In Spirit, Still Here by Gwen Guerke (Guest Blogger)

No one who’s had a long, solid, rewarding friendship since they we were seven or eight years old ever thinks about the absence of that friend, the funeral, the memories, the ache of absence... until death changes the landscape. Sharon and I were friends for more than 60 years. Neither of us could pinpoint where that bond started developing, but we believed it was when we were both in Brownies in the late 1950s. We know we weren’t in the same elementary school classes; we grew up in a Mayberry-esque town. Probably this friendship began at a little Girl Scout day camp on the lake. Believe it or not, it was called Camp We Love It. Really! We were so naïve – and evidently so were the adults – that we never snickered at the name until decades later. After our paths crossed making crafts and some-mores, our parents must have realized that Sharon’s home was a block away from my paternal grandparents, so I could ride my bike to their house and go down the street to hers. This friendship thrived and survived through adolescence and high school, and we shared all the angst of proms, not going to homecoming dances, babysitting, silly crushes on unsuspecting boys, the agony of gym class for the less than athletic girls that we were. But there were plenty of laughs and good times; Sharon had a car. I didn’t. She also had access to a family beach cottage, and generously invited friends for new adventures. Fast forward, and we grew up, went to separate colleges, married – she was a bridesmaid in my wedding, had children. I divorced. My oldest son, her godchild, died of leukemia. Through whatever life tossed us, our friendship flourished even though as adults there were things we didn’t share: I enjoyed running and yoga and going to the gym. She didn’t. She was a very devout Christian. I am a prayer warrior in my own way. We had friends in common, as well as friends separately. We are still friends, only she is in heaven or wherever souls go after they leave this earth. I had almost a year to come to terms with her eventual dying from pancreatic cancer. She texted me to come to the hospital emergency room immediately after she was diagnosed, just before she was transported to another medical center. I knew she had been sick, but who would have thought pancreatic cancer? Not even the doctors she had consulted prior. What follows is somewhat predictable: chemo, weight loss, pain, fear, anger, an urgency to make memories. She set goals and remarkably achieved them, until February when she knew the chemo was no longer working and the tumor was winning the race. When she stopped those treatments, as they are called, she thought she had a couple of months to live, but it was only a couple of weeks. As she was dying, she took time to plan every last detail of her funeral service, an Episcopalian mass. She asked me to present not a eulogy, but her final thoughts thanking her co-workers, friends, family for contributing to the quality of life. Neither her husband nor her children knew what was going on until I stepped up to the lectern and delivered her message. No one, I believe, ever thinks they will be honored this way. I sat by her bedside as she told me what she wanted to say. She had mentally categorized her thoughts. I wrote a rough draft, then came back a couple of days later to read it to her. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind because I had inserted some editorial comments about what a great person she was. A few days later, as she was obviously declining and aware of that, I read her the revised version. Much better, but she had written an introductory anecdote she wanted to add. When I came back to review the final draft, she was very, very weak, but she had the energy to declare it “perfect.” Two days later she was gone.
At her funeral, a packed congregation plus about 100 people in the overflow room, hung on to every word as I shared her thoughts. There was some levity, but every time I looked out someone was wiping away tears. And when I sat down, I thought I have to tell Sharon – that it went well, who was there, and I had questions for her too. I guess the point of this is that we never know what we can do until we have to, and that friendship and love and gratitude are eternal. Death has no hold. Love prevails.

We do recover by Kristen Hughes (Guest Blogger)

Hi! My name is Kristen and I am an addict.

I grew up in a small town in a small state. I had two parents who loved me and are still married to each other today. I had two brothers who teased the crap out of me – but were ready to fight if someone made me cry. I had everything you could imagine. We lived in a nice house. I went to church. I was a majorette. I studied ballet, tap, and jazz. I was in all of the community plays and at any moment, you could find me breaking out into a song or dance. I was on the honor roll every year in school. I had a lot of friends. I was THAT kid.

