Early that morning when I looked at my cell phone, I saw 10 missed calls from my step-daughter’s ex-boyfriend.
I remember thinking, “I wonder why he’s calling? Maybe he needs my help or something happened to his mother.”
I called him back and he told me that Liz had died of an overdose on a stranger’s bathroom floor 3,000 miles away from home.
She was 28.
This must be a mistake.
First I called the coroner’s investigator. I needed to be sure it was Liz. How could she be dead? How could they know it was her? She wasn’t even from California. She was just staying there for a few months to try to get her life together.
Liz was smart. She came from a good family. She was far from a hopeless case. I knew Liz was struggling, but I believed it was just a matter of time before she finally recovered once and for all. Our family was no stranger to addiction and recovery. Liz just needed to hit her bottom, give up, follow the steps in NA/AA and then she’d finally recover.
I was wrong.
It was Liz.
Telling her mother was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
I called a good friend. No answer.
I called another friend and asked him how I could possibly tell my wife that her child was dead.
He said,
“This is terrible. I am so sorry. You are the right person in the best position to tell her mother. This is going to suck. It is going to be really bad. Tell it to her straight. Then be there. You’ll know the right thing to do. You can do this. Now hang up the phone and go tell her. Call me later. ”
I woke my wife and told her.
My wife made a sound I hope I never hear again. She wailed and moaned like a wounded animal. She yelled “No! No! No! No! No! No! No! ” She beat my chest with her fists. I held her close. We sobbed for what felt like an eternity.
When she could finally talk, she said, “Call my brother.”
I called him and within minutes he was there with us.
Liz was a beautiful, sweet girl.
I met Liz when she was 10. Her mother and I had just started dating. She was sweet and precocious – full of silliness and laughter.
She was a natural people person. Everyone who met her loved her.
I, on the other hand, am awkward and introverted. Liz could sense when we were out if things got too intense for me. She’d pull me aside and whisper in my ear to make me laugh or she’d draw me into a 1 on 1 conversation to distract me from my own discomfort.
Liz was a writer, a poet, and a dreamer. Her spelling was atrocious but she poured her imagination and heart into every paper, journal and poem she wrote.
She did the same with any relationship she ever had – with her father, her mother, her brother, her friends and her boyfriends.
When Liz was in her late teens, she became addicted to heroin.
Her mother and I didn’t realize it at the time. Liz made good grades at school, got accepted into college, worked part time, had friends and was loved by everyone who knew her.
She had the usual angst of any teenager – friendship issues, love issues, rebelling from parent issues. But none of these seemed out of the ordinary.
We learned that Liz had a drug problem only when she dropped out of college after her sophmore year and moved back home with us.
She (and we) tried everything to recover – AA/NA, therapy, in-patient rehab, out patient rehab, psychiatric hospital stays, moving to her fathers, moving back in with us, moving out on her own. Sometimes she’d stay clean for days, weeks or months. But eventually, she’d start using again.
Things got worse.
Over a period of ten years, Liz dropped in and out of college. She found and lost different jobs. She dated drug addicted boyfriends who were often shady characters. She wrecked cars. She stole from friends and family. She lied about her drug use constantly.
There’d be brief periods of respite when it seemed like the “old Liz” was back but then things would go bad once again.
She moved from our home to her father’s home and back several times. Other times she’d move in with a boyfriend, a girlfriend or couch surf. We had to throw her out more than once.
After years of this, she moved to California for a fresh start. Her cousin offered to take her in, give her a job and get her life back on track.
That didn’t work.
Liz continued using in California. She entered rehab again (for at least the 12th time). She made it to a halfway house before being kicked out for using.
By this time, she had worn out her welcome with her cousin. She found a place to crash with her boyfriend’s friend.
That night, she shot up in his bathroom and died.
That was 12 yeas ago.
What Helped Us
After Liz died, many people helped us. I am telling you this in case you ever want to help someone who’s lost a child.
- Show up. Ellen’s brother was at our home within minutes. His wife and her entire family showed up a few hours later bringing food we couldn’t eat and company we didn’t think we wanted. They came every night for 3 days. We had never spent much time socializing with them before and yet somehow this helped.
