Guest Author - Sharon Snow

Part One of Three

In Loving Memory of
MATTHEW WESLEY TRAVIS
June 7, 1976 to September 13, 1997
Beloved Son of Sharon

My youngest son, Matthew, died of a heroin overdose at age 21. We had
struggled with Matt’s drug addiction since he was 14 years old. The pull of
the drugs was so strong; he gave up everything for them. Matt overdosed
two days before his death, but CPR brought him back to life. That was on a
Thursday. He died on Saturday. It is still unbelievable to me, though most
days I feel incredible pain and guilt as well as an overwhelming longing to
speak to and hug my son just once more.
There were 6 young people who died in Boulder that week due to a batch of pure heroin. A sting operation captured many of the heroin dealers. I hoped they all would rot in jail. It won’t bring Matt back, but it gave me a small measure of comfort, knowing perhaps someone else’s son will not have such easy access to heroin.
After Matt’s death, I seemed to swing from okay to pretty damned miserable several times a day. Small things would set me off. I began to see
why this grief journey takes years and years to understand. There were times
I felt like I wanted to get out of the house and do something, but by the time
I was ready to go, I pretty much changed my mind. I was vague and scattered most of the time.
Slowing, I began to venture out into the world, though reluctantly. I
hated that everyone was so “normal” when my world was turned upside down. I was mad at the fact it was “business as usual,” and that I couldn’t
just ‘ha-ha’ around town yet. Lots of people knew about Matt, or heard
about his death. Every time I ran into someone, I cried. I guess that’s just the way it’s going to be. When offered condolences, I cried. I was not ready to
face people early on.
Every day, sometimes hourly, I grieve a little, even though the sense of
loss and pain has lessened each year. Four years is a long time, though
sometimes it seems like just yesterday that I received that dreaded phone
call.
Each day I cry for all that will never be, all that Matt will miss, all that we no longer share. It hurts, hurts, hurts and will forever. At the same time,though, I feel stronger somehow, more loving to others, more sympathetic,
more aware of others sadness and needs. I’m looking through new eyes with a new heart, tattered but curiously strengthened, and always filled with love and memories of my beloved son. I have been told it will get better, though
in teeny little increments that are hardly noticeable.
I made a shrine for Matt. I have several pictures of him placed on a
bookcase, and added candles and mementos that I have saved over the years.
It’s in a corner of our bedroom, arranged with an overstuffed chair and CD
player. It’s a quiet place where I can fully mourn, with or without music. It
is a safe place. I have cried rivers there. Crying helps a lot, and is so very
important. All of one’s feelings will be strong, and cannot be denied. I have
found that grief is a journey with limps and bumps, and we are battered and
torn and we must each make our own way, with our own feelings, in our own time.