I don’t remember the first time I took a drink. All I know is that I was young. It was innocent – sips of my mom’s wine coolers, another sip of beer here or there. I liked the taste and I knew I wanted more. I can’t tell you when it started, but the binge drinking was in full effect once I hit my senior year in high school. I was a party girl. I liked to have fun. I loved being the center of attention and I would get drunk until I would pass out. I don’t remember anyone ever telling me that my drinking was too much. Maybe they did and I just didn’t listen. Because all I knew was that when I was drunk, I made people laugh. I was free.

I graduated high school and went off to a local university. Nothing changed when I went away, except the drinking was more accessible and more excessive. Soon enough, drugs entered the picture. It started with weed and cocaine, along with the drinking. Again – not once do I remember anyone showing concern for what I was doing. I am still wondering how I hid it so well. Looking back, my life was spiraling, but I never stopped.

Somehow, through it all, I managed to graduate and get a job. A great job. Doing what I absolutely love. I still drank and used drugs on weekends, and I’d have a crazy weeknight binge every so often. I was living a double life. I had a group of friends that knew nothing of my drug use. And I had a group of friends that only knew me as the party girl. I was able to maintain that lifestyle for a while. Yes, I had periods where I would get out of control – but always managed to get back on track - until I found heroin.

You see, I was tired of cocaine. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I hated the paranoia, and the “upper” effect. I wanted something different, and heroin was my answer. I was 26 the first time I used heroin. Twenty six. I was a college grad. I had my own apartment. I had a great career. I had family that loved me. Friends who cared about me. I knew better – right? That’s where addiction gets you. You think it’s harmless. A few nights here and there quickly turned into a dependence like I had never experienced. When I couldn’t score I found myself sick. More sick than I had ever been. An ache so deep within my bones. I had no idea what was happening to me. My boyfriend at the time was the one who told me I was in withdrawal. All I knew was that I needed one more. I needed to get right. That was the end of my freedom as I knew it. I became a slave to the drug.

I could go into the graphic details of my drug use. I could tell you all the horrible things I did and the horrible places I went. I could explain to you how I lied, stole, and degraded myself in every way possible just to get “one more.”  I could tell you how my father found me unresponsive in a pool of blood and vomit with a needle still in my arm. I could tell you how I was in a coma, and how at the age of 27 I had to get a pacemaker because my heart suffered so much. I can tell you that even after going away to treatment, I used again. And continued to use. And every day I was killing myself.

I knew I was dying. I knew I had to get clean. But using drugs goes beyond the physical addiction. It’s a mental hold on you that is so strong. I reached out one last time for help. I called my mom. I told her I wanted to go to detox. I told her to pick me up in three hours because I had to get high one more time. Just once more. I went to detox in August of 2007. That decision saved my life. Like I said earlier, I knew I was dying, I just didn’t know how serious my condition was. The pacemaker they put in after my overdose had become infected from continued drug use, and it was - quite literally - killing me. Had I not made the decision to go to detox when I did, my doctor said I would have died.

I stayed clean for a little while. I started attending a 12 step fellowship. Life started getting good again. My family slowly trusted me. I started to find friends who shared the same recovery goals that I had. I survived the most deadly part of my addiction. But even through all of that, I used again.

My clean date is February 25, 2008. I just celebrated 10 years of recovery.

Here is where I hope you listen, and listen closely. Once you put a drug in you – it’s Russian Roulette. No one is exempt. No one. No one knows at what point they will become an addict. The reality is, I have always been an addict. It wasn’t until it manifested itself in the form of drugs that I realized it. And I am grateful. The disease of addiction has many faces. My disease has manifested itself in the form of drugs, shopping, eating, sex, gambling, exercise, lying, fantasy, and the list goes on.

But I have hope today. Today I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a mother. I am an aunt. I am a teacher. I am a friend. And I am an addict.

Thanks for letting me share.

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This blog post was curated and/or edited by The Ardent Reader, Esther Hofknecht Curtis, BSOL, MSM-HCA. The views expressed in this blog post are those of the guest blogger. Visit www.parrotcontent.com for more information.