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.

Balance

Our son, Mark, died from an overdose on June 1, 2019. Two people sold him drugs, which led to this death. Both pled guilty in court to charges of criminally negligent homicide, and selling drugs. Both were sentenced to 1 to 4 years in state prison. 

These two people sell drugs, which results in someone's death, and are sentenced to ONLY 1 to 4 years in state prison. Really??!!

The law regarding drug related deaths is seriously OUT OF BALANCE! Prove it you say? Okay - check this out.

Holley Man Gets 1 to 3 Years in Prison for Violating Probation (This fellow probably should not have been on the street in the first place, but should have been in REHAB! HELLO!)

WHAT? Someone dies and 1 to 4 years does not equal violating probation and 1 to 4 years.

Tell me once more how selling drugs is a VICTIM-LESS CRIME. Not in Mark's experience, not in our experience, not in his family or friends experience.

There is a continued need for more rehabilitation programs and facilities, lower cost access to medical treatments, and longer acting medications to curb the urge to abuse drugs.

This is a national health emergency!

A Voice For Mark - his mother's experience

June 1, 2019

     I was talking with some people at my daughter, Anna's, house when I heard a gut wrenching sound from my husband, Chuck, calling out to our daughter, Anna, twice. You see, he called me first, I didn't hear. I saw her run to her father, I thought something had happened to him. I got up and ran. First, I hear "Michael's dead"! and I was on the floor in the hallway. I remember screaming "No! Not my Michael"! Then I heard my daughter, Anna, say "No Mom, it's not Michael, it's Mark". I went through two deaths of my children! The last thing I remember is screaming, "No! Not my Mark"! My daughter, bless her heart, was holding me. No idea where Chuck was. Not much memory after that. 

      I remember praying with Chuck just about all night. In the car, on our way home, I remember talking to my brother Bill. Then all of a sudden we are home. Doug and Anna drove us. Somehow I got in the house.           
     
      My son, Charlie, took me upstairs to show me where Mark died. Bless him, it was so hard for him. Charlie is the one who had to identify Mark. I laid in the spot where Mark died. I touched it. I smelled it. I caressed it, where his body laid for over 8 hours. It was what I had to do.                                       

      I still go and sit where he died. Peace is what I feel, then it turns into that overwhelming feeling of grief that I wish no others would suffer. Losing my child is the most devastating thing I have ever experiened. I miss my son Mark, but am overjoyed he suffers no more. How can I say this? I watchd him struggle, re-hab, recovery, relapse, recovery then relapse again. Now Mark is with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ and I can't wait to see him again! Besides Jesus, My husband, daughter and four sons are my life. They've given me many grandchildren. Mark's legacy will live on.

The Horrible Night and Aftermath

Saturday evening, June 1, 2019, began one of the most difficult journeys my wife Leigh and I have ever experienced, and pray we never have to experience again. We were in Albany visiting our oldest, Anna, and her husband, Doug, and our grandchildren Jessica and Aidan.

About 9:25 in the evening our son, Charles, called me to tell me our son, Mark, was deceased. "Hi Charles." I said. He said "Hi Dad. The ambulance and Sheriff are at your house. Mark is dead." I screamed twice for Leigh, twice for Anna, and threw down the phone. (He later told me he equated this with 'ripping off the band-aid'. Might just as well say it. There is NO easy way.)

There is no easy way to hear that. There is no easy way to process that information, or to share that with the woman you love. Her baby boy, her precious youngest son, Mark, is dead.

We rushed to each other, held each other, cried with each other. The ensuing panic, crying, moaning, wailing, flailing, consumed us both, for hours, and has consumed us now for months. We prayed it wasn't so, that perhaps there was a mistake. Not Mark? Not Mark! All too true, all too gruesome.

We spent the night continually in prayer. There was company at Anna and Doug's house. We remember no one coming or going. We may have dozed in each other's arms for a bit. We prayed the Lord's prayer, said multiple Hail Mary's, and asked for mercy and strength. Neither of us could drive our car home - it is about a five hour drive - we could not focus. I don't even remember packing to come home. Eventually we were back in Clarendon - don't ask me how.

Family came together. There were many tears, hugs, more tears, more hugs, prayers, and then more prayers. Too many questions, not enough answers. Leigh and I sought solace in praying with each other, and alone, and grieving with each other, and alone. Still too many questions, never enough answers. What were we to do? No idea, no concept.

