This first-person article is written by Shirley Nicholson who lives in Winnipeg. For more information on CBC’s First Person Stories, please see frequently asked questions.

My son was just a drug addict.

That’s what some people say. He was nothing but a drug addict. As if he had planned this. As if he really didn’t want to live.

But he was so much more than his addictions. He was our son. He was someone’s brother. He was somebody’s grandson, nephew and cousin. He was so loved. He loved us.

Yes, he made very bad choices in his life, and he paid dearly for them. He had spent time in provincial and federal prisons. But he did parole and started a new life. We thought he was on the right track, but addictions are sneaky, confusing diseases.

Just sitting in the background.

Expect. Expect. Expect.

Until you have a good day.

Until you have a bad day.

Until it’s any day.

Then it hits.

From everything I’ve learned about my son’s addiction to alcohol and drugs, the urge, need and desperation for that fix never goes away. Some can work beyond that. Some can go to Narcotics Anonymous or a drug rehabilitation program and get away with it. The need to stay sober must be stronger than the need to heal.

People say it’s a choice. What I’ve seen from my son’s behavior is that drug addicts don’t really have a choice. The addiction has the control, the power, the right to decide if they use again.

We lost our son six hours after he wished his father a happy birthday.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised.

But he died of an overdose early the next morning. And just like that, our family was reduced by one. Our lives have changed forever.

People tell me:

“You are so strong.”

“You are so tough.”

“You are so brave.”

I am none of these. My husband is none of that. Our son’s sister is none of that. We had no choice whether or not to be brave, strong or tough. We have just become parents of a dead child; sister of a deceased brother. We couldn’t choose.

From the moment the police come knocking on our door and tell us the terrible news, we just put one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Some days we get by with relative ease and only a few moments of utter desolation. On other days, we can barely get out of bed to face the day.

There was a lot of paperwork, administration and things to do when a loved one dies. I faced everything as a job.

Sort the pictures and write the obituary. Notify auto insurance. Notify the health department. Notify Service Canada. Notify the Canada Revenue Agency. Send letters. Submit forms. Return this, the “i” was not dotted. Send that back, because the auto insurance supervisor was petulant. Just do it.

But if I allow myself to stop and go back to that moment – ​​the moment the police said, “I’m sorry to tell you…” – I burst into tears. Heartbreaking sobs that I can’t control. I can not breathe. I can’t think. If I can, I cling to something, so I don’t end up on my knees right away. If I don’t go “there”, I can get by almost every day.

We spread his ashes here, there, in places we thought he would like, in places he liked to hang out, in places he had never been. We held his small but meaningful memorial at the Winnipeg Folk Fest Campground.

We went to the Dominican Republic in March. One morning over breakfast, my husband mentioned scattering his ashes in the Caribbean, where our son had never been, and I again burst into heartbreaking sobs. Just a mention of him, and I cry uncontrollably. One day I might be in the condiment aisle looking at Frank’s RedHot sauce. He was laughing and reciting the business line, “I put that on everything!” And I collapse.

He would laugh at us by scattering his ashes everywhere. I know he’d be like, “What the hell is that, mom! I don’t care about that!”

But we do. We’re just trying to show respect to his memory.

A few months after he died, my daughter suggested we go somewhere for Thanksgiving. It was also Darell’s birthday, but that was the unspoken part. I said, “Of course!”

So we left the province for a trip to Victoria.

It was the best way to take that first step – his first birthday without being with us on this earth.

My daughter planned so many activities that we didn’t have time to think. We just enjoyed every moment with our daughter and son-in-law. They were both our strength and our rock in these difficult times through his addiction and then his death.

And we have passed the dreaded day.

If love could have saved our son, he would surely be alive today. If love could have…but it didn’t. He was our handsome boy. Our energetic little guy who could make some better friends at the playground. He was our handsome young man who could charm girls.

He had ideas, plans, dreams and a motorcycle test date next week.

He had not planned to die at 27. He was more than his addictions. He was our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew, our cousin and we all loved him so much.

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