The call came in the dim, grey light before dawn. She fumbled for her phone in the dark, and saw the number; her stomach dropped and adrenaline and dread flooded her body, suddenly both wide awake and numb. The aging voice was fragile over the line, as she tried to make sense of the confusing jumble of words. Hospital. Collapse. David. Ambulance. Intubated. Heart failure. Non-responsive. Half-formed questions bubbled to her lips, interrupted by shock-formed half-answers from the other end. “Wait…? what…? how…? is there a nurse…someone I can talk to…?” she pleaded into the phone.

She was in Utah for the summer, nestled near Cache Valley and the northern peaks of the breathtaking Wasatch Mountains. Her children were all still asleep in various beds around her new in-laws’ house. They’d been playing outside the night before, getting to know cousins and grandparents again, and overjoyed with the deep azure sky, the pasture, the chickens, the enormous dog, and the sheep named Maverick.

She motioned for her husband to close the door- she didn’t want the children to hear any part of this phone call. Six years before, they had seen their father overdose. They had seen him, during the divorce, seizing and convulsing on the floor of his mother’s house, where she had taken the kids for a supervised visitation. She had screamed for her mother-in-law to keep the kids in the front room, to not let them see, as she rushed to call 911, but they saw anyway. They had seen the paramedics pounding on his chest, had seen the firemen rushing into their grandmother’s genteel living room, had seen the mad, brutal rush to save his life. They were too young, but she could not protect them from it.

He survived that day. She had gone in the ambulance at the paramedics’ insistence, while protesting that she wasn’t his wife anymore. She couldn’t make any decisions for him. Her head swam as she tried to answer the doctor’s questions in the ER. How many times? How much? Of what? He’d been in and out of rehab half a dozen times in the previous three years, before she finally filed for divorce. “If he does this again, he will die.” Yes. She knew.

He knew it, too. And over the next few years, he got help. He followed a program. He stayed sober. It was hard. Every day. There is a reason 12-step plans use the phrase “One day at a time”. For an addict, it’s often broken down into one hour, or one minute at a time. A day seems to large a hurdle. But a minute? A minute can be done. Until someday, for some reason, it cannot.

Less than a year earlier, she had had him fly out to stay with them on the east coast. She had invited him many times, but he was finally feeling strong enough, and he came for almost two weeks. He stayed in their home, met her new husband and her step-children, and immersed himself in his own children. It had been a singular joy watching the harmony between loved ones, and see the kids bask in that light. It had been a beautiful visit, and they had spoken about repeating it again this coming fall.

They talked frequently. She valued him- not only as the father of her children, but as a constant for more than twenty-five years. They had met when she was still a girl. He was her ex-husband, but prior to, and after that, he was also her friend.

Now the phone call she had feared for years had come. Waiting on a call-back from a nurse, her heart was leaden. He had been doing so well… But she knew the frailty of that protest. She knew how it could go, and how fast it could go.

Her husband joined her outside in the gathering dawn. His parents, out for their morning walk, were silhouetted against the rising sun as they approached. The cat had joined them and their giant dog on their walk- they made a peculiar and oddly beautiful quartet. Strange, the things you remember when the world is shifting.

It was Pioneer Day in Utah. July. It would be hot, and the roses were opening in ridiculous color and bloom, despite the early hour. She remembers noticing that, too, along with a stray chicken wandering in and out of the roses. The phone rang.

He was gone.

There are moments in life that transcend time, where everything stops, the birds hold their song, and the enormity of the silence is deafening in it’s vastness. There are moments where a person can, ever so briefly, see the curving arc of the horizon and can feel the curling crest of the wave of time under their feet. Thank God those moments are fleeting, because our earthly hearts really cannot breathe in that paralyzing enormity for long. In that moment, she understood why people fall to their knees before angels.

Before her lies the task of waking her children this beautiful summer morning, and telling them their father is dead. She cannot protect them from the paralyzing unfairness of life, or from the unforgiving hardness of the devastating reality of addiction. She wants to cry out for someone to shield them, someone more adequately prepared than her, someone who knows better than she how to shepherd children through a valley no child should walk. But there is no answer. So she will do it.

She can see the house over her husband’s shoulder, backlit by the rising sun, where her children are asleep, safe and happy, surrounded by family, summer roses, giant dogs, chickens, cousins and a sheep named Maverick.

She takes a deep breath, and tries to rub away her endless tears, and moves towards the sunrise and what she must do.


