By Kym Porter, Medicine Hat Alberta

Exposure

The Visit

Cop at the door
Cop at the door
Wonder what he’s here for
Run away, run away
Then don't have to hear him say
…Dead

The Blanket

A covering, a protection, a shelter, a gesture of kindness
She came downstairs and placed one over my son, thinking him
asleep.
her not knowing he was leaving soon, as he lay on his living room floor with fentanyl poisoning his veins, stopping his heart, starting our loss. And even so, I am grateful.

Leaving

Did a bird sit on your shoulder and sing for you as you left this earthly place?
Did he take away any fear you might have had for your leaving?
Was the song sweet and short and strong?
Did he help pull you up from your collapse?
Is he there with you still?
What is the new song he sings?

The Last Touch
When they finished your autopsy, did one of them rest their hand on your body in a tender gesture?
Did the attendant who pushed you into the fire for your cremation say a gentle good bye?
Were you more than just a fentanyl overdose to any of them?
I wonder.

The Morgue

I went to the morgue. You were purple and still. I did not expect that. You looked relaxed. Your arm was up over your head. I keep remembering that. I wasn't allowed to touch you. Two security guards stood and watched, their thoughts, perhaps, on dinner.

Your Last week-

Thinking to your last week on earth.
You didn't know
We didn't know
What was it like?
You were here on your last day alive
Did you feel safe
Did you feel loved
You were busy texting a deal
You left quickly,
You had money and a need
Kevin saw you last, he drove you home
What was your last meal
Did you feel the end was near
Where are you now

Dear Neil
I saw a fellow get out of a truck with a dog today. I knew it had to be Rod. I had never met him. He said at work they talk about you everyday. He asked how I am doing.
I said goodbye and then cried and cried. I didn't want to let him walk away. I felt like I was with you. He said, the dog ate your lunch. We laughed.
Love Mom

Exposed

my grief has rubbed me raw
all my vulnerabilities are exposed
all my judgements
all my jealousies
all my unkindness’
so difficult to live with
knowing i have such thoughts

Words

Sometimes my words sound so reasonable- I’m unsure whether I mean them or not.

Letter to the City of Medicine Hat

There is an Adirondack chair in my backyard.
It faces a memorial garden I have planted for my son.
I never seem to be able to sit in the chair and face that garden.
My son, Neil, was 31 when he died alone of a fentanyl overdose two years ago in Medicine Hat.
He was my first born, my only son.
He grew up playing sports, reading comics, going camping and he also lived with a substance use disorder.
He graduated from Monsignor McCoy High School, attended MHC and worked as an Emergency Medical Technician as well as at a home for people with disabilities, did construction work and at the time of his death, was employed by the City of Medicine Hat. He was a generous soul, always looking out for the less fortunate. He had many friends as he was easy going and had a wonderful sense of humour. People were drawn to his kind and thoughtful ways. He had his own apartment and an extensive book collection. He loved a good steak and a big glass of milk. He hugged you when he met you. He also struggled for years with mental health issues and with his addictions. At the time of his death, he was seeing a counsellor and a psychiatrist. He had attended a detox program. He had overdosed numerous times and was always found in time to be saved...until he wasn’t. He hid his health needs from most as he lived with immense shame. He left behind a village of people trying to help him. My son was ill. His illness did not make him a person to be feared, it made him vulnerable and in need of appropriate support..
As citizens of Medicine Hat, I believe we have a responsibility to be ‘the village’ for the vulnerable in our community.
Signed,
Another grieving mom

The Teaching...

Tough love

The Learning

Death

The Lesson

Don't trust in the teaching

Dreams -

I had planned on recording my dreams after you left.
I started a dream journal. I told myself I would be diligent for a year.
I was but my dreams weren't and so the journal sits naked at my bedside.

letting go

do not get fooled into thinking letting go is for the living.
letting go is for the dying
once gone, we are sometimes told to let them go.
they are already gone, there is nothing to let go of.
We, the living, on the other hand, must hold on.
We must hold on to them as they are a part of who we are.
To let go would be to be fooled.
A slight of hand offered but not to be accepted.

Police notes

Your son is not the first, nor will he be the last to die of a fentanyl overdose in this community
He belonged to a Sub culture
No one tells you your son overdosed previously because of foip. They are afraid of losing their jobs
And so instead we lose our children.
He was somebody's someone.
My someone
My first born
My son

In an effort to help politicians and policy makers understand the human cost of the overdose crisis and why we urgently need to preserve and expand life saving harm reduction measures, including supervised consumption services, #MSTH leadership member Kym Porter has publicly shared the following excerpts from her private journal she wrote following the death of her son Neil.