Jen Furby is a Melbourne-based teacher whose only daughter, Nicole, died of a mixed-toxicity drug overdose in 2022. Nicole was 25.
By sharing her tragic loss, Jen hopes to start conversations and change community perceptions about drug overdose. This is her story.
I didn’t know how to start this story, as I feel like there is no beginning and no end. This is part of the story, one of utmost despair, immense sadness and heartache, and the ultimate abandonment – death. I wish it wasn’t me that this story was happening to…
You see, my beautiful daughter Nicole, or Coley as I often called her, died of a fatal overdose on 4 May 2022. She was 25 years young. She was my best friend. She was fiercely loyal to those she loved, had the most hilarious sense of humour, she was kind, generous and loving, and now she is gone.
Over the years I had met and known quite a few people who had died of drug overdoses, however nothing – and I mean nothing – can ever prepare you for the loss of your child.
What I never knew, after losing people in this cruel manner, was what happens afterwards. And my hope, by sharing this part of my story, is to provide an understanding of what happens next. I can assure you that it is the absolute hardest thing I have ever had to do, and it is not over and never will be as long as I continue to draw breath.
The moment my life changed.
The police arrived the evening of 4 May 2022 to enquire if my address was Nicole’s place of residence. I advised them she no longer lived here and that I was her mother.
I was secretly hoping they were coming to tell me she had been arrested, as her substance use led to numerous overdoses in the previous two years and jail seemed like a hopeful option of keeping her alive. Perhaps this was selfish of me, I am not sure, all I know is I was terrified she would die and had been for what felt like a very long time.
Unfortunately, this was not the case. When they came to the door I asked, “Is it bad?”, they responded, “Can we come in?” I asked, “Is she dead?” and they responded, “We’re sorry”.
The only information they had consent to share with me was that Nicole had been in the company of another person and they believed she had died in her sleep. Who knew that a person who was with someone who died of overdose had to give consent for a grieving family to know their identity. They did not consent, therefore I could not know their identity.
Can you imagine all the unanswered questions? Who was Nicole with, were they kind, was she warm, did they hurt her, was it an accident, was it intentional, was it homicide? So many questions without answers to compound the shock and trauma of the loss of my beautiful girl.
"There is so much more to losing someone you love to overdose than a funeral and statistics. There are those of us who are left behind to deal with the aftermath that can take months if not years."
A year of waiting for answers
A few weeks passed and the interim death certificate arrived – that contained an address at least. I was slowly getting some answers but not quickly enough. She died literally 10 minutes from my home. A few more weeks later the final death certificate arrived, and her death was found to be mixed drug toxicity. Who knew that was a thing?
It took 363 days after her death to receive the coroner’s report – on the eve of a grim anniversary I finally learned who she was with when she died. (Can we please find a new name for anniversary –that word feels like a celebration and there is absolutely nothing to celebrate).
You see, I have worked in the drug and alcohol field for many years, attended drug and alcohol support groups, therefore it could have been someone I knew. They could have been sitting in the same room as me after Nicole died and I would not have known.
The level of anxiety that my body, heart and soul experienced over those 363 days was brutal. My body was in a constant state of hyperarousal, I would get a fright at the smallest of things, became scared of the dark like I was when I was a child, the list goes on. I isolated myself away from the world the best I could to protect myself, as I was terrified by not knowing details.
Living with grief
Please know, as you read this, I am not asking for your sympathy, this is not my intent. I am asking for people to have an awareness that there is so much more to losing someone you love to overdose than a funeral and statistics.
There are those of us who are left behind to deal with the aftermath that can take months if not years. Identifying the body, informing family and friends, police statements, funerals, death certificates, coroners reports, the list goes on and feels never-ending.
All the while most of us need to go back to work and continue to function in a world that does not seem to cope well with grief, let alone stigmatised grief. The irony of months of paid parental leave versus the legislated two days of bereavement leave and the expectation that the person who has experienced the loss can slot straight back into life.
For me, panic attacks are the new normal, and still are, and it is a definite conversation stopper when someone you meet at the workplace (or anywhere) asks if you have children.
"I have observed shame in some who have lost people to overdose. I am grateful I do not have that shame: I am so very proud of my daughter and will be forever."
The impact of stigma
And then there is the stigma – so many layers of stigma. Some people will likely blame me, sometimes I blame me. I had so many ‘what-ifs’, but eventually I listened to a friend’s advice: The ‘what-ifs’ would kill me if I spent too much time on them.
I have observed shame in some who have lost people to overdose. I am grateful I do not have that shame: I am so very proud of my daughter and will be forever. And then of course the external shame Nicole experienced – systemically, societally and personally – as a person who used drugs.
People who use drugs are people too. The punitive approach of our drug laws continues to feed the stigma and not support the person to use drugs safely.
We seem to be making small progress such as the supervised injecting room and pill testing, however there is still a long way to go. The money that goes into law enforcement and the legal system versus the small amount of funding that goes into harm reduction is pitiful and people continue to die.
Remembering Nicole
For those left behind, grief is an individual experience, it is not linear, and my experience with grief is that it needs to be witnessed. I want to talk about Nicole. I want to remember the funny stories, her antics, her jokes, her voice, her smile. When someone asks if I have children, I want to say that I had a beautiful daughter, without having to take care about their response.
Please don’t feel awkward with me when it comes to Nicole. Ask me questions, remind me of her, this helps me hold on to her memory as I am so very afraid that she will fade from my memory with time.
Although I’m not sure of the source, it feels like an apt way to finish: “Please be patient with me. You see, I lost my daughter. And while it might seem like a long time for you, it is every day for me.”
