Easter, the resurrection

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When Sean was about 7, while visiting my Dad in Florida, he attended a study course taught by my Dad at his church. My Dad was a Methodist minister. He was astonished by Sean’s interest and knowledge of Jesus and the bible. For a little while, I wasn’t sure Sean would agree to come home with us.

In later years, when Sean was homeless, poor and struggling, he was still one of the most popular people I have ever had the pleasure of walking a street with. People came from all over to hug him, shake his hand or “pound it”. It was as though he had a life and following, I couldn’t imagine. Even though by all practical measures, he didn’t have anything. No home, often no money, rarely no job. ( he was easily and frequently hired, the jobs didn’t always last) He had a charisma that was difficult to quantify.

Sometimes, I felt he was too special for this world. He was like a prophet. He preached love, kindness and peace. He was a beautiful hippie in every good way.

I do think his presence on earth was not in vain. He was here for a reason. His message was meaningful and it still carries.

This passage reminds me of Sean. I think of Jesus of a prophet. Interestingly, as I age, I treasure all the messages and teachings we have from our loved one’s who have passed. They were prophets too.

The Boy Jesus in the Temple

41 Now whis parents went xto Jerusalem every year at the Feast of the Passover.

42 And when he was twelve years old, zthey went up according to custom. 43 And whenthe feast awas ended, as they were returning, the boy Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem.wHis parents did not know it, 44 but supposing him to be in the group they went a day’sjourney, but then they began to search for him among their relatives and acquaintances,45 and when they did not find him, they returned to Jerusalem, searching for him. 46 Afterthree days they found him in the temple, bsitting among cthe teachers, listening to themand asking them questions. 47 And all who heard him were amazed at his understandingand his answers. 48 And when his parents1 saw him, they were astonished. And hismother said to him, “Son, why have you treated us so? Behold, dyour father and I havebeen searching for you in great distress.” 49 And he said to them, “Why were you lookingfor me? Did you not know that eI must be in fmy Father’s house?”2 50 And gthey did notunderstand the saying that he spoke to them. 51 And he went down with them and came toNazareth and was submissive to them. And hhis mother treasured up all these things in her heart.

52 And Jesus iincreased in wisdom and in stature3 and in ifavor with God and man.

 

I treasure so much of Sean in my heart.

Easter marks the resurrection. For those of us who have lost children. We identify with the loss , the crucifixion.  Unfortunately, there is no resurrection. Our kids don’t come back to life.

 

So we hope for signs. Sean is with his Grandfathers. His paternal Grandfather’s birthday falls on Easter this year. They never met on Earth but, were very similar. Both were kind, intelligent men, with a sense of loyalty to country and family. Both had birthdays that could fall on Easter. Sean’s Grandfather died at 54, a heart attack, maybe hastened by alcohol. He was accomplished, very hard working.

Alcohol takes years to exact it’s toll, fentanyl takes just a few minutes. So, Sean was gone at 27.

Today, driving from a family visit a beautiful rainbow appeared.

Thank you Sean and Grandpas, we miss you.

#Harm Reduction

In Vermont we have faced a controversy surrounding possession of unprescribed buprenorphine. Many have advocated for looking the other way when someone has a few strips in their possession.  As Sean’s family, we are in favor of decriminalization of drug possession. We favor rapid treatment on demand, screening for OUD upon arrest. These measures are more likely to help, not harm.

The criminalization of possession is frightening. This puts more power in an officer’s hands, and less in a judge’s. I want our family members to have access to life saving medication, if they aren’t ready to make to commitment to treatment, yet.

That being said, the real decrease in diversion will be rapid access to treatment. Already, once MAT was instituted in our corrections facilities, the “price” of buprenorphine plummeted. If people can access the treatment they need in a “safe” treatment home, there will be less need for diverted strips. This is what we all want. Treatment whenever a person desires it, at a treatment center or Emergency Room.

 

Birthdays

On Birthdays..

Last week, Friday, was supposed to be Sean’s 29th birthday. It was a hard day, as expected. It is difficult to not envision all he could be doing with his life. He seemed so close to successfully dealing with his mental health. He was working, close to having enough money to get an apartment of his own. When he died, he had 400.00 on his bank card. Which if you knew Sean…., that was astounding.

We have a beautiful voice message from him the day before he died. We made plans to have dinner on that fateful Tuesday. We were going to meet up, share a meal. I was calling him at the point he overdosed. The phone call couldn’t rouse him. I called again, and by then he was in the ambulance.

So, I can’t help but, think on these birthdays and anniversaries, what if the Narcan had worked, what if they had more than one dose on hand. What was he using? What did he think he was using? Cocaine? Heroin?

These are the questions that will never be answered. His friends have weighed in, overwhelmingly, not aware, that he may have relapsed with opiates.  They say he went into the bathroom, to get ready to meet up with us for dinner.  He said he would never go back, that was years in his past. Too many of his friends, had died from overdose, he was not going to let that happen.

Were the needles his? Did the scene get “cleaned up” as the police suggest..

This is opiate use disorder is a powerful shackle, not easy to fully break free from. Maybe he was excited to be having a day off and decided to celebrate, spend his paycheck..

We can’t know the answers. We can celebrate the time we did have with him. The four years after the months lost in the Bronx, when we thought he was lost forever. How he survived that time, it was a miracle.  For better or for worse the years that followed were a gift. The time he spent in jail, in the last year of his life, was a time of reconciliation. Time we needed to reconnect. Time to see us, his family as on his side. Time for us to learn how to love him disease and all.  The last month, we connected in spite of his circumstances. That was a present, in retrospect, so soften the blow.