Our children stepped up and took over for their Mother and Father. We who had been so strong and resolute for them over so many years, had no strength of our own. Anna, Charles, Thomas, and Michael stood in our place and took over caring not only for us, but also for Mark. Words cannot express our love for them, and their love for their brother, and for us. What a wonderful woman is our daughter, Anna, and such wonderful men are our sons, Charles, Thomas, Michael, and Mark.

We have come to know we were not alone in our experience of Mark's tragic death. Too many other of people's loved ones have died from the poison of fentanyl. Too many others have experienced, and continue to experience, the devastating grief of death from overdose. There is even a Facebook group for those who have had this unlucky experience - GRASP - Grieve Recovery After a Substance Passing - GRASP on the Web.

Leigh and I have been tested even more in this horrid aftermath.

We had questions about Mark's eternal soul, but have received confirmation he is in heaven. (More on this in another post.)

We have had to meet with the District Attorney and Sheriff. Thank God for these good men. A challenging experience has been to see the individuals charged in Mark's death in court. Two From Holley To see these 'people' and know they have such a callous disregard for another's life is still beyond understanding. Their sentencing is still to come on December 19th.

We pray for justice, but realize there can NEVER be true justice, only a false sense of retribution. They will continue to live for as long as the Lord gives them. We will NEVER see our Mark again this side of glory. We pray the memories, pictures, and stories will never, ever fade.

Some days we struggle for each breath, the pain of grief burns our lungs, our throats. It consumes us many days, in sleepless nights, often in no motivation.

We console ourselves with the knowledge of our other children, and grandchildren. We love them all dearly.

One is missing, one is gone, ripped needlessly from our lives, the lives of his sister, brothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, the entire family and community.

We understand now, fully, the pain each parent feels who loses a child.

Attornies: Advocating for Our Loved Ones

Our son, Mark David Kinsey, died unexpectedly on June 1, 2019 from a drug overdose. We mourn his loss, and have seen the grief and devastation his death has caused us, his parents, his sisters and brothers, the entire family, friends, first responders, and the entire community.


Within each day there is some event, some activity, which drives home the impact of his death on our lives. This is not something actively sought. On many days remembering his loss, and the grief it brings, is utterly exhausting to the point where we are mentally, physically, and spiritually spent.

Most recently we have been meeting with the district attorney regarding the criminal prosecution of these individuals responsible for selling drugs to Mark, and responsible for his death, and going to court as spectators, at the invitation of the district attorney.

These multiple meetings and court visits has also been mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausting. Not only does talking about the 'facts' of the case bring everything back to remembrance, to our mind how the law views the 'facts' of this case does not even begin to measure up to the grief and pain we have suffered, and will continue bear, until the day we are called home to be with our Lord and Savior.

The people being held in Mark's 'case' have entered a guilty plea to possession of a narcotic, fentanyl, and criminally negligent homicide. (Two Plead Guilty) The law views these charges as appropriate to the crime. Our opinion differs greatly - murder in the first degree would be our charge. Did these people not know that any narcotic can be deadly? And that fentanyl is one of the most lethal narcotics being sold? (Deaths by Drug Overdose) Did these people not willingly sell this narcotic, fentanyl, with the full knowledge it can be, and is, fatal?

It is painful to the extreme to continue revisiting the 'facts' of Mark's death. Yet we persist in the interest of seeking justice for Mark, and others like Mark, who are dealing with a substance use disorder. There is no shame in speaking plainly about this awful disease. We encourage parents, sisters and brothers, family and friends to continue to advocate for those with a substance use disorder. If it can save one life, our efforts will have been worthwhile.

God bless you all.

A Siblings Grief and Good Memories - Tom

Nothing but the Good Memories

By Tom Kinsey


I wanted nothing but the good memories. This is what I told myself when my mother called and said that it was time to go through Mark’s things. I went to her house one day after work in late August to reluctantly sift through his collection of items: jackets, shirts, a watch, some books, CDs, DVDs, some odds and ends, a coffee maker, tools, trinkets. I had convinced myself that I would leave with nothing. I wanted nothing. I would leave with nothing but the good memories. Anything I took would be too hard to bear, an emotional weight too heavy to carry. But then I saw the book I had given him for Christmas 2013. It was The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien. As I slowly turned the pages, I wondered when he had last held the book. Shortly afterward, my mother showed me a Valentine’s Day card that I had given Mark decades ago.

