by his own choice) were his priorities.
During Blake’s senior year, he got a job at a bakery and moved in with a friend and his friend’s mom to be closer to his job. This had to be confusing for Lucas. Heck, it was confusing for me! There was no negotiating this or making a plan. It was just done without warning or time to prepare for transition.
The real troubles began in June 2011 with an arrest and then another one within months. Thom and I had to go remove everything from Blake’s apartment while he sat in jail. He didn’t move back into the house then, but I spent a considerable amount of time driving Blake to court dates and doctor appointments. In October 2012, Blake attempted suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning in our garage. The only person home was Lucas. He was sixteen. Thom and I had just finished shopping when we noticed that we had missed calls from Lucas. Before I could return his call, I got a call from Blake. He said, “I just tried to kill myself.” At the same time, Lucas had gotten through to Thom and he had left the house to go to a friend’s home. We got Blake to the hospital, where we witnessed Blake code on the table. He spent the night in the ICU before he was released to Sage View Psychiatric Hospital for four days and then to Best Care for inpatient treatment. After an afternoon visit home, where he found and drank alcohol that he had hidden, he was kicked out of treatment. Again, all of my energies were poured into finding a new treatment facility.
Sometime during this chaos, Lucas tried his version of helping his brother. He started spending more time with him, and unbeknownst to us, he was putting himself a t risk in his effort to help Blake. Somehow, he realized that his efforts were ineffective and were going to be detrimental to him.
The chaos continued for Blake, with periods of content and seeming happiness. I refer to these periods as ‘glimpses of Blake.’ With each chaotic event, there was always some kind of reaction or response within the family. Even after Blake’s move to Los Angeles for treatment in November of 2017, there were relapses and overdoses, each one progressively worse. And then he was gone. And we are still reacting and responding.
Lucas and I had a number of conversations, in the months before Blake’s final overdose, about the possibility that this disease could take his brother’s life. He was fully aware and told me he had been preparing himself. But then it happened, and I’ll never forget Lucas telling me on the phone, “He was my first best friend.”Through it all, Lucas loved his brother, and every time I spoke to Blake on the phone, he said, “Tell Lucas I love him.”
In life, as in death, we all have a different story about the same events. While Thom and I, as the parents of an addicted child, fought, in our own ways, and with each other, to save our child’s life, the sibling of that child, our younger son, looked on, likely with anger and resentment that so much attention was being focused on his brother, and he was paying the price. He and I have talked about this. He knows that I can at least empathize due to my own experience. I’m not sure if it makes it easier. I hope with everything I have that he doesn’t come to understand it through his own parenting experience.
Lucas is a master wood worker. For Blake’s ashes, he selflessly designed and crafted an exquisite heart walnut and hard rock maple box, complete with a picture frame on the front of the box to display Blake’s bright smile posing with his catch of the day. Lucas told me it was the hardest thing he’s ever made. I cannot even imagine. It’s surely not the way I would have written the story, but it’s a beautiful act of love for which I am grateful.
May we all continue to heal ourselves, each other, and those with whom we come in contact.
Still need to add Blake’s picture.Beautiful inlay work.More inlay in the top of the box.
You’re being cremated today. Is that what you wanted? So many decisions that I’m not supposed to have to make – feelings of despair wash over me. I fall asleep at night, exhausted by my mindless and mind-full wonderings of what it means that you are not physically here anymore, now reduced to ashes and bone fragments. How does that affect my identity? I wake up in the middle of the night, only to be consumed by thoughts and memories of you. Hours tick by slowly. I check Facebook, email, find an article to read, maybe my eyes will feel the weight of my tiredness and succumb. If they do, I wake up, knowing that I must carry on.
I wonder if this is my new normal. Is every breath I take going to be consumed by the physical loss of you? I know that wasn’t your intent as you headed to the bathroom with foil wrapped Fentanyl. You were not a rookie though!!! You’ve warned many opiate addicted newly sober friends. Why couldn’t you heed your own advice? You knew the odds of fatal overdose were high – oh, the irony… I guess they didn’t listen either.
Did the thought cross your mind? Did you realize the effects of your leaving? I don’t think you did. If your realized how much you were loved, maybe it would have been enough – but maybe not – because, for some reason, you didn’t love yourself. You loved everyone else though.
My step-mom told me, a number of years ago, that I needed to let myself be loved. This is one thing that she said to me that resonates today. It resonates because I believe that you suffered the same consequence of parental abandonment. It’s the primal wound – the one that tells you not to trust, that you’re not good enough… It’s hard to overcome. You, or at least I, love with intention. We love all over the place. It’s messy and complicated, living in spite of being unlovable, somehow….
But I know in my head that that’s not true. Did you get there? I know you knew that I loved you, that I would love you forever, but did you know your brother loved you too – that you were ‘his first best friend?’ Did you know that your dad (Thom) wishes he could take back all those ridiculous arguments, that all of us, family and friends, would be left with so many ‘what ifs?’
