A note from Dave Bruns

Dave Bruns is a lifelong friend of Jeff’s who knew Alex and was intimately involved in their journey

I met Jeff Ewing on Halloween sixty-nine years ago. He was a sleepy-headed tyke of three years wearing pajamas; I, a mature older man of four outfitted in a plastic skeleton suit. The connection was immediate. We lived three houses apart, were best friends growing up, and were fishing partners and Little League battery mates (Jeff was the catcher). We shared the high school trauma of bad grades and bad dates. The term "brother from another mother" was invented to describe relationships like Jeff's and mine.

Jeff and I went separate ways after high school. His family moved to Florida and Jeff to Utah for college, while I remained in Ohio. Jeff pursued a corporate career, while I began a nearly forty-year stint in child welfare. Jobs, children, family moves—through it all, Jeff and I remained close. When Jeff married Kathy, I was best man, and he returned the favor the following year when I married my amazing wife, Lou Ann. Our conversations, often by phone as Jeff moved from job to job and state to state, were now focused on the achievements of our kids and parenting tips. We shared triumphs and tragedies as our children grew. Triumphs far outnumbered tragedies, and Jeff's kids seemed on track to have the idyllic sort of childhood that Jeff and I had.

Until I got a call one night. The call wasn't about Katy's grades or Adam's baseball prowess. It was the first of many calls about Jeff's youngest child, Alex. He had been found unconscious in his bedroom, passed out from excessive alcohol consumption.

While concerning, the incident at first seemed like typical teenage experimentation, something Jeff and I had shared one memorable evening in my parents' basement. But the calls became more frequent, the incidents more alarming. Alex was on a self-destructive path that required immediate intervention by competent professionals. Jeff was at a loss as to the best way to help his son.

I knew Alex, probably better than any of Jeff's other children. A tall, handsome young man who loved to write and read, Alex and I shared a love for guitar, and I would always ask him to show me some new licks when we visited. He was bright and analytical, much like his father. But neither Alex nor Jeff nor Kathy, a registered nurse, were able to come to terms with Alex's addiction.

The journey on which Jeff and Kathy were about to embark started in traditional fashion—treatment in a local addiction program followed by an Alex relapse. Jeff would search available treatment centers for a different approach, and Alex would engage and for a while would find success and sobriety, only to relapse again. And again. The Ewings' life became a cycle of hope and disappointment as Alex and his parents sought a program that might impact Alex's addiction.

In the late 1990s, I co-founded a program at the child welfare agency at which I worked. The program focused on treating the growing problem of addiction and how it affected families. The program grew out of necessity, and my limited understanding of addiction grew by quantum leaps. The program morphed in several directions but ultimately moved beyond the bounds of my agency and became international. Now when Jeff called, frustrated or devastated by yet another incident with Alex, I felt somewhat better equipped to give answers. And they were not always the ones I hoped to give.

During one such call, I asked Jeff if any of the rehab programs Alex attended had ever mentioned dual diagnosis. Jeff had never heard the term, but it seemed to open up a new world for him. The notion that Alex may have mental health issues that precluded success in sobriety resonated.

During the same conversation, I recall Jeff asking the ultimate question that every loved one asks—"what is the ultimate outcome?" I was blunt, perhaps too blunt, I don't know, but as I recall the conversation, I told Jeff that there were three possible outcomes: Alex would respond to treatment and be able to control his addiction with support, Alex would eventually get, as they say, "sick and tired of being sick and tired" and age out of the sort of drinking that kept him from living a productive life, or Alex would die from the effects of long-term use.

Years passed. Jeff and Kathy lived two lives—one built around their love for each other and family, enjoying grandchildren, traveling, and simply being together; the other built around supporting Alex. I witnessed this dichotomy firsthand on many occasions. A visit to see Jeff was always great fun, punctuated by phone calls alerting Jeff and Kathy to some new crisis in Alex's life. Jeff's frustration was obvious, yet at no point did I ever witness it boiling over. At no point did I hear him say "Enough." I was fortunate to witness the love and compassion that Jeff and Kathy had for Alex, and fortunate as well to share many mugs of coffee and talk of books, politics, and music with Alex.

December is a month of conflicting emotions for many. A time of joy for young children, a time for families, a time when my wife and I celebrate the birth of my daughter as well as the traditional holidays. For many, though, it is a time of great sadness, a time when the joy of others only serves to highlight the pain in our own lives. For Jeff and Kathy, the joy of the holiday season will never cease to be colored by the tragedy of Alex's passing.

I don't recall the details of Jeff's December 2022 phone call to me telling me of Alex's death. I recall being in shock. Despite any awareness we may have of that potential outcome, we can never completely prepare ourselves for it. I had nothing to offer, no words of comfort that would ease the terrible pain that people I loved were experiencing. Jeff's grief was overwhelming. He had done everything, given everything, to no avail. A piece of his heart was gone forever.

I feel confident in stating that there has never been a couple who managed tragedy in a healthier manner than Jeff and Kathy Ewing. The healing process was slow, aided by a realistic outlook and a focus on the future. Jeff threw his energies into researching the root causes of Alex's disease, not to cast blame, but to understand and to be a resource for other families and friends of addicted loved ones.

I won't detail his efforts here. If you've read this far, you know his story. What is important is that Jeff refused to walk away and accept that Alex's death was somehow preordained. On his website, you will find several links that are practical tools for those for whom hope still lingers, as well as for those who have lost someone to the ravages of chemical dependency.

Shortly after Alex's death, Jeff and Kathy embarked on their "no regrets" tour. We were pleased and honored that our home was a stop on the route. I introduced Jeff to friends who had lost an adult child to suicide and who were further down the path of grief and recovery. Jeff and I spent time on the patio sipping adult beverages and talking—about Alex, but about other things as well. Grief was their constant companion, but one that was beginning to allow space for other emotions, new adventures, and new friends.

I sit here three years after Alex's passing, writing this totally inadequate description of the complex events and accompanying emotions surrounding the Ewings' navigation through an unimaginable landscape of grief. Jeff and I maintain regular contact through frequent texts and phone calls. Lou Ann and I eagerly await a June visit from Jeff and Kathy. There will be trips to bookstores, hamburgers burned on the grill, shots of Writer's Tears on the patio, and walks with our dogs, Roscoe and Jack. There will be conversations about Alex and of this book. Alex's shadow will be a benign presence looking over our reunion, smiling, I'm sure, pleased that the two people he loved the most have found joy again.