Trey, 26: The Bright Light
Thirty years ago today, our son Donald E. “Trey” Armstrong III was born on our third wedding anniversary. Trey, our only child, died May 30, 2018, soon after his 26th birthday. The circumstances behind his death still shock us.
Trey fought severe substance abuse disorder for eight years. It began in high school with pills and rapidly escalated to IV opiate addiction. The following years were never-ending cycles of relapse/recovery/relapse.
A month before he died Trey disappeared. Don and Trey managed to text each other a few times. One of his last messages: “I’m with some really bad people.” A week later we heard a knock on the door around midnight. A sad-eyed police officer gave us the news, “Your son is dead, murdered last night in Dayton, Ohio.”
Shot twice in the head by another addict. Every day we ask ourselves, “How could it come to this?”
We are both retired college professors—how could this happen to people like us? The answer, of course, is that it can happen to anyone.
We were a tight family that loved being together. Summer vacations, holidays, school sports and other events—we enjoyed it all. Trey was the bright light that made these occasions special. When Trey became addicted in 11th grade that light continued to shine though dimmed. Addiction brought plenty of misery, but we worked hard to protect the bond we’d had since the day he came into the world.
Addiction never smothered Trey’s capacity for love. He gave hope to other addicts, often rushing to their side late at night when they most needed help. He regularly led activities in his 12-step groups. And he never bowed to addiction. No matter how far he fell or how broken he was, he always managed to get back up time and again.
Our little family would also rise up again and again. Despite the psychological trauma, the frayed family ties, the stigma, the complications—mind-bending complications—we kept our little boat afloat, our precious cargo intact.
Until a demented guy with a gun took Trey away from us forever.
This wasn’t the life we expected. Despite Trey’s illness (and that is indeed what addiction is) we believed he would finish college, find a calling and enjoy a family of his own.
Never lost hope that he’d be around. That we’d continue doing things together and support each other. That he’d be there as we grew old.
We do our best now to cope, seeking meaning instead of escape. Hope instead of bitterness. Community instead of isolation. We’ll never stop grieving and holding him close in our hearts. We hope in time the terrible memories fade and the sweet memories persist. And hope someday we’ll see him again.