It’s National Alcohol and Drug Addiction Recovery Month. It takes extraordinary courage and strength to seek help, both for the addict and for the families and friends of those who love them. There are many who triumph over their demons; recovery and finding a way to a happy and healthy life is possible. When faced with addiction, it is not just the addict who needs support, but the families as well.

Please be respectful when discussing addiction. Understand there are times when a person or a family truly cannot have done more. Sometimes, life is just unfair, pain gets the better of people and the world loses what might have been.

For the sake of this discussion, please refrain from comparing non-physiologically addictive habits to alcohol and drugs. For families who have dealt with real addiction, who have lost someone to the battle, comparing substances or actions that may be compulsive or simply unhealthy diminishes the devastating reality of their lived lives and their tragic losses.


The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has addiction recovery programs all over the world. Click here for information.

The Church has also just launched an excellent series of videos on the Twelve Steps. They’re raw and hard to watch if this is effecting you or someone you love. But they are very good.

Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are both established organizations that do a lot of good in the world. They are free, anonymous, and they work.

If you are a family member or loved one of an addict, please consider your own support. Al-Anon is 12-step AA affiliated support and provides tools and support for families and friends. I have personally used this program and can testify to the tremendous good it can do in healing and helping.


  1. Yes.

  2. I never cry over anything I read on the internet, but this…. I am so sorry for you and your children. May God bless you all with peace and some sort of understanding.

  3. I feel honored that you would share this with us. Thanks for letting me mourn with you.

  4. Harrowing. Thank you.

  5. Thank you for sharing your story. Our family struggles with an adult child with drug and alcohol addictions. The pain of watching an intelligent, beautiful person destroy herself and repeatedly wound her young adult children is agonizing. I second your advice to family members of addicts to seek out Al-Anon, Ala-Teen, or Adult Children of Alcoholics. These organizations won’t take away the pain, but they will help family members cope in the best possible way.

  6. I’m so sorry, Tracy. I’ll mourn with you and your children.

  7. I remember meeting him, years ago, Tracy. Addiction is a part of our family’s journey, too. But for the grace of God. But for AA. But for LDSARP. But for miracles we can barely imagine. And knowing full well that we take these miracles one day at a time and without any guarantee. Blessings on you.m

  8. That last line (before the welcome part about addiction) perfectly captures the courage you showed through this heartbreaking experience. Thank you for writing this: I know it wasn’t easy.

  9. Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine;
    et lux perpetua luceat eis;
    cum Sanctis tuis in æternum,
    quia pius es.

  10. Sitting with you, Tracy. Thank you for your courage to write this down, and your courage to share it.

  11. There are moments where a person can, ever so briefly, see the curving arc of the horizon and can feel the curling crest of the wave of time under their feet. Thank God those moments are fleeting, because our earthly hearts really cannot breathe in that paralyzing enormity for long. In that moment, she understood why people fall to their knees before angels.

    Dear God, I’ve seen this place and it means so much to see it described so beautifully, starkly.

  12. J. Stapley says:

    Thank you.

  13. Thank you, Tracy.

  14. Very moving. Thank you for sharing this.

  15. Very touching. Thank you, Tracy, and best wishes to you and your children, and all your loved ones.

  16. I am so sorry.

  17. I have been following your blog and story for a few years Tracy. You truly have a gift with words. I am so sorry for your and your children’s loss.

  18. Antonio Parr says:

    Thank you.

  19. You are not alone in your heart break, and I am so glad you and your children have people who love you.

    I wish we talked about the realities of this more often in church, that we acknowledged both the pain and love that both the addict and those who love them, go through in finding the strength for a minute, hour and day. It is hard to mourn with those that mourn, if we are expected not to talk about the deep loss, and daily trials, that come with loving someone who is an alcoholic and/or addict.

    Thank you for opening up a way to mourn with you and your children.

  20. Just last night I was talking with my mother about our family experience when my dad was an active alcoholic. It was a brutal experience. But all of these years later, I can see many blessings that came through that experience, and I’m sure that years from now, it will be the same for you. I wish you all peace.

  21. liz johnson says:

    This is beautiful, Tracy. I’m so sorry, but thank you for writing this.

  22. Thanks for sharing. 3 weeks ago I sat in the emergency room staring at my intubated, non-responsive heroin addict son. He survived that day too. Addicts’ families share an experience that I thought could not be described. But you just did, beautifully.

  23. Thank you for sharing this. I’m so sorry for your and your children’s loss.

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