The truth is I used to be terrified of parenting older children. Little ones came naturally to me, their chubby hands fit nicely into mine and a kiss could dry the biggest of tears. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to mother a pre-teen, or that my teenagers would simply disconnect and our precious days of early motherhood would be long gone.
Boy, I was wrong.
I couldn’t tell you why we were out that night, the two of us. I can’t recall where we were headed, but I can tell you the way the air made me feel. It was a sticky sensation, tangible in the way that if I could have, I’d have bottled it up to revisit in coming seasons.
There was a sweetness to the breeze, a perfume blend of residual cook-outs, lilac bushes, and a nearby campfire, and I was filled with the comforts of my childhood. That summertime air was in my lungs and through my hair, it was both a swirl of romance and a breath of stillness.
I was thirteen years old that summer, and my world felt complete. I knew little of what else was out there, I knew not of loss or pain, I knew nothing of the gut-wrenching sting my adult years would bring. What I knew, what surrounded me, was everything good. It was my mother and father, my three siblings. It was middle school friendships and Aqua-net hairspray. What encircled me were the familiarities of being the child of a pastor, a homemaker’s daughter. These were the things I knew to be true, these were the things that became my identity.
His window was down, my dad’s, and his arm shot straight out to his left. I watched from the passenger seat, a smile framed my face as his hand cruised up and down, in a wave-like motion. He liked the air too.
Bryan Adams crooned through the speakers, something about the summer of ’69, and I couldn’t help but sing, “the summer of ’95.” My dad laughed. I laughed and rested my head back on the seat. His arm came in from the summer’s night, one hand on the wheel, one turning the knob, making the volume so loud I couldn’t make out my own voice. Music was his pastime, and I’ll forever hear the melodies of my childhood and smile at the thought of him, of my daddy.
That drive through town would be a memory that, in years to come, would ground me. The slow cruise down Main Street, turning right past the QuickStop, weaving over hills and passing the homes of his own upbringing, that ride would sit within the depths of my heart and remind me of better days. In the years to come, I’d turn the knob of my own volume up, letting Bryan Adams serenade me through some of the more difficult days. That song, like so many others, would act as a salve, taking me back to that summer of ’95, back to a time when all I knew to be true, was true.
I didn’t know what summers were like in ’69, but I knew what the summers were like in the 80s and 90s. They were filled with the sweetness of watermelon dripping down my chin. Summer meant later bedtimes and chasing lightning bugs. They were church camps and roasting marshmallows, summer was fishing and bathing suits. It meant dirt-stained feet and suntan lines.
Summer was driving through the hills of St. Clairsville, Ohio with my daddy. His smile, my braces, our shared love of music. Summer, to me, has always been, the best part of this life.
There near the end of the road is a sweet, small, girl. Our trip back to New Rumley Road was far different this time than it normally is, and we felt the absence of those we've lost - but it was a breath of fresh air.
It was family (something I've come to treasure more than ever before), it was laughter (the best kind, you know the kind that hurts your stomach), and it was truly beauty from ashes (I'm currently writing all about it).
It was fast and furious and sad and happy and all the things I needed but didn't realize. Halfway home now and ready to be there, but being gentle with myself too.
The aching of family in Heaven and spread out across the country is a painful one, but I'm grateful. I'm just so grateful.
Thank you, my friends, for your grace with me as I've walked a difficult road the last month or so. I miss so much coming here with my heart, and look forward to doing so again soon.
Recently I posed a question to a writing group I'm a part of. I asked them, "what is one thing you'd like to tell someone about your loss?" and I found myself mulling over that very thought.
One thing I'd like to say about losing someone to addiction is: the means by which he died does not discount the fact that he's gone. My brother's addiction was not his identity. My brother's addiction was his demon. Losing him in the way I did feels terribly traumatic and in a way, more tragic than the way I lost my mom.
I'd like people to know that addicts come in all shapes and sizes. They're not the same. Some are manipulative and compulsive liars. Some are thieves. Some have lost sight completely of what is good and true.
But I'd like you to know my Joel was none of those things. I'd like you to know that he was funny. Silly. Adventurous and wild. He was an amazing chef and he loved with a ferocity that could move mountains.
Those are the things I'd like people to know. I am unsure what kind of addict is in your life, should you find yourself loving of one. But hear me when I say, it's okay to talk about it. In fact, lets. Let's talk about it more. Let's talk of our losses and our grief and even the kind of loss that feels messy because perhaps our person is still alive - but lost to us.
If I do anything with my words from here forward I hope it's to encourage you to find your own. Break the silence, bury the shame. Will you?
When my mom passed away from cancer at the age of fourty-nine, our family entered into a season of vast darkness. My children were young, just eight, five, and not quite two and this loss hit us all like a sledgehammer.
I was caught in the eye of a storm—unable to hold myself together—but I had to also keep my children from falling apart. Nighttime proved to be the worst, and inevitably we would all end up a crying heap on the bed. I wondered during those months if we would ever see light again. Would we smile? Would we find joy in anything?
Loss has forever changed me, and as I see signs of growth, of life, it baffles me. I watch winter merge into spring, I find yet again, the strange knowledge that all around me, people are living.
The sun continues to rise. The calendar flips, the trees blossom, the weather shifts. These things happen, paying little mind to the fact that I'm now growing far too comfortable collecting treasures of my dead relatives.
Sometimes I laugh, loudly, at the audacity of this all. I scream or cry or raise my hands, yet again, to the heavens.
WHY. Why cancer? Why addiction? Why me, again?
And I'm reminded of the wise words of the mama who raised me, "why not me?" And I sink back into the couch. Deep breathe, in and out.
I inhale the aroma of the changing season just outside my door, and I decide to do something with this. With this story I've been given. I decide not to let it go to waste.
I've found myself quieter than when I lost my mom and I'm not sure why, but don't be fooled. I'm just letting it simmer. I'm letting it do its thing so I can do my thing.
If you, too, are finding yourself with your hands to the heavens - you aren't alone, not hardly. If cancer has infiltrated your life, if addiction has stolen someone from you, you're in good company. It's not a great club, but it's not a lonely one.
Welcome. Let's walk this road, together.
Angie Warren counts motherhood as one of life's greatest gifts. On a journey to find joy after the loss of her mother to cancer, Angie's eyes are now wide open to the wonder and enchantment of the every day, and she aims to document it using both her words and camera.
Angie lives with her husband and three children in Northern California. Her work has been published in a variety of outlets including Scary Mommy, Simple as That, The Art of Simple, and Kidspot, as well as Artful Blogging and Elevate the Everyday. You can find Angie sharing glimpses of life through Instagram, and daily reflections on her Facebook page.
Welcome, friend. I'm Angie.
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