This first-person article is written by Shirley Nicholson, who lives in Winnipeg. For more information on CBC’s first-person stories, see the FAQ.
My son was just an addict.
That’s what some people say. He was nothing more than an addict. How he planned it. Like he really didn’t want to live.
But it was much more than his addictions. He was our son. He was someone’s brother. He was someone’s grandson, nephew and cousin. He was very loved. He loved us.
Shirley and Lloyd Nicholson share a laugh with their daughter Carly and son Darrell in an outdoor family portrait taken in 2014. (Submitted by Shirley Nicholson)
Yes, he made some very bad decisions in his life and paid dearly for them. He had spent time in provincial and federal prisons. But he got parole and started a new life. We thought we were doing well, but addictions are cunning and perplexing diseases.
Just sitting in the background.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Until you have a good day.
Until you have a bad day.
Until it’s any day.
Then touch
From everything I’ve learned about my son’s alcohol and drug addiction, the desire, need, and desperation to have this solution never goes away. Some can overcome it. Some may go to Narcotics Anonymous or a rehab program and work there. The need to stay sober must be stronger than the need to get a fix.
People say it’s a choice. What I saw from my son’s behavior is that addicts really don’t have a choice. The addict has the control, the power, the say over whether they use again.
Darrell Nicholson was captured in this photo taken during a day’s fishing trip two days before he died. (Submitted by Shirley Nicholson)
We lost our son six hours after wishing his father a happy birthday.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised.
But he died of an overdose the next morning. And so, our family was reduced by one. Our lives changed forever.
People tell me:
“You are very strong.”
“You are very tough.”
“You are very brave.”
I am none of those things. My husband is none of these things. Our son’s sister is none of these things. We had no choice as to whether or not we should be brave, strong or tough. We have just become parents of a stillborn child; sister of a dead brother. We couldn’t choose.
Darrell Nicholson, 4, smiles at the camera. (Submitted by Shirley Nicholson)
Ever since the police came to our door and gave us the terrible news, we’ve just been putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. Some days we arrive with relative ease and only a few moments of total desolation. Other days, we can barely drag ourselves out of bed to face the day.
There was a lot of paperwork, administration and things to do when a loved one dies. I faced everything like a job.
Sort the pictures and write the obituary. Advise on car insurance. Notify the health department. Advise Service Canada. Advise the Canada Revenue Agency. Send letters Submit forms. Please resubmit this, the “i” was not dotted. Resubmit it, because the auto insurance supervisor was being prickly. just do it
But if I let myself stop and go back to that moment, the moment when the police said, “I’m sorry to tell you…” – I break down in tears. Stressful crying that I can’t control. I can not breathe. I can’t think If I can, I hold on to something, so I don’t end up on my knees at that moment. If I don’t go “there”, I can get through most days.
We scattered his ashes here, there, in places we thought he would like, in places he liked to hang out, in places he had never been. We held his small but meaningful memorial at the Winnipeg Folk Fest camp.
We went to the Dominican Republic in March. One morning at breakfast, my husband mentioned that he had scattered his ashes in the Caribbean, where our son had never been, and I burst into heartbreaking sobs again. Just one mention of him, and I cry uncontrollably. One day, I might be in the condiment aisle looking at Frank’s RedHot Sauce. He would laugh and recite the commercial line: “I put that shit on everything!” And I find myself
He would laugh at us scattering his ashes everywhere. I know she would say, “What the hell, Mom! I don’t care about that!”
But we do. We are just trying to show respect to his memory.
A couple of months after he died, my daughter suggested we go somewhere for Thanksgiving. It was also Darell’s birthday, but that was the unspoken part. I said, “Sure!”
So we left the province for a trip to Victoria.
It was the best way to get through this first milestone – his first birthday without being with us on earth.
My daughter planned so many activities, we didn’t have time to think. We enjoyed every moment with our daughter and son-in-law. Both have been our strength and our rock in these difficult times through their addiction and after death.
And we spent the fearful day.
Darrell Nicholson is hugged by his sister, Carly. (Submitted by Shirley Nicholson)
If love could have saved our son, he would surely be alive and well today. If only love could…but it didn’t. He was our beautiful boy. Our energetic little guy who could make best friends in the yard. He was our handsome young man who could charm the girls.
I had ideas, plans, dreams and a bike test appointment the following week.
I didn’t think I’d die at 27. It was more than his addictions. He was our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew, our cousin and we all loved him so much.
Do you have a first-hand experience similar to this column? We want to hear from you. Write to us at firstperson@cbc.ca.