For many grieving parents, the joy and excitement of the holiday season are replaced by a heavy sense of dread and sorrow. Losing a child thrusts us into a club no one wants to join and from which there is no escape. I’ve met new friends in this heart-wrenching club—Jim and Jenny Orr. They lost their 15-year-old daughter, Kelcy, to fentanyl poisoning after she unknowingly took a pill laced with the deadly drug. Kelcy was FaceTiming a friend when she “fell asleep.” Her mother found her lifeless in her room the next morning. Now, just two days before Christmas, the Orrs are marking the grim anniversary of their daughter’s death. How do they face this holiday season? Somehow, most of us find a way to endure. We wake up, we keep breathing, and we live to see another day.
The sudden loss of a child completely upends life. It doesn’t matter if the cause is a car accident or fentanyl poisoning—loss is loss. None of our children wanted to die. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in cases of fentanyl poisoning, they were murdered. It’s time for the world to wake up and see it that way. Most of these kids didn’t know they were taking fentanyl. They thought they were getting a pill like Percocet or Xanax. Imagine if people were unknowingly served fentanyl-laced drinks at a bar. There would be outrage. There would be swift action to stop the poisonings. Yet, because of the stigma surrounding drug use, these victims are not receiving the attention they deserve. As parents, it often feels like we’re shouting into the void, trying desperately to warn the world before another family suffers the same tragedy.
This will be my sixth Christmas without Emily. Over the years, I’ve shared my journey as my grief has morphed and changed, from that first unbearable holiday to now. Christmas was Emily’s favorite time of year. She loved every tradition, decking herself out in Christmas sweatshirts, pajamas, socks, and Santa hats. She had a generous spirit and often gave her family the most thoughtful, handmade gifts. I’ve kept a jar of homemade bath scrub she made us nearly seven years ago. It’s going bad, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. These small mementos—her handwriting, her doodles—feel like my last tangible pieces of her. As time passes, the intensity of the pain eases, but it never truly leaves. I’ve simply learned how to carry it.
Every year, I hang Emily’s stocking on the mantle and display her photos with Santa.
I find joy in the season with my other children and my husband, but there’s a part of my heart that will always remain broken. The holidays sharpen the pain, turning a season of celebration into a reminder of what we’ve lost. As grieving parents, we brace ourselves for the storm, holding our breath until it passes. Then, we exhale, find our strength, and continue fighting to save other people’s children.
Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela
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