Letters of Reflection
The impact our family's story has had on us, looking back and moving forward.
August 22, 2019
This morning, my son rode his bike to his new sixth grade school for the first time. Why was I so afraid? From the rational fear of a texting-driver-in-a-hurry-that-doesn’t-see-a-bike-because-of-the-sun-glare? Because I still remember falling off my bike on the same path during my coming of age? His challenged sense of direction (challenged by both genes and technology)? The symbolism of this new era upon us: middle school!?
What continues to resonate with me is that my fear – although validated by some – is so strong. Is it because others are inherently less afraid (such as my husband, who enjoys being dropped 200 feet from an amusement park tower of doom)? Or “routine bike riders” whose fear of a car zooming past their 11-year-old is less poignant because a car does just that – zooms by? Is it because the last major school milestone of Kindergarten was during a tremulous year and letting him bike now brings back the memory of saying good-bye to your baby on that first day?
It’s been over six years since my sister’s life succumbed to her addiction, six years since our daughter’s surgeries for life-threatening congenital conditions, five years since my beloved grandmother and unconditional support died peacefully, and five years since the founder of our foundation refused to give into decline. My grandfather’s funeral was the first time I got a massage, and five years later, the stress relief is one way to combat this fear that creeps up in unexpected ways.
As is the Family Foundation. Through it, my grandfather has given me the gift of storytelling, grief processing, community when I want to isolate, and empathy through shared experiences. We bring community together through events we sponsor and support grass-root non-profits that otherwise may never reach someone with a shared story (click here for more on how we support). For me, the foundation provides a sounding board to remember why these experiences shape who I am. And why, maybe, just maybe, sharing this fear allows someone else to be kind to themselves when their boy gets on his proverbial bike and rides into the sunrise. (By Lindsey Hayes Daly, Board Member)
Five Years Ago
April 4, 2018
As I reflect on my role with the foundation (especially this time of year), I wanted to share some intimate thoughts that have helped in my healing while sharing more of our story.
It has been five years since my daughter was born. The day she came home from the NICU was the day my sister was admitted to the ER, never to go home again. Four years ago my grandfather died and, not long after, a series of events compelled me to leave a career I loved to work with my dad and lead our small family foundation. I made this decision seemingly quickly, yet it was based on a subconscious knowing that after my daughter was hospitalized for the fourth time, I had to make a change. This decision was not made completely out of practicality (although the changing healthcare market within a growing company and responsibility with two young children at home did influence it) nor was it made entirely out of altruism (to help my dad and spend more time with my husband and kids).
In part, the decision was made from fear. Fear that my dad’s cancer would not stay in remission (fortunately, it has) and he would pass just like those parents of my friends, just like my grandparents, just like my sister. Fear that if I kept working, and more, if my husband kept working so much, one day he would be gone, just like our dear friend, with his life ahead of him and who mentored and shaped mine. Fear that my daughter would be hospitalized and this time I would still be in that work meeting when the EMT called.
Fear that I was escaping the grief I felt for these losses if I kept escaping in work.
This realization is one I am working on now because work, keeping busy, completing lists, being on the go, that is what I do best. One of the places I used to go when I felt this way was visiting my grandma's apartment and, just like that in early 2014, I could no longer download my worries to an unconditional support. I had been defined as the “good older sister” on accident – and purpose – my whole life. Suddenly (and I say that because of denial that my sister’s life would be so quickly taken by alcohol and depression), I was no longer that person, but an only child, now with two children of my own, embarking on a childhood not unlike my own. My parents lost a daughter and a mother and father in one year – the same year they became grandparents again – to a granddaughter.
So, I became the Executive Director of the Family Foundation my grandfather had started. And it became the new way I tried to define myself. I reached out, shared stories, volunteered, gave money. But still felt (feel) unsettled. Because while this role was a way to face grief head on, it did not mean I was. I was staying BUSY, distracted, avoiding. I know this because five years later, I still want to talk for hours about my daughter’s two weeks in the NICU, still feel a jolt of shock saying out loud that my sister was an alcoholic, still cannot go skiing without her and our friend’s omnipresence, still replay past conversations.
Sometimes I felt like my role of almost four years as Executive Director had not done “any good.” Until I put together this updated website.
