A Double Fuck

Day 526.

I listened to a podcast about grief tonight. The podcast is called “Terrible, thanks for asking”

After listening to Podcast 0, 1 and 2, I skipped to the podcast by Harris Wittels’ mother and sister.

Harris is a friend of Sarah’s. He died too, at the hand of heroin. I had read and heard about it. I had found my FB grief group GRASP from an article written by Harris’ mother, and so I was drawn to hear their words.

The pattern of Harris’ life was similar to Luke’s. He was so successful, his professional life on track. High-functioning and with little time for the protracted treatment that he needed, for that would surely take him away from doing what he loved, what he was brilliant at and his soaring career that ensued. Their explanation of Harris’ struggle with sobriety was somehow soothing in it’s familiar parallel to Luke. 

Oh dear, Luke, I see now that with your past experiences of protracted recovery treatments, you were so busy being brilliant at your work, you did not have the time to sort this mess out…not just yet.

But the clanger in this podcast was, as clangers always are, unexpected.

It was Harris’ sister who got THE call and it was left to her to tell her parents, and of course, the focus was the Mum.

The sister relays sitting, watching her Mother’s messages, who was out with her friends still oblivious to the tragic death of her son, sending pics from her dinner, clearly having a ball and how she sat heavy with the news she must bring her Mother knowing it will shatter all happiness. It was left for her to crash her parent’s life into hell. Just as it was left for my poor George to do the same to us. 

This triggers shots through my heart.

Like a mother wolf, I am snarling and crying for both my boys, for my failure to protect my precious cubs.

No direction of where to snarl and spit, but the protection instinct boils in me.

The dead son.

The living son who sat in agony knowing he had to kill and smash his parent’s lives and break their hearts, whilst his was breaking too. A double fuck.

The roadkill of this terrible disease.

The fretting of why did the police not contact us? That was one blow they could have protected George from.

At least we didn’t find out through social media, or the gossip feeds of Twitter, as did Harris’ Mum; because they got to her first.