Failing

July 22, 2020

It has been a little over a year since our son, Mark, passed away from a fentanyl overdose. One of my recurring thoughts is how I had failed him. Leigh tells me there isn't any truth to that thought, or feeling, and yet it bounces around in my head quite regularly. Mark is no longer with us - I failed as a father.

He lived with us, on and off, for most of his life, even during some of the time he was married. He always had a warm place to sleep, if needed; food to eat, if needed; medical care and a ride to his groups and meetings - in spite of our schedule or plans. If he needed us, we were there. Except ...

There is no telling about the events of June 1, 2019 - no telling at all. Would the outcome have been different if we were home? He died - at home - alone.

And that's when the thought creeps back into my mind - I failed as a father. He had my love. He had whatever material resource we could provide. He needed my protection. I tried. 

This feeling will probably be with me until the day I die. Maybe then there will be some peace. Until then, this feeling will haunt me on and off. I failed as a father.

And then there is the real truth. Our son, Mark, knew the Lord Jesus Christ. Mark had his problems, and God only know why he kept using drugs - we certainly do not understand it. Leigh and I went to church with our children, instilled in them the desire for the Holy One. In this I did not fail.

The continuing, hidden pain ...

On Wednesday, February 26, 2020, my wife, Leigh Kinsey, posted this notice on Facebook.

"My son, Mark, was murdered. The two who murdered him will be out of prison within a year, I’m sure. To do it all over again with someone else’s child. Mark did not want to die. He did not want to be an addict. He did not wake up one morning and decide to do drugs.... All he wanted was a normal life like his siblings. A wife and children. He prayed for that, he got it, but lost both. I pray the stigma of addiction changes. Addiction changes the brain, changes anything the addict ever cared for. All I know is that my son ,Mark, knew what was happening to his brain."


Leigh and I have both been through this daily trauma since Mark's passing on June 1, 2019. Leigh writes passionately about what happened to our youngest son, Mark, at 35 years of age. When people write, what is often missing are the tears, pain, cries for help, screams of terror, and moments of complete and utter abandon, dejection, and hopelessness which overwhelm parents daily, hourly, minute by minute. The 'overwhelming waves of grief' happen spontaneously - a word, a fond memory, even a smell can trigger this.

What most do not see is the grief millstone hanging around our necks - Mark's parents, and also his sister and brothers, nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends.Sometimes we look fine on the outside - the inside is boiling over and frozen in place.

We will not stop writing about our journey through this 'valley of the shadow of death'. Mark's message, his voice, needs to ring out daily. He was in pain, we are in pain, his whole family is in pain. The substance abuse disorder crisis needs to end - this is the national health crisis.