Dave courageously shares his story of sudden loss, addiction and hope.
When people ask me about my mum, my nervous system is triggered. I become tense, I freeze up. I fight back tears and cannot communicate a single word.
I don’t cry in public whilst sober, unless I’m at an AA meeting – I’m still learning that it’s alright to show my emotions. I’ve only recently managed to look at old photos of my mum without bursting into tears every time.
My mum, Anne
My mum was a loving lady, always kind, caring and compassionate. Growing up, she would play lots of reggae music and loved watching football. My mum loved her family and got us through tough times, together as one. It wasn’t always happiness – such is life – and my mum unfortunately had health issues and had to stay in hospital now and again.
I remember during the day of the 12th of April 2010, my mum was laid in bed, unwell. I remember saying goodbye as I left to go to work in the evening.
I was 17 at the time, working a music session at my local youth centre in Bermondsey. I received several missed calls from my dad – he was trying to get through to me, but the signal was awful. I remember the panic in his voice when I finally called him back. Something was terribly wrong.
I attempted to run as quickly as I could to get home, just a fifteen-minute walk away. I reached our street, and I still can see the ambulance outside the house.
I asked my dad “Is Mum alive?” not expecting my dad to reply “I don’t know”. I remember those words vividly. I sat down and listened to the beeping upstairs from a machine of some sort – my mum was in the bedroom upstairs being attended to by paramedics.
There was a long period of silence and then footsteps from the upstairs corridor.
The nurse came down the stairs, stood in the doorway and told us that Anne, my mum, had passed away – these words still ring in my head. She had died very suddenly of pneumonia.
The next part of grief
As I’m typing this on my commute home, I’m back there in the living room. I’m there on the sofa, sitting down with my hands on my head, weeping with my dad.
My dad got me through the month leading up to the funeral and we spent some fantastic days together in the summer. But from then on, I somehow drifted away. We didn’t argue, but something happened to me. I started to drink and find solace within this toxic substance.
I’m a recovering alcoholic coming up to 10 months of sobriety after being an alcoholic for thirteen years, in and out of recovery since 2021. Binge after binge of blackout drinking, not wanting to go home, wanting to stay out all night and forever.
I was too terrified to attend counselling and to speak about what happened. The only time I would talk would be whilst consuming excess amounts of alcohol, crying and letting out the feelings I’d bottled in for so long. My words were erratic and made no sense.
Recovery
It has taken me nearly fifteen years to completely reflect back on that night and try to relive what I had tried to suppress and forget for so long under a haze of alcoholism. In sobriety and recovery, I’m healing. I’m able to find the strength to talk, to listen and I’m able to help and support others with their grief, worries and trauma.
My mum rests with my grandparents now. My dad, my brother and his partner, my nieces and nephew, we all miss Anne so much – forever and always.
I still have dreams of my mum, and I say hello when I have the lucidity to. One day we’ll meet again, but for the first time in a long time I’m truly enjoying life – thanks to recovery, opening up to people and sharing my story.
Dave Elson
If you are struggling with alcohol addiction, you can find help at Alcoholics Anonymous, or speak to your GP.