It was a Garfield Valentine that read, “Just gotta tell you . . . You’re special!” I had written “To: Mark From: Tom” in a large and untidy script. I have never been fond of Valentine’s cards or the day for that matter, but something had prompted me well over 30 years ago to give Mark this card. More astonishingly, something prompted my brother to keep it. I wish I could ask him why. What was it about this card that made him want to hold on to it? Maybe I was in a more tender mood at that point and that is something Mark wanted to remember. I am going to tell myself that yes, this is the reason why, because I know I could be hard sometimes. Mark was remembering the best of me.

As I remember the best of him. I know why I gave him a copy of The Things They Carried. I taught the book at Finger Lakes Community College when I was an adjunct instructor, and I thought he would appreciate reading about the strength and perseverance of the soldiers trudging their way through Vietnam. After all, he persevered with earning his GED at age 26. I was so proud of him when he attained his degree. I tried to persuade him to come to community college to further his education, but his smile told me everything I needed to know about that idea. Nevertheless, I told him to hold his head high and be proud of his accomplishment. His was a difficult road. He had traveled long and hard to reach that goal, and I was proud.

No matter what happened, I will remember the best of my brother. Mark had some funny sayings and a broad smile. He enjoyed fishing and hunting turkeys. He loved his nieces and nephews. He was a good man. A hard worker. Gifted with natural ability to combine the right ingredients in the right amounts with amazing speed and agility, he was a talented cook and baker. When Charlie called me that night, June 1, 2019, I was asleep on the couch. I had spent the day with my family at Genesee Country Village and Museum. “Tom,” Charlie began, “there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Mark is dead.”

Nothing has ever knocked me down so hard.

Nathaniel, my son, saw and heard everything, the ungodly sounds that I must have been making. I quickly stood and tried to find resolve. What was I going to do? I had to do something. Anything. I told my brother that I would be in Holley as soon as possible. 

Down the road from my parents’ house, I could see the pulsing red and blue lights, and when I arrived, I parked my car behind two police cruisers. Several relatives were in the front lawn with officers and paramedics. I went inside the house and then spoke to an officer at the kitchen table and offered clues to help the police unlock Mark’s phone. The sergeant was able to unlock the phone before Mark’s body was taken out on the gurney. The sight of the white sheet covering Mark’s body was enough to solidify this thought: yes, this is real; yes, Mark is dead.

That night, I was unable to sleep, so around three in the morning I sat and wrote the following poem. I was wrecked with sorrow, for I kept thinking about the white sheet covering Mark’s body and about the little white coffin that cradles Abel’s body. His son, just two weeks old, died four years earlier.

        For Mark and Abel

        June 1, 2019



        Let us each be laughter,

        the joy of the sun,

        bright smiled, bright laughing,

        bright the morning come.

        For you there is no sorrow, but only joy,

        for you are home

        with your little boy.



        Let us each be siblings,

        the joy of our bond,

        bright smiled, bright laughing,

        bright the noontide sun.

        For now is our sorrow, tomorrow our joy,

        when we see you again

        with your little boy.



        Let us each be friends,

        the joy of times to come,

        bright smiled, bright laughing,

        bright still the setting sun.

        For we forget sorrow, remember only joy,

        when we are all home with you

        and your little boy.



No matter what happened, Mark’s spirit and the joy of his life trump the memory of that night. He has laid down his burdens, as the saying goes. I pick up The Things They Carried sometimes, and I take out the Valentine’s Day card that I keep in between the pages next to the picture of him when he was eight or nine. Tim O’Brien explains that the weight of memory that the soldiers carry far outweigh anything else that they carried through the jungle. The weight of June 1, 2019 will always be there until I meet Mark again. Even so, Mark helps me remember nothing but the good memories. He helps me because he kept the things that mattered. Little things. A little Valentine’s Day card that most people would just toss away, that I probably would just toss away, when it was socially acceptable to do so.

Because Mark, “Just gotta tell you . . . You’re special!” 

You are with me always. You remembered the best of me, and I remember the best of you.