Better Angels
While the pain of their daughter’s death never abates, friends’ gestures sustain them
How small kindnesses have helped a couple whose daughter died of an overdose.
What do you say to people like Jeff and Sue Shesto? What do you say to neighbors you’ve known for years, whose daughter has died of a heroin overdose?
A girl who grew up right in front of your eyes, a girl who might have watched your cat while you were out of town, who might have babysat for your kids, who might have waved at you just the other day as you drove by her house.
What do you say to that pretty young woman’s devastated mom and dad?
Would it help to know that they were aware of her addiction? That they did all they could do to get her help? Sophie was 24. A grown-up.
What could they do?
Would it help you to know that at night, when Sophie went out the front door, that Jeff and Sue would try to control their dread? That after a while, Sue would start sending her daughter texts:
“Are you all right?”
“Are you still there?”
“Are you safe?”
“Can I come and get you?”
Sophie overdosed on a Sunday afternoon, having spent the morning keeping her eye on infants during service at a nearby church.
She shot up in the Shestos’ bathroom, in their ordinary house, in an ordinary suburban neighborhood, on an ordinary summer’s day in 2015.
Does knowing that make it easier to know what to say?
How about knowing that Sophie was but one of six people who died of overdoses in Milwaukee County that week? One of 255 to die that year? That this year, the number is expected to leap to more than 400?
It’s an epidemic that came down like a tornado on the Shesto home and left a crater behind.
Here’s the thing: It doesn’t matter exactly what you say.
Not long after Sophie died, Sue was outside her house. Her eyes met those of a neighbor walking by, and he burst into tears.
Years have gone by, and Sue’s voice still cracks when she talks about his spontaneous compassion.
Another neighbor brought food to the Shestos’ house. Sue holds this neighbor in high regard. She couldn’t help feeling ashamed of the way Sophie died.
“Sophie was your daughter,” the neighbor said. “It doesn’t matter what she died of.”
Years have gone by, and the memory of this still moves Sue to tears.
The parents of a child with disabilities that Sophie took care of wrote a note:
“We just want you to know that Sophie touched our lives and the time she spent with (our son) was important to us and he will always know she cared for him and we won’t forget her.”
Years have gone by, and Sue still keeps the card close at hand.
These things, and uncountable others — a warm smile, a tongue-tied condolence, a shared memory, a quick embrace — all mattered.
Still matter. The Shestos’ pain has never stopped. Sometimes it comes lunging at them, seemingly out of nowhere. These kindnesses have never worn out. They sustain them.
“Friends, acquaintances even strangers have been incredibly kind,” Sue wrote on her Facebook page.
“You don’t realize how a small kindness can mean so much when tragedy happens.”
Doesn’t it help to know that it doesn’t matter what you say to people like Jeff and Sue Shesto?
Just say anything.
Join us in telling the stories of our better angels, of the kindness, compassion and decency that brighten our community. Call or text Crocker Stephenson at 414.8586181. Or email him at crocker.stephenson@jrn.com.