Trigger warning: Please note that this episode and blog will contain discussions of topics including death, grief, and addiction.

On October 18, 2015 I lost my brother Kai to opioid addiction. In the years since his death, I’ve tried to work through my grief and honor his memory by humanizing addiction in the hopes of chipping away at the stigma that causes so many not to get the help they need to recovering from this disease. 

Seven years later the pain of Kai’s loss is still a heavy burden I carry. I was fortunate to be blissfully naive about the destruction of addiction before that day. In the years since I’ve learned just how widespread addiction is, and the devastating path it leaves for addicts, their families, and all who love them.

The first week after Kai’s death I was in shambles. I took to writing as an outlet to express the profound shock and sadness I was experiencing. I attempted to write his eulogy one sentence at a time. How do you say goodbye to your last remaining birth family member?

In the aftermath of Kai’s death I had so many questions. I knew he struggled with pain, and that led him to seek relief from prescription pills. What I didn’t know at the time was that his journey was shared by millions around the world. Getting injured, being prescribed opioids for pain, getting hooked because you just want the pain to go away — and dying.

In another illustration of our broken healthcare system in the U.S., his situation worsened because he couldn’t afford healthcare and had to find relief on the street. In his case, shooting a cancer pain drug called Opana.

I didn’t know Opioids re-wire your brain chemistry to make it nearly impossible to quit on your own. I didn’t know pharmaceutical companies, in an attempt to make drugs like Opana less lethal, actually made them more lethal. I see the news stories every day. I read the statistics. I try to learn because I want to understand what happened to Kai. Why we lost him. Why he’s gone too soon.

I read the stories unfold every day on the news. I don’t see a “man in West Virginia”, detached from the world I live in. I see Kai. I don’t see a “middle age mom of four from Rhode Island”. I see Kai. I don’t see “Prince” or “Tom Petty”. I see Kai.

I don’t see statistics. I see Kai.

Sadly, you can't tell Kai's story with the word "addiction." As a society we tend to demonize and stigmatize addiction, with no thought or care to the underlying issues and causes that may lead to it. We make it difficult for those who are struggling to reach out for help. We write people off for making bad choices, as if addiction is a choice, and discard their lives without taking a moment to reflect in the mirror at ourselves.

Kai didn't want to face this judgment so he kept his addiction a secret. He was too proud to ask for help. Too "strong" to be vulnerable. I wish every day he wasn't.

The toll of this epidemic will now forever be deeply personal. I’m a part of this story. These are all brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, and mothers and fathers we are losing. I get that now.

The episode below is a re-release of a tribute I recorded for Kai two years ago. It’s a window into my experience on the day Kai died, the epidemic of addiction, and most importantly stories about Kai from those who loved him that bring his big personality to life and show he was so much more than an addict.

We’ll continue our scheduled programming next week. 

You can also listen/share the episode directly syndicated on any of these channels: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | Google Podcast | Stitcher | TuneIn

Changing How We Talk About Addiction

I asked myself many times over the next couple of years, “What could I have done differently? How could I have helped? Did I miss warning signs?” I think, in general, that addicts are really good at being addicts ⁠— at hiding their addiction and doing what they need to keep going.

I thought about Kai with empathy, feeling so bad that he was in this place. Addiction, to me, feels like it’s also about other things, like mental health and the stigma of addiction. And I think that certainly played a part in Kai’s journey.

Kai was a proud man, and he grew up in an era where you don’t talk about your feelings. There’s a lot of legacy, macho, manly bullshit that guys, in particular, tend to hold onto where we don’t express ourselves. We bottle it up whatever we’re dealing with inside, and that kills us.

Kai Wasn’t His Addiction

Kai was much more than an addict. He was a loving father who beamed with pride every time he talked about his son. He was a patriot who loved his country and served overseas in the Navy. He was a friend to many and would happily give the shirt off his back to help someone in need. He was a brother who stood proudly beside me as the best man at my wedding.

Kai was a force of nature. His smile forced you to smile back. His hugs could take your breath way. He had a wicked sense of humor. His laugh was infectious. It filled a room. Kai got along with everyone. He had a magnetic personality that drew people in. This is the Kai I remember.

I want you to get a fuller picture of who Kai really was, and what he meant to us.

“He was a loving, caring, sensitive man. … I had the great opportunity of knowing him for about 17 years. He gave me the best thing in life, which is our son, Kyle. Kai was always funny and there for anyone at any given time. He came to all of our family functions for Christmas, Thanksgiving and at every football game for his son. He doted over Kyle more than anything, and in his life, Kyle was his sunshine. We miss Kai very much. We always do everything in our lives to make Kai proud.” ~ Melody Malcolmson, mother of Kai’s son and Kai’s former partner.

“One of my fondest memories of Kai was always stopping at his work. Him out there working all the time, bumming a cigarette, sitting around shooting the shit of what was going on that week while we were planning what to do that weekend. I miss that big guy. I still drive by there all the time, wishing I could stop in and bum that cigarette.” ~ Kevin Cosgrove, Kai’s friend.

“He loved his family. He missed his mother and acquired a tattoo to honor her. Kai Sr. didn't care for it, but I thought it was sweet — we all grieve in different ways. He and his father were very close. It's hard to work with family day in and day out. And for the most part, they had fun and worked well together. Kai Senior was so proud of Kai and his work ethic and knowledge. But boy, when they had a disagreement, everyone within a block knew it and heard it. Two very loud men yelling, but then an hour later, all was calm. But Kyle, Kyle was the light of his life. Kai adored the ground that boy walked on. He was an amazing father, he was there whenever Kyle needed him, and he wanted for nothing.” ~ Becky Schmidt, my father’s second wife.

I’m honoring Kai by making a point to be there for my friends and family. I’m going to honor his memory by living my life with generosity, thoughtfulness and care. By loving his son and my daughters fully, just as he did. He physically is no longer with us. But his spirit and memory will be with us forever.

I love him. I miss him. And I will never forget him.

Rest in peace, sweet brother.

Support for Addiction

Are you or someone you care about struggling with addiction? I know it can feel so helpless, but there are resources that can help. After Kai’s death I created a website to memorialize him and curate resources designed to help those struggling with addiction, as well as their families and loves ones. You can find it below.

kaischmidt.org