Hoping to honor my sister and give someone Another Chance, we explored mental health. We spent hours touring Arapahoe House and attended their event with Nic Sheff, learning more about a family who lives with addiction but supports and understands those who have not survived it. Only to have Arapahoe House close and the overwhelming process of hope diminish for a community. Hearing Rotarians for Mental Health speaker Sue Klebold talk about depression – in kids, hidden, not unlike my own adolescent depression, and certainly my sister’s, only to know one answer is to get help. But from whom? Here I am the “face” of the Family Foundation and I often spin back into grief witnessing dear friends with their own struggles of addiction and my questioning of how to support, enable, cut off - what is the best solution?
The epilogue of David Sheff’s Beautiful Boy (pages 311-314) says there is no answer. You do what you can do: “Even now, my advice is tentative. I agree wholeheartedly with the foremost recommendation of every rational antidrug campion: talk to your kids early and often about drugs. Otherwise, you’re leaving it to someone else to instruct them…. I have concluded that I would err on the side of caution and intervene earlier rather than later… Sending a child – or adult, for that matter – to rehab before he is ready and able to understand the principles of recovery may not prevent a relapse, but from what I‘ve seen it cannot hurt and may help…remembering that this is not an exact science, and each child and each family is unique.”
While I am not an expert in the mental health field, I do have life experience. And I do have fear. And in the last few weeks, I have faced this fear head-on. I have worked (truly, it is ongoing lifetime work) to slow down. To grieve the recent loss of a teacher who lived everyday to the fullest and brought joy to literally every single person he ever met. To stop filling my brain with plans, talk radio, emails that just came in, answering text messages. Read a book. Call a friend. Talk to my mom. Say hello to my dad before starting my work. Listen to my husband. Give my kids full attention. Play a game and be present. And in doing that, I have been able to write this, list the ideas to promote the nonprofits we care about, talk openly about why, feel proud of my small role with them, and, when I need to, instead of always talking - and doing – just say, “I’m just grateful to be here. And just take it one day at a time with a deep breath and therapy when needed – to live each day the best I can.”
This letter is in reflection of my experience as Executive Director of Family Foundation and these words are mine alone.
Lindsey Hayes Daly
Alison Another Chance
March 18, 2017
We are writing to thank you for supporting our family these last four years. As we celebrate Alison on her birthday today, we reflect more than ever on her life and the deep loss we feel every day.
We are grateful that you have honored her with donations to the Alison Another Chance fund [via the Hayes Family Foundation]. We thought that sharing the gift of Another Chance to someone else would be healing – a straightforward way to feel something positive in the wake of such a tragic hole in our lives. Instead, in the year following her death, Clare had multiple hospitalizations, my grandmother, Elona, passed away, and my grandfather, Mike, days later. In his passing, the small family foundation he started grew and has allowed more resources and required more time to honor and reflect on our family’s history.
With your generous gift to the Alison Another Chance Fund, we have thought of supporting the medical providers in Los Angeles who worked so hard to give Alison another chance, but they are retiring or have moved on and our family has no real connection to LA. We thought of starting a sober-living house – a place we all agree might have helped Alison if she’d moved into one after leaving rehab. Not because it would have guaranteed a sober life, but because it may have given her another chance. We have started some preliminary outreach in the Denver community to see if we can find a sober-living house that could give someone with Alison’s story another chance. We have worked with grassroots mental health initiatives and have supported organizations related to mental health, healthcare, housing, education, and children – all of which directly or indirectly honor Alison and our family.
But we have not yet specifically donated your contribution in her honor. We wanted to share that as we continue to grieve and reflect on her short life and the impact it had on us, we welcome your ideas and experiences on how we can best reach out to young women like Alison – who come from a loving family and are so loved – yet alcohol takes over their lives. If Alison’s body had given her another chance once her addicted brain was ready to beat alcohol, she might have been here to share her story. Her strength in the end - after so many years of denial – is the hope of another chance we hang onto for our family’s future - and so many families suffering from the devastation of alcoholism.
Please know that we are so grateful for your support and continue to honor Alison’s memory every day. Please go to www.TheHayesFamilyFoundation.org and share any ideas or stories you may have about how to honor Alison.
On behalf of my sister’s memory, my mom and dad, the board of the Hayes Family Foundation, and my family, these words are mine alone.
With appreciation and love,
Lindsey Hayes Daly
Love to Alison
March 18, 2014
Our Family celebrates your March 18, 1983 birth by recalling the years of joy you gave us. In remembrance of your April 10, 2013, passing, we pray families openly discuss depressing and addiction as a catalyst to seek help and health. We miss you every day.
Mom, Dad, and Sister