My brother Adam died at the age of 23 years old in 2018. He lost the battle to addiction after seven years of being a drug addict.
Adam had the best laugh. It was loud & boisterous. He was tall, handsome, daring and charming. Eight years my junior, I grew up watching him come into his own. I remember him putting on magic shows in the living room. One time, he wanted to hold my hand on the roller coaster when he was scared. Adam wanted reassurance that he wasn’t too old for that. As any big sister would, I told him of course it was okay.
As time went on, I grew to be the worrier of the family. Adam grew up to be a total daredevil. Jumping off the Stratosphere in Vegas, flying a hot air balloon with my Dad, and living his life in the fast lane.
My brother was the kind of guy that grabbed life by the horns and stared fear in the face with a smirk. I used to think of him as a cat with many lives because no matter what happened, he always came out of the situation unscathed.
He became a drug addict slowly, but with warning signs. In the end, it seemed like he was overdosing every other day. The calls from rehabs and hospitals were relentless. The year before he died, my parents got a call from California encouraging us all to fly out there. He overdosed and his numbers were horrible. In this dark time, we all prepared to say goodbye to him. Miraculously, he landed on his feet yet again.
This time the overdose had consequences. He passed out on his hands and this caused serious nerve damage. He couldn’t use his hands for a while, but with his first hand surgery he acclimated quite well. The doctors said his hands wouldn’t recover and that the damage was permanent. After about six months, he started to get movement back in his hand and to our surprise, were told he’d make a full recovery. I remember him sending me a video of him moving his hands. I sat there in awe, crying happy tears.
Surely, this will all make him wake up and stop using, I thought. I hoped. In times like this, hope is the only thing that really gets you through. Every time something catastrophic happened, this was my mindset.
We never quite got the whole story, but I knew things weren’t looking good. He seemed to be spinning faster towards danger and I felt angry that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.
In the year or so before he passed away, my friend Kate who had lost her Dad to alcoholism, told me to prepare myself for the worst. She said she had wished she accepted the fact that he could die before it happened. Maybe, just maybe, if I could do that, it would help me in the long run. I reluctantly took her advice. I sat down in my office and really thought about what she said. I cried for what felt like forever.
This harsh but valuable insight from my dear friend helped me beyond words. Every time I saw my brother, I acted as if it could be the last time. This has brought me a great amount of peace looking back on things. I don’t have regrets of what I could have done, because I know for sure I tried everything. Tough love, soft love and everything in between.
Of course, none of it worked so there is a part of me that feels defeated. Who am I to impart any wisdom on others?
There is great peace in being able to look back on things with a clear conscience. I never looked at addiction through rose colored glasses. I saw it exactly for what it was no matter how difficult it was. I remember begging on the phone to his rehab not to let him out because I was worried he’d overdose and die. I was told there was nothing they can do to keep him there. It was his choice to leave. I’d be on the phone from morning to night fighting for answers.
I spent hours talking to him about his addiction, trying to understand it and help him in any way I could. I suggested everything I could possibly think of and was there for him anytime he called me. I’d take his calls even when I suspected he was high. Sometimes he’d make no sense and ask for money. Other times, the Adam I knew and loved was just calling to say hi. I never missed one of those calls.
Most importantly, I spent as much time as possible with him and always hugged him extra tight before I left. I told him how much I loved him and cherished every second. If I had not done this, I know for sure I’d look back with regret.
Something I wasn’t prepared for was how permanent death is.
He flew home from rehab in California and I saw him the day before he died. He was back in town to get surgery on his other hand. I remember him standing in the driveway on my way out. I told him again for the millionth time not to use, especially before or after his surgery. He agreed not to and I told him I loved him. We hugged and I got into my car. That was the last time I saw my brother.
I wanted to write this open letter to anyone that will read it. To those who are suffering with addiction and the families around them, please know that you are not alone. I grew up in the middle class. We had a nice house on a cul-de-sac. We were taught to love each other. No one would have expected what was going on in our lives.
I want to share a few words of wisdom I have learned along the way. Take it as you will.
To those of you in the beginning stages of grief… hold on. I know you feel like you’re drowning and can’t catch your breath. You will breathe again, I promise. In the beginning, my family took everything ten seconds at a time. I cried for months in grocery store lines. There were long periods of time where I woke up crying and I went to bed crying. I could hardly catch my breath.
Please, hang on. We had an outreach of support from friends and family in the darkest time of our lives. I encourage you to reach out to those that love you and let them take care of you when you need it.
Cry your eyes out. I used to hate crying until I realized how healing it is. Let’s be honest, I still hate it, but I can recognize its undeniable benefits. To process grief, you have to feel the emotions behind it. I promise, you won’t cry forever. Crying is good for you and is so incredibly tiring. Cry yourself to sleep, bring tissues everywhere you go and allow yourself to feel whatever it is you’re feeling in the moment.
To anyone suffering with addiction, please know you are loved and you are not alone. I want you to know that losing a family member to this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s been a year and a half, and I still cry every single day. Please, do everything you can to take the addiction seriously and to get support in any way you can.
Addiction is something a person is suffering with. It does not define who they are. It’s easy to judge an addict until you have walked the same path. Offer kindness and love to the addict instead of judgment. That addict is someone’s family member or best friend. All I’m saying is, love goes a lot farther than judgment. As humans, we are all suffering in some way. It makes the world a much better place to offer encouragement, love, and understanding to a person.
To families and friends of addicts, I see you. I know how painful and hard it is to watch someone you love go further down the rabbit hole. It’s a hopeless, devastating feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I try to openly share my story with others. You would not believe the amount of people who are dealing with the exact same thing. We feel like we need to hide in the shadows because it’s embarrassing to discuss. Trust me, I get it. Please remember, none of us choose this. It’s something that unfortunately happens way more than it should.
To those reading this, thank you for taking the time to listen to what I have to say. I miss my brother every single second of every single day. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear his laugh. On the really tough days, that gets me through.
And to my brother Adam; fly high. I will never forget you.
- Allison Sica