A Life Worth Remembering

By Kristen Lonigan, Director of Admissions and Business Development 

This story isn’t easy to hear, but it is a truth that many of us know. 

May 26 

July 9 

August 31 

Each of these dates holds a special place in my heart. 

On May 26, 2001, my nephew, CJ, was born. He was the first grandbaby and the light of our entire family’s lives. I was only twelve years old, so in many ways, we grew up together. At the age of three, CJ was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis (CF). Despite countless hospital stays at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital, he never felt sorry for himself. He was resilient in a way that few people are. He was also incredibly stubborn. When he realized we were hiding his medicine inside Nutty Buddies, he refused to eat them that way. Instead, he decided he’d rather swallow the pills whole, making him one of the youngest patients to do so. Advances in medicine eventually made his CF nearly undetectable by the end of his life in 2023. 

CJ was one of a kind. He was handsome, goofy, and had a unique sense of humor. He carried himself with a quiet swagger that made everyone smile. He was a surprisingly good cook for his age, and music was his passion. He even built a small studio in his bedroom where he created beats and recorded songs that I can still listen to today on SoundCloud. 

In January 2023, CJ lost one of his close friends to a fentanyl overdose. That loss shook him, and he reached out for help. I remember being terrified that he would be next. I pleaded with him to go to treatment, but he wanted to wait until after his friend’s funeral. Eventually, he went and later attended a PHP program in California. I went to visit him there. We went to Disneyland. We rode tandem bikes along the beach. When he decided to go back home to Tullahoma, I urged him to consider sober living. We talked about meetings, about recovery, about what came next. 

But it was too late. On July 9, 2023, my aunt called. She told me CJ was gone and that I needed to meet my sister because my mom, my aunt, and my nieces were all in New York. I’ve received calls like that before. 

I immediately asked, “Which hospital is he at?” Part of me believed there was still a chance. People are revived every day. Maybe this wasn’t what it sounded like. 

“He’s not going to the hospital,” my sister managed to say through her tears. “He’s gone, Kristen.” 

There are moments that divide your life into before and after. For me, there is life before CJ, and there is life after CJ. If you’ve experienced a loss like this, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The world keeps moving, but a part of you never does. You learn to carry the grief, but you never stop carrying it. There are no words that truly describe that kind of loss. I will never again see my nephew. It’s been three years since CJ passed. The grief has softened around the edges, but it has never left. Every year, on these dates, our family gathers to celebrate his life, share stories, laugh through tears, and remember him a little more intentionally. 

And then there is August 31, International Overdose Awareness Day. A day to remember not only CJ, but every son, daughter, mother, father, sibling, friend, and loved one whose story ended far too soon. This August 31, we invite you to remember them with us. Say their names. Share their stories. Because while these stories aren’t easy to hear, they deserve to be told.