Support for Larry Ruich and family

Dear friends,

Some of you may know that Larry's oldest son Nicholas Joseph Ruich (my stepson), passed away a few days ago.

It's been unfathomable, excruciating, disorienting, painful—all of the words that anyone might use to describe the experience of losing one's grown child—and still none of them do it justice.

Nick was thoughtful, affable, whip-smart, sensitive, and funny. He also walked the jagged line of substance use disorder for much of his adult life. We are heartbroken that he is gone, angry that compassionate treatment was so hard for him to access (especially in the wake of COVID-19), and bewildered as we join the many grieving families who have lost someone they love to overdose caused by fentanyl poisoning.

One thing that has brought us solace in the wake of Nick's death is the final lesson he gave us that kindness, dignity, radiant love, and the ability to give are possible for each one of us, even when we are at our most vulnerable. Fluent in the language of recovery and the 12 steps, Nick helped many others find their way into detox and treatment and church basement meetings, even—and sometimes especially—during moments he was wrestling with his own pain.

Nick attended a sunrise Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Pompano Beach, Florida daily, including the day he collapsed (over the Labor Day holiday). He was put on a ventilator and we were able to get Larry on an immediate flight to Florida so he was able to spend time with and say goodbye to his son. Nick, who let us know that he intended to be an organ donor through his driver's license, officially passed on September 7. There was an "Honor walk" through the hospital as he was moved from the ICU to the operating room, during which dozens of members of the recovery community he had been part of lined the hallway, and dozens more loved ones joined online.

As longtime members of twelve step fellowships ourselves—particularly the family groups of Al-Anon—we were also grateful for his reminder of the power of our wider connections. We want to keep opening ourselves to the process of growth and change as he did, share our gifts, and trust in the goodness of others.

We remain in conversation with Nick, who we see signs of everywhere—in the words of bookmarked pages on our shelves, in a picture of a vibrant rainbow sent by his recovery family in Florida that appeared just after they spent time sharing about him, in the lyrics of songs that we haven't paid attention to before, and a new series of pictures of his favorite animal—a penguin—that have been spontaneously drawn by his niece.

We have deep gratitude for the many gifts we have already received—kind and supportive words, texts and emails that ask how we are doing and what we might need, other offerings of comfort, empathy, and friendship. We are also grateful to those of you who have been willing to share your own stories of loss, particularly to addiction, alcoholism, and the minefield that fentanyl has created, thwarting the opportunity for recovery and healing for so many. We'll have days where the chance to talk about Nick will be a relief and other days when it may just be too painful—thank you for honoring whatever boundaries we set.

This experience also siphons emotional health and financial resources. Financial stress on top of this kind of grief is hard. We hope to offset or reduce our share of the sudden end-of-life, memorial, and travel expenses we have already accrued through this fundraiser, and hold space for any mental health needs our family may have. It's hard to ask for help, but so important that we do it without shame.

Whatever you are comfortable offering is welcomed and appreciated—a financial gift of any size, food, kind words, something that has helped you through your own grief.

If you are so inclined to share this fundraiser and encourage others to donate, we welcome and appreciate it.

You can learn more about Nick, and leave a memory or words of comfort at his online memorial and obituary.

With love and gratitude,

Tracy and Larry