Estimated read time: 12 min
“The Empty Chair”
Time cannot heal the emptiness
Or fill the empty chair
The one that’s in the family room
I see it empty there
Or the chair that’s at the table
Where together we would dine
Although I sit there still
The only hands that pray are mine
Still I give thanks to God each day
I pray this prayer comes true
You save an empty chair for me
When I come home to you
This poem, “The Empty Chair,” is one that never fails to stop me in my tracks. I think of it often, if I am to be quite honest. The first time I saw this poem, it was framed and propped in the corner at the old meeting place of my home group. We’ve since changed locations, but I made sure that it followed right alongside us.
Throughout the years, the frame has been moved, tucked away, misplaced, and buried underneath meeting notes, contact lists, cleaning supplies, and grapevines. Somehow, whenever I need a reminder, it finds its way back to the surface at exactly the right time, and I think of the empty chair.
On several occasions, I have searched for both the history and author of this poem, only to find that there are several variations and situations in which this poem has been used for quite some time.
An empty chair is often a symbolic representation at family events or class reunions for loved ones who have passed, veteran memorials for fallen service members, or support groups to represent those of us who have not yet or may never make it into the rooms of recovery. Regardless, whether front and center, tucked away off to the side, or reserved only in the mind, there is always an empty chair.
When I pause and take a moment to think, there have been several empty chairs in my life. The memory that stands bold in my mind is from my high school’s graduating class of 2016. The summer prior to their graduation, a young student-athlete, beautiful soul and friendly face died tragically in an automobile accident with her mother. They both were beloved by the entire community.
While I did not personally know either of the victims, I was struck by the impact they had on the lives of so many others. At the news of her passing, a memory of the young athlete flashed across my mind as I recalled seeing her in the hallway during my freshman year. The memory was simple but significant; she kindly asked me if I knew where to find my class. She was talented, beautiful, and kind.
Within hours of their passing, the streets in downtown were filled with friends and loved ones in a candlelight vigil. The double funeral procession all but shut the town down that summer. Two young, beautiful women gone in an instant, but sure to be remembered for a lifetime.
The following spring, at graduation, chairs lined the football field in the usual manner for our small-town school. As the graduates, faculty, and staff made their walk from the gymnasium to the football field, the rows of chairs quickly filled with a sea of green and white gowns.
From the back row to the front row, every chair was filled. Every chair, with the exception of one. A single chair remained vacant for the lost student that still weighed heavily on everyone’s hearts and minds that day. Despite that space being surrounded on all sides by her closest friends, the chair seemed to stand out apart from everyone else. It was an empty chair.
The only constant in life is death; I feel like I remember learning that at an early age despite not having any recollection or memorable experiences with death early in my childhood days. It can be a saddening outlook to have, but the truth remains that at some point, we all reach our endpoint. The perplexing nature of this knowledge is that despite the fact that we know death is coming, we still seem so shocked when death does, in fact, finally rear its ugly head.
The inmate that has been on death row for decades bargains and prays as his execution day grows nearer; the cancer patient fights the good fight until their body is too weak to continue, and the 102-year-old great-great-grandmother holds on as long as she can for one more Christmas before she, too, leaves behind an empty chair.
Those of us left behind; grieve, mourn, weep, and try to process the gaping hole and jarring shock to the system. It’s a natural and inevitable fact of life. From the moment we begin living, we are also concurrently dying. Eventually, we all leave behind a vacant and empty chair.
Perhaps the most impactful example of this comes from my friend Irvin, whom Stan and I have both mentioned in several posts already (See: “Pink Clouds and Early Sobriety” & “Sponsorship: It’s Kind Of A Big Deal”).
Irvin was one of those people that I credit for my being alive and sober today. He started out as a kind and caring friend when I first came into the rooms. However, he quickly turned into family when I began living with him during my bout of homelessness after getting out of treatment. We’d spend hours watching dateline together and smoking cigarettes on his perfectly serene porch. I even had the honor of getting him his very first goat. I will forever cherish the time we were able to spend together.
Needless to say, Irvin was a pillar in my sobriety, especially in those early days. However, I would be doing him a disservice if I failed to mention that Irvin was a pillar in sobriety for the majority of our home group. He had a heart for people, especially fellow recovering alcoholics.
Irvin was always the first to show up on meeting nights. He was retired, so he would arrive about an hour (and a half) early, make the coffee, set out the chairs on the porch, and chain smoke cigarettes as people made their way in for the meeting. He was sure to greet each person with a big smile and an incredibly firm handshake.
Although he never functioned as an official sponsor or chairperson for our home group or its members, he attended every meeting rain or shine. He shared infrequently in meetings, but when he did speak up, everyone paused and seemed to hang on to every word.
I was about nine months sober when Irvin passed unexpectedly at the age of 72.
I say unexpectedly because, despite his age and the whole chain-smoking thing, he was in relatively good health. One evening, Irvin missed a Monday night meeting. I immediately knew something was off. Trying not to panic, I left the meeting and went to his home, but he wasn’t there. I checked the garage, but no truck. It was well after dark, but I went around to the neighbor’s house to see if they had heard from him; nothing all day.
It was not long after that Stan and I got notice that he was at the local hospital. By the time we arrived, he had already been on life support for several hours, and by 3am the following morning he had passed.
The very next meeting at our home group just felt… wrong somehow. The doors weren’t open, there was no smell of coffee or cigarettes wafting through the building, and no laughter, punctuated by smoker’s cough, as Irvin told dirty jokes on the porch. We had a meeting like we always did, but rather than Irvin seated in his usual spot (at the corner of the table), all that was there was an empty chair.