- Call a lot. Listen. Two of my friends, Bruce and Craig, called me every single day for weeks. Sometimes all I could do was cry on the phone. Other times I raged. They’d listen. Sometimes I couldn’t bear to answer the phone. They’d leave a message ending with “If you want to talk, I’m here. If not, don’t worry about returning my call I just wanted to let you know I’m thinking of you.”
- Nobody knows what to say. Nothing you say will the pain go away. It’s OK if you just show up and express love and kindness. Here are some things people said:
I’m so sorry.
Liz was a beautiful person.
I loved her.
We’ll miss her.
Some people just came and hugged us and wept. That was OK too.
Things I’ll never forget.
Bringing or sending food. Even though we could barely eat, we had people showing up for 2 weeks. Having food dropped off gave us one less thing to worry about.
Just sitting with us and letting us cry, talk or stare into space.
Taking over the basics. Ellen’s sister in law cleaned our house. My friend walked the dogs. Another friend supplied us with paper plates, cups, plasticware and napkins.
Stepping up for the big stuff. Ellen’s brother flew to Florida to tell Liz’s brother in person. Then he flew with him to our house. To me this was unbelievably kind. He dropped everything to help us.
Showing up during the “service” at our home. Hundreds of people who cared about Liz or us came by. They shared stories, tears, and cards. It was more helpful than I can express.
People who had lost a child appeared from out of the blue. These were casual acquaintances, distant relatives and people we’d barely known. I don’t remember what they said or did, but somehow they brought us comfort.
A week later, it was over for others – but not for us.
The week following Liz’s death where a whirlwind. It was over Easter Break so all of Liz’s friends from high school were home. We had a service at our home and hundreds of people came to see her mother. We had friends, family and relatives visit every day.
I had to write an obituary. We had to call people. The LA Coroner had questions and requirements. Organ donation called me.
I can barely remember it. It was nonstop activity. I had a headache the entire time. Neither Ellen nor I slept.
Zack was there for a week until he had to return to college. Saying goodbye to him at the airport was heat wrenching. It felt like I might never see him again.
Then it was just me and Ellen – alternately crying or staring into space.
I returned to work but often could not stay focused on what was in front of me. I’d drive somewhere and forget where I was headed. Every day I woke up and the first thought in my head was “Liz is dead.”
I had failed as a father to keep her safe.
I had failed my child and my wife.
After two months, things had not improved.
Ellen and I were back to our daily routines, but our lives were full of sadness.
Every morning when I woke up the first thought in my head was “Liz is dead.” I thought about flying to California, tracking down her dealer and killing him. My friend listened to me as I raved and told me I could do that, but that I probably wouldn’t feel better.
Ellen had stopped smiling and laughing. Both of us started therapy. It helped me. It didn’t help her.
Zack had dropped a bunch of classes and was struggling on his own in Florida.
After three months, I knew I had to bring our family back together.
We liked our home in Pittsburgh. We lived in a great neighborhood. I had a good job. We had family and friends nearby. The last thing we had planned to do was leave.
But Zack needed us and we needed him. I spoke to Ellen and she agreed.
Six months after Liz died, I found a job in Florida. We sold our house and moved to Florida to bring our family closer together.
It took years for us to learn how to live with Liz’s death.
I thought Ellen would never be happy again. But in time, she her laughter and joy retuned.
I thought I would never wake up without my first thought being “Liz is dead”. But that stopped too.
We tried a grief support group in Florida. It was all elderly widows who had lost their husbands. They were sweet but we did not belong there.
We tried a Compassionate Friends meeting. It was so sad we never returned. The only thing that helped was seeing another couple who had lost their son many years earlier who seemed happy. I remember thinking, if they found a way to be happy, maybe we can too.
When people asked, “How many children do you have?” it felt like a stab in the gut. Ellen would tear up and couldn’t speak. I’d say “one” and change the subject.
Even 12 years later, this question can still catch us off guard. Answering that we have two, but our daughter died, makes other people so uncomfortable that if we’re having a causal conversation with a stranger, we usually just say just one.
Ellen, Zack and I can now talk about Liz sometimes and laugh. We remember the good times, the silly times and the joy we shared.
Other times, we choke up. Sometimes we get angry. But we have lived through the grief. It does get better.
We all miss her terribly.
If you have a loved one struggling with addiction or have lost a child and have questions or want to talk, it’s OK to contact me privately here.