Losing My Son and Finding Humanity

The beginning of my story of Thriving Beyond . . . starts with the ending of Ben’s human life.  In many ways, I feel closer to him now that he is free from the human form that contained so much emotional pain and a lifetime of challenges.  Words don’t do justice to how much I miss his back-breaking hugs, but I would not wish for him to be back on this Earth wanting to die every single day.  I have opened my heart to signs all around me that he is still here and that life is impermanent for all of us.  The beauty of being alive is embracing that both grief and joy can occupy our daily lives.  When we allow ourselves to be a witness to our emotions, we can experience the fullness of our humanity.  

The pivotal point in my journey forward arrived 3 years ago, just 11 days after Ben graduated high school.  With his learning challenges, depression, and lack of interest in attending school regularly, I was so proud of his effort to make it to graduation with a lot of support at school.  Sixteen months had passed since he attempted suicide and we were emerging from the height of the pandemic.  Ben seemed to be doing well to everyone around him.  It was Saturday, and my 3 sons were with my ex-husband.   I got a frantic call from David asking me to please get to his house quickly because our oldest son, Cameron, had come home and found Ben unconscious.  I drove that 20 minute drive on autopilot and about half way there, David called again and said, “he’s not going to make it”.  

Denial allowed me to drive the rest of the way, assuming that he was wrong.  I arrived in front of their home and I saw a multitude of police cars (and no ambulance).  The scene and the next several hours play in my head like a movie, but also an out of body experience.  As a nurse, my observational understanding was that there was no ambulance, because there was not a living version of my son that needed to be transported to the hospital.  I somehow got out of the car and stepped onto the front lawn where I saw David waving his hands to stop me from going inside.  I then heard him say, “he’s dead”. 

My legs collapsed under me and I could hear myself screaming as I hit the grass on my knees and fell forward.  The crash of the ground beneath me kept me from falling into what felt like an endless abyss.  What emerged from the depths of my soul was the same primal scream I had heard on labor and delivery when we had to tell a woman that her unborn fetus had no heartbeat.  I now understand this noise to be the universal sound of a mother’s anguish regardless of the circumstances surrounding their child’s death.  

My 17 year old son died alone in silence and the pain of knowing this will forever haunt me.   My 25 year career as a nurse granted me intimate access to the dying process both in the hospital (either anticipated or traumatic) and in family homes on hospice.  The kindness and compassion that envelopes a family with a team approach in those environments is commendable.  Nursing, social work, and spiritual care swoop in after a tragic loss or when an individual is nearing the end of their life.  I’ve been present for it and witnessed humanity in the dying process for patients in the health care system. 

Ben died by suicide, so what we got was a crime scene investigation.  It is not that anyone was unkind, but we did not have the benefit of emotional support.  I recognize that the police force isn’t in the business of emotional support, but the death of a child seems as if there might be room for something better.   The saving grace that day was that one of the police officers who showed up, was someone we knew (the sister of a long time friend).  She had just come off duty, when she heard the call, so she came over and moderated the scene for us.  She was a very comforting presence.  

The aftermath of a suicide is horrific and while I place no hierarchy on grief, the guilt that accompanies the suicide death of a child makes grief extraordinary.  I wish it had been me who found Ben and not Cameron.  If I could do anything to take that away from him, it would be my number one mission, but I can’t.  Telling Nate, our youngest son, that Ben was dead when he got home is high up on things I wish I never had to do.  He was spared the visual of Ben’s body, but was just devastated that he was gone.  I will never forget those phone calls to my parents, sister, and best friends.  

A multitude of folks saved us in those early days of grief.  On Sunday, the day after he died, the high school principal called me to let me know they were putting together a team to offer grief support for students at the high school.  He asked me if we needed anything specific and I asked him to please find a trauma counselor to talk specifically with Cameron, as he had been the one to find him and initiate CPR.  That Monday, we went to the high school and watched a ton of kids file into the cafeteria.  We were kept apart from them so that neither of us felt compelled to need to support the other.  When we were getting ready to leave, we were handed a ton of letters, written by his friends.   Everyone with teenagers will understand that their friends are often their closest confidantes and command the most attention from them, so a lot of what they wrote was about a side to Ben that we didn’t always see.  My heart burst with love for him reading all of the beautiful descriptions of what he meant to his friends. 

Several days after Ben died, I  had no recollection of being told where they took his body or how to contact them.   There was something deeply unsettling about being completely separated from my son’s lifeless remains.  I had to call around to find my baby’s body so we knew how to time the next step of planning a Celebration of Life.  I entered contacts in my phone labeled “Detective” and “Medical Examiner” and “Cremation lady”.  It was incredibly surreal. 

The one stranger that saved me, a few days later, was the “Cremation lady”.   I was referred to her by a good friend and I will never delete our text thread.  She let me know she was on her way to pick him up, then texted me “I have him (heart emoji) he’s safe.  Know that the mom in me will care for him like my own.”  She then texted me when she got back to the funeral home “he’s in a room with a little light on and tucked in a blanket.  I can’t take your pain away.  All I can do is assure you that while he’s here we will look after your son, all of us”.  That text thread nearly broke me, but what a gift she gave me to make me feel that in the midst of my worst nightmare, a stranger could be so kind.  She brought a slice of humanity into the worst time of my life.  

The outpouring of love and support in the next several weeks was humbling.  I am eternally grateful for the flowers, gifts, jewelry, gift cards to Whole Foods and GrubHub, and the gifts of cash that arrived from family, former coworkers, high school friends, former teachers of Ben’s, and new coworkers, among others.  It allowed me to stay home for 6 weeks to really grieve and not worry about less income.  Our family and friends did everything to help us write an obituary, plan a gathering, and my greatest friend even made cards to hand out at his Celebration of Life.   The love that came with the actual in person support of shared meals and pints of beer got us through the trenches.   Three weeks out we held Ben’s Celebration of Life and the room was filled to the rafters.  I have no idea how I wrote or spoke the words I did that day, but it was incredibly important to make it through that event to have a sense of moving forward.  

The deep sense of community, so much love and support, and a lot of time in nature, meditation, and grief allowed me to survive that first year.  I have a lot more to say about some really key pieces of support that were the jumping points to healing and thriving beyond Ben’s death for David, Cameron, Nate, and me, but I shall stop here today.  If you have made it to the end, I thank you for reading my story.  Bringing humanity to suicide and keeping out of the shadows of the unspoken word is really important to me.  It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to lose one and to thrive beyond the devastation.