Now Stan will tell you that when he was early in sobriety, one of the very first things he was told was to buy a suit. Why? Because in this life, specifically life in recovery, people you know are going to die. Addicts and Alcoholics are notorious for finding an early grave. Whether it be cirrhosis, acute alcohol poisoning, stomach cancer, an overdose, or intentional suicide… many of us die.
Unfortunately, I have had entirely too much experience with the early deaths caused by active addiction. My family and I have lost many loved ones to suicide, drug overdose, and the disease of addiction. Like many of you, I’m sure, I am not unfamiliar with these tragedies. Perhaps the most painful reminder of this truth was the death of our good friend Jake. He was a young man, about 28. He loved working out, going to the gym, and making perfectly timed, one-liner jokes.
Jake was normally pretty quiet. He sat away from the table at meetings; he was shy and anxious around large crowds. Occasionally, he would shock newer members when he spoke because of his god-like deep voice. He was slender, clean-cut, buff, and overall a really nice guy if he gave you the chance to get to know him.
He had been clean and sober for about 2 ½ years when he severely injured his back while working out one evening. He sought medical attention, and they informed him that he would require a series of several surgical procedures to repair his back. We saw Jake at a meeting a few months after the fact. He was in between surgeries and recovery and decided to come to a meeting.
He shared with us the general run down of everything that had happened, why it had been so long since we last saw him, and all the surgeries ahead of him in the future. That night was the last night we ever saw Jake.
COVID-19 was in full swing, and attendance had plummeted since shutdowns and gathering restrictions. Meeting attendance was scarce for a long time; many times, Stan and I had meetings by ourselves. There were a few other faithful members that braved the pandemic and joined us from time to time, socially distanced with masks, of course.
Meetings during the peak of COVID-19 looked a lot different than they did before. It was not uncommon to not see previously regular attendees for weeks or even months at a time. Some we still have not seen come back; their empty chair still sits, waiting if they should ever make it back. Jake’s chair will remain.
Our home group has both men’s and women’s contact lists, and many of us regularly exchange text messages and phone calls. During the peak of COVID-19, meetings all over the region were closed, some by choice, some by mandate. Zoom meetings popped up here and there; some lost traction, while others are still going strong. Collectively, our group, like so many others, tried to keep in touch with others in recovery. Sometimes we’d get responses and permission to update others in the event someone asked; some never replied at all…
Somehow, Jake slipped through the cracks. Perhaps because his meeting attendance was unpredictable even prior to COVID-19, maybe his name never made it onto the list… we all lost contact with him after his last meeting.
About nine months later, we received news from Jake’s family that he had passed away. Apparent overdose was the cause of death. Due to the extent of his injuries and the ensuing surgeries that followed, Jake had been prescribed painkillers to manage his discomfort. That’s always a dangerous situation for people like us.
I fully recognize that no, one, person is responsible for another’s sobriety, nor is any, one, person responsible for another’s relapsing, but there were surely some complicated emotions after we received news about Jake’s passing.
“Did we fail him?” “Should we have known?” “Did anyone keep in touch with him” “Was it an accident?” “Was he taking them as prescribed?” “Did we miss a sign when he was here?” “Was the sign THAT he was here?” “Could we have done anything differently?”
The reality is, we’ll never get the chance to know, and now it doesn’t even matter. It is a harsh reality, but like it or not, it’s true. As the years pass, I still think about Jake often. I think of the many others who share a similar story and for all the different reasons for all the empty chairs.
Jake’s story is tragic, but unfortunately, it’s not unique. In the homes of hundreds of thousands of families across the world, churches across the nation, and in the rooms of 12-step programs in your own hometown, there are countless empty chairs left vacant by sick and suffering alcoholics.
How do I know?
I’ve lived it, I’ve seen it, and for a time, it was reasonable to question whether or not my own seat at the table would amount to anything more than an empty chair.
I am one of the lucky ones. Not everyone gets that chance, and here’s why.
Alcoholism, addiction, and mental illness still hold such a stigma in our society today. We’re making progress, sure, and it’s long overdue. However, there is still so much work to be done. Mental Illness and Addiction are two of the only diseases that try to convince us that we don’t have it… oh yeah, and it does that while slowly killing us!
Yes, people who have this disease can be hurtful, dangerous, deceptive, manipulative, and narcissistic. Yes, we can live in self-pity, denial, and disbelief that we even have a problem; I’ll be the first one to admit that!
The fact of the matter is, that while all those things are true, so is the fact that we’re still out here, and we’re dying by the thousands.
As individuals and as a society, we need help. We need to, no, we HAVE to become more comfortable asking the hard questions. We have to stop shying away from difficult conversations. We can no longer afford to bury our heads in the sand, whisper behind closed doors, or shake our heads silently as we mourn those who “couldn’t overcome their inner demons.”
It’s time to DO something, and it takes a village. I’m not casting blame or doling out accusations to any one person or group. We, as a society, as family members, co-workers, friends, mothers, brothers, grandparents, and teachers, are just scared.
We’re scared of the word suicide. We’re scared to use the word “addict” with compassion or to share that we ourselves have been in a dark place riddled with paralyzing fear, depression, or anxiety. We fear what it means if we share that we struggle with our own mental health, or are questioning our relationship with alcohol. We’re scared to be vulnerable and reach out to those we see hurting because what if they reject us? What if we ask about suicide and we’re wrong? What if by sharing our own stories, we’re judged? What if asking the difficult question starts a fight?
What if…
What if we ask those questions anyway? What if by doing so, we save a life?
What if one simple question, despite the fear, makes for one less empty chair? Today I am grateful for my seat at the table and for those who reached out to me in my time of need. I mourn together with you for all those whom we’ve lost along the way.
I respect the empty chair… It so easily could have been mine.
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If you or your loved ones are struggling with grief and loss please visit GriefShare.org to find support groups near you, or visit GriefSpeaks.com to determine which phone support line might be right for you.
