It’s been years since the conversation took place . . . kindly don’t inquire as to how many for I honestly haven’t a clue. His only son had died of a drug overdose—a death that had been decades in the making. There had been rehab after rehab, each only mildly successful, if at all, followed by a few months of sobriety before the desire . . . the need . . . the addiction would regain control and the downward spiral would begin again. Then came the call. The call he knew would someday come. And now the waiting was over.
He had come to finalize the business side of Death, but more than that, I think he really just needed to talk to someone who would not judge but who might actually understand. What he came to do could easily have been done by phone, yet here he stood, facing me and, drawing a deep breath, preparing to bare his soul.
He’d done all he knew to do and would have done more had he only known what more was. But it wasn’t enough and he finally realized he couldn’t fix his child. Only his son could overcome his addiction—and he had to want to. And although there were days it seemed as though they were almost ready to turn the corner, it never happened. He had finally given it to God and told his son there would be no more help until he was ready for it. And then he waited. He waited for his child to hit rock bottom. Or for the phone to ring with the news he fully believed was coming but which he fervently prayed would not.
When that call finally came . . . the call he had anticipated for years . . . he felt relieved.
His child wasn’t suffering anymore. His son would be at peace with his demons and separated from the evil that had consumed his life. And in exchange for his child’s freedom, he would live with the guilt and the questions and the knowledge that there were no more chances.
He looked at me in despair and asked how he could feel relief when he had just buried his child. What kind of monster did that make him? All I could do was assure him he wasn’t a monster at all. He was human. And as humans, no matter how much love there may be, we all have our limits.
Even though he would have done anything for his son and had already told me he would gladly have traded places with him, the years of doing battle with his addiction had taken their toll. Now he would no longer hesitate when the phone rang, fearful of what news the caller might bring. There would be no more arrest warrants and court appearances, no more bargaining for one more shot at rehab, hoping it would take this time . . . knowing it probably would not. The valuable items he owned would no longer disappear, sold to fund an ever increasing habit. And he would no longer have to live in fear on those days when his child, in a rage fueled by drugs, would destroy everything within reach and lash out at the one person who still tried to remember the son he once had been.
Sadly, such conversations don’t just take place in our funeral home with our employees. They’re held in funeral homes around the world . . . and over cups of coffee in restaurants and coffee shops . . . and on long walks with good friends . . . and anywhere else empathetic people are willing to listen and offer comfort. And it isn’t just parents reflecting on the lives of their children. Children are often forced to confront the addictions of their parents while heartbroken spouses and helpless siblings must do the same for the addicts they love. And no matter how hard they try, no matter how many years they struggle to support and encourage that person, no matter how much time and effort and money they invest in that person’s recovery, when Death from their demons is the end result, there will always be guilt and there will always be grief. And if there happens to be some relief as well, that’s all right, too.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
