Growing up in Buffalo, N.Y., the Fourth of July was one of my favorite holidays, because it meant the beginning of long, warm summer days — and camping! For many summers while my two sisters and I were in grammar school we would build forts, catch fireflies, fish for sunfish using raw hotdogs, and collect kindling.
But our favorite summer camping activity was to put on shows for our parents at “the spider,” a metal jungle gym that looked like a gigantic tarantula. Colleen, Jenny, and I spent hours planning our routines and practicing on the warm metal. Jenny, even though she was the youngest, was fearless and could do all the difficult turns and flips with me on the high bars. Colleen was cautious and preferred to be the announcer with a few easy feats on the legs close to the grass.
On show nights, my parents would walk down to the spider after dinner before sunset. My mom in a Buffalo Bills sweatshirt and my dad, a Vietnam combat veteran and Bronze Star recipient, would wear his old 82nd Airborne hat. It’s one of my most vivid childhood memories.
But this Fourth of July is a sad one for our family. Jenny died July 8, 2017, from prescription opioids. And since then, it’s been a somber “year of firsts” for our family: the first holidays, family celebrations, and everything else without her.
Our family’s story isn’t unique. It isn’t the saddest story. Jenny was just one of the 115 Americans who die every day from opioids. She was just one of the 90 percent of 22 million Americans with substance use disorder who never get treatment.
I experienced the entirety of my little sister’s addiction, suffering, and death in just six heartbreaking and gruesome days at Kenmore Mercy Hospital one year ago, and I still don’t understand what happened. Jenny was a college-educated, suburban mom. She never asked for help. Maybe she was ashamed, but I’ll never know.
Like too many other American families who have lost someone suddenly or unexpectedly, every day I struggle with grief. I often think of John Irving’s description of loss in A Prayer for Owen Meany, “When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time. … Just when the day comes — when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever — there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.”
The missing part I’m reminded of this Fourth of July is the spider and those choreographed shows where three little girls performed elaborate somersaults with our parents applauding. Some of the other missing parts from this awful year of firsts have included Christmas Eve, my nephew’s high school graduation, and Jenny’s 45th birthday in May.
My sister might have lived if she had a doctor who was board-certified in addiction medicine and received medication-assisted treatment that was integrated into her primary healthcare. She might have lived if our family rallied around her and talked honestly about her illness. These are scenarios I obsess about every day, sometimes in tears, as I’m walking to work, sitting in a restaurant, or trying to keep up in a spin class. I imagine others who have lost someone to addiction anguish over the same “if only” reflections.
Sadly, most Americans know someone who is struggling or has died from substance use disorder. So, as you celebrate this Fourth of July, and all the other wonderful holidays and happy occasions with your family and loved ones throughout the year, don’t make the same mistakes I did. Get educated about substance use disorder, talk honestly with your family, and don’t let shame stop the people you love from getting treatment.
I wish all Americans a joyful and safe Fourth of July — but especially those families who have lost someone in the past year and are surviving their own difficult year of firsts.
Kelly O’Connor lives in Washington, D.C., and is a product manager for the United States Digital Service.
