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Suicide Brings An Extra Layer of Grief
Losing my son
A week ago today a police officer knocked on my door. I knew he was coming because he called in advance to ensure he had the right address. When he refused to tell me why he needed to see me in person I had a pretty good idea the kind of news he was going to share.
The young man came in and sat down. I was recovering from the stomach flu and had just abandoned the ice cream bucket that I had used as a vomit receptacle. Clad in sweatpants, a warm hoodie and thick socks I waited for the words that would shift my universe.
He informed me my son Kevin was deceased. It seemed he was reluctant to say more but I asked. What had happened? Where?
A car accident was what I imagined. Kevin and I had spoken weeks before. He had been evicted from the one bedroom he rented and was debating his next moves. We talked on the phone several times that week about the circumstances. He was anticipating criminal charges as he had broken into someone else’s apartment. He thought he might stay in his truck for a while or go camping. That’s why I thought it might be a car accident.
When the officer asked me if I wanted to know what happened I said yes, yes I did.
The next words from his mouth were ones that I would not have believed could be true even…
