Today, a young man named Beau died of an overdose, a probable suicide. Three days earlier, his gay boyfriend had hung himself. Not long before that, Beau had 'come out' to his parents. It had reportedly not gone well.
I have watched as the little boy became a big boy, then a young man. I shared space with his mom in the bleachers and the high school team booth selling popcorn, Pepsi and T-shirts. I shared her pride as she showed me homecoming court pictures.
I dug out pictures of him at six, ten, twelve, and eighteen, first in oversized team shirts, grinning, muddy, and carefree, then filling out pads and man-sized jerseys, hope and thought and feigned toughness visible in his gaze. Before. Before rehab from oxycodone and oxycontin. Before his true sexuality demanded it's recognition. Before life had dealt him the blows and pain his spirit could not handle. Before.
I am, first and foremost, a mother. I ache to know the words to say to Beau's mom that might help her. I think, meditate, and I pray. And I come up empty. I wish for do-overs for him and his family, and for my own son, who is grieving as well. I am no more than a mourner, an aching soul in the wake of tragedy. God help us all.
And I am grateful the terrible Thing has not happened to me, to us. I have bugged my kids today, using them as touchstones to allay my fears, to be reassured that we are all okay. From all over the U.S., my kids assure me that they are okay, they are thriving, they are not suicidal. Their words are my chorus as I whistle past the graveyard.
To Beau, who felt so much pain in his twenty-one years, to Carrie, who lost a child and can never ever not ache again, to the rest of the family, who will forever be hurt and scarred and guilty and angry, and to Beau's friends, my son among them, I wish for eventual peace. God bless us.
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