by Paul Martin
Oh Holy Night doesn’t feel the same, nor the smell of pine needles. It’s gray and drizzly outside.
This is my first Christmas Eve without Dad. And my first Christmas Eve without bothMom and Dad.
Tomorrow will be my first Christmas Day without them.
I know these feelings will ease as the years pass—the time heals all wounds axiom. But today it’s hard. And time does not heal all wounds. It dampens the pain though.
How do I feel? I feel disoriented. Confused. Older. Reflective. Yesterday I panicked—Shoot, I didn’t get Dad a gift. The thought held maybe for a few seconds before the reality set in, again.
All week long I speak with bereaved parents All week long I read their emails.. All week long I think about the fragility of life.
This is one of thousands of the emails. I picked Patricia’s at random. All carry this kind of weight.
Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my son. Most days I can’t even get out of bed. Finding his body has affected me so tremendously. I cry all of the time. I go to the cemetery almost every day.
I mostly speak with the mothers. I have a soft spot for them. I don’t know why. It could be because my father was very harsh. Could be that I had three sisters and was the only boy. For certain it’s because my mother loved me without condition. This is a photo from the skilled nursing facility after her stroke. Look at her beaming.
Many thank me joining them in addressing the fentanyl crisis—helping amplify their voices, their organizations, the message.
In a meeting in September, shortly after my father passed, about a dozen of them offered their respective condolences about my loss. I pushed back. “Thank you, but my father was 86. He had been ill for years. You are the ones who understand real grief.”
Then they pushed back: “Paul, your grief is real too.”
Their gratitude makes me feel uncomfortable if I’m honest. So did the recent compassion about my dad—they are the ones who deserve praise for their grit and resolve. And now they’re offering me condolences?
Victor Frankl suffered the most horrendous trauma in Auschwitz. You’ve seen the photos and videos. You’ve heard the accounts from survivors.
He later wrote the masterpiece Man’s Search for Meaning. Writing of grief, he used a metaphor of a room filled with fumes. His point is that all grief fills your mind and heart and consciousness, despite its severity
This is what the bereaved family members on the call were trying to convey to me—though not as severe as losing a child, my grief today from losing my father is real.
And no matter the source, so is yours.
If you’re one of these mothers or another bereaved family member who lost a child to fentanyl, I want to say thank you. You’ve deepened my understanding of the love of a a mother, of family, and you’ve given me more reason to press on.
Thank you for teaching me about love.
And my deepest hopes and prayers that you find peace this holiday season.
