Two years ago today I buried my youngest child.

On July 5, 2014, at about 11:20pm, after getting off my shift as a residential counselor at a psychiatric children’s home for adolescent girls, I had difficulty opening my front door. The key and the door knob turned, but something was blocking my entry. I pushed against it, imagining the doormat had somehow turned up. It wasn’t the doormat. Someone had moved my ottoman in front of the door.

I don’t remember if the light was on or if I turned it on. I think I must have turned it on because there would have been no one home. To my horror, I found the cold, stiff, dead body of my son hanging from a beam in my living room.

I SCREAMED and SCREAMED. I muttered, “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God”, “No, no no”. And screamed. No one heard me. No one came. I’d dropped whatever I was carrying, looked at him, felt his body. I ran around in circles trying to find the house phone. It didn’t occur to me that I had a cell phone with me when I came in. 

I finally found the phone and dialed 911. It rang and rang. I tried again. Again it rang and rang. It was like one of those dreams when you’re calling for help and the call just won’t go through. Third time I finally got an operator. “911, where’s your emergency.” I answered her questions. Then she directed me to cut him down and start CPR. I knew he was gone. This was no longer my son. This was just the shell of who my son used to be.

Obediently, I found a pair of scissors. I held his body with one arm and cut the rope with the other. I lowered him to the floor and cut the noose from his neck. There was a deep, red groove. I tilted his head and began compressions. His mouth wouldn’t open. His jaw was clamped shut, no space between his teeth. I had the operator on speaker by now and asked if I could breathe through his nose. She said ok. I tried. I continued compressions until the police arrived, the whole time just hearing air escape as I pressed down. 

I was aware that he did not look distressed. There was no sign of struggle.

When the police arrived, an officer took me into the kitchen and directed me to sit down. I rocked and rocked and hyperventilated. He told me to “calm down”. I looked at him and heard what he said. I tried. In my head I said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He was young.

Another officer took me upstairs. I tried to get into my bedroom, but I’d locked the door after hiding my son’s antidepressant in my nightstand to prevent him from taking another overdose. He had made three suicide attempts two years before. I couldn’t find the “key” to get in. I don’t think I ever found it.

And so I sat in his bedroom, on his bed. Still rocking. By myself. While police were downstairs. A detective came up to speak with me. He asked if he could call anyone. Did I want him to notify anyone? Did I want my cell phone to call anyone? I answered no to all. I finally found something…a screw driver, a paper clip…I don’t remember…and got my bedroom open. I grabbed my rosary, pulled out my meditation cushion and sat, praying the Chaplet of Divine Mercy. The detective popped his head in to ask me something. I responded.

At several points, the detective asked me if there was someone he could call to take me out of the house. I said no. I wasn’t leaving the house while my son’s cold, dead body was still there.

At some point I started making calls. I don’t remember in what order. I called his father ‘s cell phone, no answer. I left a message requesting a call back. I called his house phone, no answer. I left the same message. 

I called my oldest daughter and told her her brother was dead. She asked how he did it. I told her. She hung up on me.

I called my other son. He was horrified and continued to call me back throughout the night to check on me.

I called my other daughter. No answer. I don’t remember if I left a message. She recalls seeing the number in the morning as a missed call and thinking her brother had reached out to her and she missed him. So, maybe I didn’t leave a message. 

I called my neighbors, hoping to spend the night with them after everything was settled. No answer. I don’t think I left them a message.

I called my church and spoke with a priest who told me not to worry, that the funeral home would contact them and everything would be taken care of. He’d pray. I thought about asking him to let the deacons know but couldn’t put the words together.  

Finally, I called my ex-boyfriend, at work, an hour away. He said he’d come.

I hadn’t wanted to call him. He’d relapsed on alcohol earlier in the week. I’d been away on a (almost) cross-country trip. I called him the night before I was flying home and realized he’d been drinking. He picked me up the next day. I’d decided I didn’t want him completely out of my life. He went and got a script for Antabuse. That was June 30.

On July 4, I knocked on my son’s bedroom door. He wasn’t home but had left his air conditioner on. I went into the room to turn it off and opened a drawer looking for a shower curtain I’d put there while he was living elsewhere. I found drug store bags and empty cold medication packages. His drug of choice was DXM, dextromethorphan. He had relapsed as well. The receipt was dated the same day as the drunken call with my ex.

I went to work that night intending to discuss it with him when I got home. The discussion didn’t happen that night. He was either asleep or pretending to be.

Next morning, or maybe early afternoon, I knocked on his door, told him what I’d found – though I hadn’t been looking for anything. I asked him for his key. I told him he couldn’t be in the house when I wasn’t home…and I was leaving for work in a little bit. I told him, “My heart is broken”. I told him he had to be out of the house by Monday. This was Saturday.

When I was leaving for work, he walked out with me and sat at the table on the deck with his phone, which was not active for calling, but he was able to use the wireless internet connection from the house. I asked him if I could give him a ride anywhere. He said, “I have nowhere to go.” Those are the last words I heard from him.

I texted both of my daughters and his father letting them know what was going on. My daughters both responded that I was over-reacting. No response from his father. None of us had any sense of his being in trouble that day. And we have pretty good sixth sense.
I don’t know for sure how he got into the house. A couple of windows were unlocked, but the screens were in place. Some days later I found my garage was unlocked. I think I must have left it unlocked the last time I’d been in there. 

I was sure that I killed him. Although, intellectually, I know that’s not true, I still feel responsible from time to time. 

This year the anniversary seems even harder than last. Perhaps I was still in shock then. My then ex is back in my life. We’re living together now. He showed up that night. I cut him off for a while after the funeral, but we’re trying to make it work. He’s the only one, besides me and the police, who saw my son’s body that night. He’s sober.