As a young boy my son, William, had a fascination with ships, most especially the Titanic. I have no recollection of how or why this passion began. I do know it manifested itself in numerous detailed drawings of ships; more particularly renderings of the Titanic. One piece of William’s Titanic art is framed and hangs in our apartment’s hallway. Not a drawing, it is rather an evocative collage of the great ship at the moment an iceberg slices through its hull.
As a young adult, William hit an iceberg of his own when a lack of caution led him to experiment with heroin. As water flooded the Titanic compartment by compartment, so too over time did heroin inevitably flood William’s brain with irresistible cravings. Gradually, the experiment became a chronic disease, manifesting itself in a downward spiral despite all attempts to bring it under control. Like survivors in lifeboats, we were at William’s side when he finally succumbed after being hospitalized for six weeks following an accidental overdose.
This December will mark twelve years since our loss. Recently, a National Geographic photo of the Titanic at rest on the ocean floor made me think of William. Tiny microbes eat away at the Titanic in the depths. Eventually, the ship will disintegrate. There is a shipwreck named William embedded deep in my memory. Objects left behind (clothes of his I still wear, pieces of art, books, sports equipment, and more) help aid my recall. Time, however, makes memory imperfect. As the years go by, details of William’s life deteriorate, despite my best attempts to dive down and retrieve them. Events merge, chronology alters, and names elude. Time can alter, erode, and erase details. It cannot erase love.
August 31st, is International Overdose Awareness Day. The theme for the day this year is “Together We Can.” It emphasizes the power of community and collective action in combating overdose. Take a moment to think of people you knew, now lost to overdose. Think of people you know at risk of overdose. Think about what we might do, can do, not just to keep them afloat – but to speed them toward the light of recovery. We need to be lighthouses of hope, not just today but every day.
