My second son, and last of my children, was born May 1, 1989. He weighted 1 pound 9 ounces and spent 99 days in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. His first three years was filled with hospital stays, speech and physical therapy, and the struggle to catch-up to the other children his age.

The last three years of Bryan’s life were nearly as difficult as the first. As a minor, he was charged with a sex crime. Charged with no witness, no physical evidence, and charged nearly three years after the supposed incident. Charged, coincidentally, three days after an unrelated  physical altercation I, his mother, had with the mother of the so-called victim.

He was held one-year in Boston, under the charge of enticing a minor. The judge said, due to the seriousness of the charge in WV (charges now, not conviction) he wanted to hold my son. Then, the Boston charges were dropped after a forensic exam of the intended “victim’s” computer hard-drive. Apparently, the girl had a habit of telling guys her parents abused her, then asking them to rescue her. She also told men she was a virgin, or pregnant, depending on her mood.

Once back in West Virginia, he took a plea deal on the original charge [against my counsel] to “get this over with” so he could “move on.”

Part of the plea deal required Bryan to attend the Anthony Correctional Center, in Greenbrier County, West Virginia. There, Bryan attended weekly counseling sessions, worked in the library, and took college classes. He completed his time there without incident. Well, without incidents according to the records. On at least one occasion, Bryan had a bruised face when I visited with him.

But, something wasn’t right. Almost four weeks to the day, after Bryan came home, he hanged himself. He left no note. He gave no sign to family. He texted a girl in Kentucky that he was in a very dark place, had everything he needed, but was afraid. Then, nothing.

Bryan was working for me, while he got back on his feet, and didn’t answer my texted asking if he was up and ready for work. My father walked to his place to rouse him, but instead, found him. My mother called me in a panic, screaming in the phone for me to get over there “RIGHT NOW!”

When I arrived, I went straight to Bryan’s door. My father had gone to get my older son, for help. It took less than a second for my brain to process what I saw. My son, hanging from a leather strap. His face was gray. His mouth swollen. His tongue protruding and dark. He had been dead for some time.

I read up on suicide by hanging. If done “correctly” the person doesn’t realize what’s happening. Once the blood flow is cut off, the person becomes unconscious quickly, and never knows anything else. There is no way to change your mind. It’s over in seconds.

The pain of suicide is felt by those left behind. Those who find the body. Those who must suddenly make funeral arrangements. If someone dies in an accident, you know it was something uncontrollable that caused it. If they die during an act of crime, you have that act to blame. But, with suicide, especially with no note, there is no understanding.

And the pain of grief is complicated by the pain of not understanding.

Tags: child, children, death, family, hanging, son, suicide, victim