I tell everyone who tells me, ‘I should have…’ that we cannot get stuck there. What’s done is done. For some reason, you were taken. It’s not up to anyone here to figure it out or second-guess it.
“Today marks Thom’s and my 26th anniversary. It hasn’t always been easy, but we’ve done our best. Missing our little ring bearer.” This was my Facebook post this morning, in addition to eight pictures of our handsome and innocent nearly 2 1/2 year old son, some that I’ve included here. It’s been nine days since we officially lost Blake to the monster of addiction. This day has been hard. I had no idea that it would be so hard, but really, when I think about it, of course it’s hard.
Thom came into our lives when Blake was 13 months old. Before that, we were solo. I felt so protective of Blake. With his father out of the picture and very little support from my family, Blake relied on me for everything. Sometimes it was hard, as money was tight, and between working, going to school, jumping through the hoops of the welfare system, household chores, and taking care of him, there was little time for a social life. I was also carrying a lot of hurt and resentment, and with Blake’s father not taking any responsibility or being involved, it seemed that Blake was suffering the abandonment of a parent, just as I had.
I remember looking in on Blake when he was sleeping and thinking, ‘how could a mother walk away from this?’ I really struggled through those early months, and even years, trying to make sense of it. I mean, a father turning his back, that was one thing, but a mother? That’s what I thought anyway. I’ve since come to realize the tremendous impact of parental abandonment, father or mother.
The abandonment of my mother is hitting me for some reason today. It hasn’t really bothered me for quite sometime. I’ve accepted, although it’s beyond my comprehension, that she keeps me a secret because she never told anyone about me and she doesn’t want people to judge her for past decisions. It is what it is, but a woman should have a mother for support during a time like this, dammit – especially if she’s alive! I think my current devastating loss just underscores and bolds the loss of my mother and all of the losses that came from that decision. It’s easy for me to be mad at her. I sent her a text today, which I haven’t done in years. I just let her know that her grandson, who she never met, passed away after his battle with addiction, and that she could show her support and caring (because she told me years ago that she has always loved me) by contributing anonymously to the GoFundMe campaign that has been set up to help us with expenses. That was over four hours ago. I have no expectations, but I can’t say that I won’t be upset if I am ignored.
While this blog is not about the trauma that I experienced as a child, it is an integral part of this story. I was a single mother who lost her mother to abandonment when she was 18 months old. As a child, I experienced physical abuse, domestic violence, substance abuse/addiction, poverty, and religious fanaticism within my immediate family. I became a parent through these lenses and through the lens of unconditional love that I felt from my grandparents. I so much wanted to do better than my immediate family. I wanted to show them that I would be better than fine by finding my own way, and that attitude included parenting 180 degrees different than the way I had been parented.
Consequently, when I held my little Blake in my arms, I felt that it was him and me against the world. I had so many hopes and dreams for us and for him. I was all about control back then. I made a timeline, loosely stated my standards, and stuck to it. I would be off all public assistance and married by the time Blake was four years old. I would marry someone with: (1) a car, (2) a job, and (3) a functional family. This timeline and these standards were induced by shame – the shame of being a ‘welfare queen’, and of having a child ‘out of wedlock’, which could only mean that I was a certain kind of woman. I needed to fix all of that – for the sake of appearance.
Don’t get me wrong, I do not regret the choices that I made. Those young adult choices were fighting choices, and I continue fighting to this day, although I hope that it is with much more wisdom. I do not feel that I need to be a certain way to be accepted or acceptable. I was and am very lucky to have a partner that loves me, probably more than I can comprehend, that is willing to support me and grow with me, who has walked with me through the ups and the downs, and who now fills out paperwork from the mortuary because I am just too sad.
Today started by me asking Thom where the sweatshirt was that we brought back from the sober living house where Blake lived. He replied that he had washed it and it was in the folded stack of laundry at the end of the bed. “You washed it?!?” I whimpered. “That was the whole point, that I would have his smell,” I said through tears. “Now I won’t be able to smell him anymore.” It was just unbearable. He calmly explained that he had retrieved the sweatshirt from a basket of clean laundry at the house, so it already didn’t have Blake’s smell on it. I know that, even if the sweatshirt had not already been washed at the house, there was no malicious intent on Thom’s part, but it opened up the floodgates, nonetheless.
I need to cry. I have cried. I have been told that I am so strong, and I am. Strong people cry too. I have lost one of the greatest gifts/loves of my life. It literally shakes me to my core. I believe that in every challenge, in every tragedy, there is an opportunity for growth, and it prepares us for the next thing – whether that thing is perceived as negative or positive. There will be a lot more ‘I won’t be able to anymore’realizations when it comes to Blake. I won’t be able to hug him, to answer the phone when he calls me, to call him, to see him realize his dreams, to listen to his ponderings about the world, etc., but the one I can grateful for is, I won’t be able to witness his fear of being stalked by the monster of addiction.
