by Kris Koments

Created on: February 08, 2010   Last Updated: October 29, 2010

Slowly, I raised my head and knew I wanted to die. 

We were living in a two bedroom mobile home at the time.  We had just moved in and I was unpacking our things.  Andrew, my son, was still in school but I would soon get a call to pick him up.  I always did.

But two hours had gone by without a call and, this was not normal.  I had began to worry, (panic was more like it.)  Andrew was seventeen, he could certainly take care of himself.  I had been mentally tell myself not to worry.  Maybe a friend was driving him home.  This wasn't out of the question, but it wasn't the usual.

I have always worried more than I should, and do my best not to jump to the worst conclusions, but for some reason I knew deep down, this time was different.

To most everyone I sound like an over protective mother and I'll accept that tag.  If it weren't for mothers protecting their young, who would protect them?  Never-mind that his father shot and killed himself two years earlier, and never-mind the mental and emotional abuse he suffered at the hands of those that didn't understand.

No one could understand suicide the way my little boy understood it, after all, it was his personal experience of loss, not mine, not yours and not the 300 other folks that would offer advice on behavior and attitude for the next few years of his life.

I understood his pain as much as a mother can, but those deep, dark, tumulus feelings that reside in our soul, hidden from everyone except ourselves, 'that' blame, heart-ache and pain, I'll never understand.

A fear had suddenly gripped me so tight that I couldn't breath and so at six forty-six, with a panic beyond explanation, I picked up the phone to dial.  My fingers were shaking, heck, my whole entire body was shaking as I fought back the tears that would make it impossible for me to be understood. 

Then, for reasons I can't explain, I placed the phone back in its cradle, and I prayed.  I prayed for a miracle that would protect my son and bring him home safely. . .I prayed with all of my might. 

As the minutes and then hours slowly ticked away I continued to pray.  The daylight hours passed and my fear had turned to dread.  Even as I prayed, I felt the thickening swell of a knot forming just below where an Adams apple would be.  Swallowing had become near impossible and I could barely breathe. . .

Slowly, I raised my head and knew I wanted to die.  I reached for the counter top, just above my head, to use for support and raised myself from the floor.  With the intuition of a mother, I reached for the cabinet door closest to the sink and brushed the shelf with the palm of my hand. 

"It's not there."  I barely heard myself whisper these words before my body struck the cold, hard, ceramic floor.

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