He has left us with beautiful gifts, a treasure chest of memories. He left us his poems and his letters. The cards from the last year were so heartfelt and so moving. He even left us a 15 page diary. Someday, I hope to be able to get through the diary, which he titled if “For my Mother, for all the sleepless nights” The story of Liam Blake. (We were going to name him Liam, I was worried that the name was too unusual, I think he would have liked it better).

Someday, the memories will outshine the what ifs, not quite this year, not yet.

What a Long, Strange Trip it’s Been

January 28, 2014 original writing by Sean Blake

What a Long Strange Trip it’s Been…

“Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape.” –William S. Burroughs

It is like any other evening on 183rd street.  The Bronx is home to many types of people, hard working immigrants, young Fordham students, old Irish and Italian New Yorkers. It is also home to the morally bankrupt and spiritually disenfranchised, I would put myself in this class.  I’ve been homeless, selling stolen property, “Boosting” (stealing/shoplifting), and mainlining large amounts of cocaine and heroin for the last 4 months.

It is July 7th 2012, a warm summer night in New York City. My leg hurts. I find myself behind a dumpster with a 1CC syringe two bags of brown and one of white, these colors I’ve come to know.  These colors define my very life, “you are what you eat” and I haven’t eaten anything in a day or two, except drugs.  I mix the remainder of my stash in a sickly concoction and blast off. No idea this would be my last time.  My heart races, my ears ring and my problems melt away.  The crack wears off quickly and I’m left with an intense mellowness. Bliss. Time to go to work.  I’m in the same situation; broke, high, with nothing for the damn morning.  While heroin withdrawal is not an appealing option, but going into the lovely island of Manhattan and filling some bags up with merchandise at the 24 hour Pharmacies and walking out the door sounds like a great idea.  Sick, Crazy, Desperate, I’m all these things and I’m getting on the D train.

I start on the Upper East Side, my route is picked out. I’m going to walk down to Hell’s Kitchen where the bodegas need to fill their shelves; soap, Advil, shampoo, and deodorant.  Yes if you’re in New York and shopping at a corner store your probably buying something stolen. I probably stole it. But, I must put my ego aside and get back to the story.  So I hit a CVS, a few Duane Reade’s and a few Rite Aids. No Problems. No Questions. I’m a cute white boy shopping around.   I wait for the right moment and walkout. I have two bags filled and am on 50th in Midtown a few blocks away and I know I’ve got enough. My leg hurts.  I walk past another Duane Reade and want to grab a little more. “Just a little more, a few more dollars equals an extra bag.”  I walk into a store at 1am with black bags full of stolen goodies. Sick, Crazy, not so desperate now. I have what I need but there is no off switch.  Drug addiction is a belly that’s never full.  I walk downstairs grab a few boxes of dove soap and turn to leave. The Stores empty and something feels wrong. An itching sense of suspicion and a glimmer of darkness, “probably just the drugs.” I exit the store to be tackled by 7 foot tall African, The store manager holds me down until the NYPD arrives. I’m cuffed and in the car, tears begin to drip from my eyes and a glimmer of who I used to be breaks free from the corruption a despair only to fade when we get to the midtown community court.  Then the monster comes out just to keep me safe. A handful of interesting folks in the back of the police station with me, two men in suits (businessmen), a boss and his employee had a dispute, the rest of us junked out heroes of the street. I get processed and put in the back for court the next day ROR (release on own recognizance.) Is what I’ve heard all the other times I’ve gotten caught.  It’s just shoplifting. I get some food and lie down on the hard wooden bed, if you can call it a bed. My leg hurts. I finally take a look to see an abscess the size of a golf ball on my ankle.  I should go to the hospital when I get out. I probably should stop doing drugs if this is what my life is. These are the thoughts that follow me to sleep.  I awake dope sick singing a different tune. I need out now and really need a shot. Aches all my body, cold as can be, my leg really hurts.  The meeting with my lawyer is bad. That same really I had the night before is crawling through my head along with the start of a detox I don’t want to have.

I go before the Judge, she’s pissed. I have several open case of petty larceny all over the city and she doesn’t ROR me. “1000 dollars bail, Mr. Blake I’m turning you over to the Department of Corrections.”  My Heart sinks in my chest but for the wrong reason, not because I’m going to jail, because I’m not getting high today. A DOC guard asks me “if I want detox” of course I say yes not realizing I won’t be going to the tombs (Manhattan Jail) I’m on a bus to C-95 Anna M. Kross Center (AMKC) RIKER ISLAND.

My first few hours are spent in a pen full of New York’s worst. My leg hurts. Fear of losing my foot leads me to pray “God please don’t let me lose my foot, God please don’t let me lose my foot” mid-pray I realize how selfish I sound and I change my pray.  “God I’m scared, tired but I’m not alone, please show me my path, whatever it is.  Whatever happens to my foot it is your will what happens to me next is in your hands. Thy will be done.”

I’ll end the story here, I would spend the next 3months on Riker’s Island, I didn’t lose my foot. I don’t do drugs anymore and I’m currently back in school writing a story of where I came from.  I still pray but it’s a lot simpler today.

“God, thank you for teaching me how to laugh again, but don’t let me forget I cried once.”

 

  • (This story is dark, I did not right it to seem bas ass, cool or different. I wrote because it’s the one day I could write 3+….pages about no problem.)