My son was the star of the baseball team, in the top ten percent of his junior high school class, and his favorite pastime was reading to the elderly in our local geriatric community center. Anyone that knew him thought he was a wonderful person. I thought he was perfect, though most parents think that of their children. He was a very easy child—always laughing and smiley, curious and kind. When he was about ten years old he was diagnosed with ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder). He was put on Ritalin to help him focus in school and it worked really well. Every summer he would attend an overnight summer camp that lasted eight weeks long. I hated being away from him for so long, but I knew he loved it and that made me happy. We would always take him off of his medicine for camp, so as to give his body and mind a rest from outside substances.
His camp was located in the middle of the woods, and could be categorized as somewhat of a “hippy” camp. They did lots of art, horseback riding, lived in stationary tents, used communal bathrooms, it was on a lake…you know, everything you would think of when imagining a summer camp in the Midwest. It was a fantastic place. I even went there when I was a kid. It had been the place that my son had spent seven consecutive summers. When he told me that he did not want to return after his junior year I was surprised. I knew, however, that he had become extremely close with his school friends (none of which went to camp during the summers), and I told him as long as he had alternative plans I was fine with not sending him.
His plan was to spend first three weeks at one of his friend’s cabins (with their family, as I was told), and to spend the rest of the summer working at an ice cream shop that another friend’s father owned. This sounded like a responsible decision because college was quickly approaching and saving some extra money would be a good thing for him.
He got all packed, in only one suitcase, for his cabin trip. His friend picked him up from our house. The second my son saw his friend pull into our driveway, he was out the door, and screamed over his shoulder “Bye, Mom. Love you—see you in three weeks!” This was a huge departure from our usual summer goodbyes. Yes, it was only for three weeks, but I did not even get a hug before he was gone.
I spoke to him nine hours later, when he had arrived at their cabin. He sounded excited and exhausted. He said that he was going to “take a break from electronics for a couple of days” and not to be nervous if I did not hear from him. I always liked to have the option to be in touch with him if I needed, but I understood taking a break from the “outside” world.
I never heard from my son again. Apparently, during that time his friend’s family had not yet arrived at the cabin and my son and his friend decided to try experiment with different substances. I assume they thought since no one was with them they would not get caught.
I was called by my son’s, friend’s father four days after our last phone conversation. He had said that they had recently arrived and had found my son and their son passed out (or so they thought) in the living room of their cabin. When they were unable to wake my son up they called an ambulance, but due to the location of their cabin it took more than twenty minutes to arrive, and the closest hospital was over forty-five minutes away.
They were able to wake up their son, but he was discombobulated and unable, or unwilling, to share what kind of drugs they had ingested. I received the call when they were already at the hospital. At that point it was too late. By the time my son had reached the hospital, I was told he was already brain-dead. The toxicology report showed high levels of cocaine and alcohol in his blood.
I know it is horrible of me to think, but why did their son live and mine die? I simply don’t understand, and never will. When my son died, so did a large part of me, and I wonder if I will ever feel whole again. I suppose, as my therapist says, only time will tell.
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