Today marks six years since the death of my gorgeous and talented daughter, Emily. The evil we all are aware of today—fentanyl—claimed her life at age 21. My heart is always heavy on these anniversaries. I know they will come every year, and yet, somehow, I will make it through them. As I write this blog, I’m looking out my window, watching the rain come down while the sun peeks through the clouds on a beach of the Atlantic. I find myself in a situation I could never have imagined before tragedy struck, trying to create meaning and purpose out of a death that didn’t have to happen.
Ask any parent who has lost a child, and they’ll tell you it’s hard to know what to do with yourself on their birthdays, death dates, and every single holiday. On this sixth year, since a hole was blasted in my heart, I find myself far from home in South Carolina. I’m here to learn from different opioid response teams how to better treat this horrible addiction and save lives so that other families don’t have to know this pain. I can’t think of a better way to mark this day that changed my world forever.
I have found that when I try to keep my heart open, it feels as if my daughter is guiding me to exactly the right places and people to facilitate not only my efforts to put a dent in the fentanyl epidemic, but also to aid in my own healing. We had several scheduled meetings with opioid response teams in both the Charleston Police Department and the Medical University of South Carolina. But it was a spur-of-the-moment invitation that really made me feel as if her spirit was guiding me to exactly the right places and people.
WakeUp Carolina, an organization much like Emily’s Hope, was putting on a Narcan training for middle schoolers at a local library and teaching them about fentanyl. I had heard about this organization and was told by others that I needed to meet its leader, Nanci Steadman Shipman. Nanci lost her 19-year-old son Creighton to an opioid overdose in 2016, two years before I lost Emily.
Immediately after meeting Nanci, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. The similarities between her family’s story and mine were uncanny. In fact, so much so that it brought tears to my eyes. Creighton was a happy kid, an athlete, and an artist, just like Emily. Yet, addiction doesn’t care about any of that. When I shared with Nanci that this week marked a dreaded anniversary for me, there was a deep understanding between us. She told me that seven years was actually one of the worst she had experienced. She couldn’t explain why. I’ve heard other parents say that after seven years, it gets easier, for whatever reason. I can be hopeful that will be the case for me as well. I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. I think a lot of life is random and chaotic. Yet, there are times like these where there is a knowing, an uncanny feeling of being guided to exactly where I am supposed to be when I’m supposed to be there.
The next day, I sat in a conference room at the Medical University of South Carolina and learned how they are implementing life-saving measures that we want to bring home. As I sat there, I looked at the wall and saw a small photo of a young woman with her hair up the way Emily often wore hers. It felt as if that were Emily looking over me, guiding me, and helping me find the right path to accomplish our mission. She is always in my heart, and her presence will never leave me. It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing on May 16th. This day will never be easy, but I can get through it with purpose, and the love in my heart for my daughter that never dies.
Faith, Hope & Courage,
Angela
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