Roses for Brian

On May 7, 1993, my son Brian was 44 days away from his 19^th birthday.  Brian is my middle child.  His sister, Candy, is 7 years and 2 months his senior and Jeremy, his brother, is 3 years and 6 months his junior.

With the tag of “ex-patriot”, my husband, my two sons and I had been living in England for almost three years.  We would be returning to the states in August of 1993.

Both boys had left our home in Buckingham, Pennsylvania, kicking, fighting, screaming and cussing.  Now, as the time for return was nearing, neither boy wanted to leave their “home and friends” in the beautiful English countryside of Somerset county.

Brian confronted us that Friday morning with yet another reason to prolong his stay.  He was scheduled to fly to the states in June for a week of college orientation at his father’s alma mater, the University of Missouri at Rolla.  But, according to Brian, there was a much more important event that required his attendance.  He just could not miss the “dune buggy” races at Brighton Beach with all his friends.

Dave and I were planning on leaving that afternoon for a weekend in London.  Thinking we had plenty of time for this discussion later, we agreed to disagree for the moment and talk about it when we returned Sunday evening.

Our lives can go along a track that lures us into a false security: the security of sunny days, smiling children, birthdays, holidays, the surety of future plans and always the promise of tomorrow.  It takes only one split second for that promise of tomorrow to be ripped from our very existence.

Less than 10 hours after our morning good-byes, my world was shattered by one of those split seconds. It was a breezy, spring evening on the teenager packed beach of Weston-Super-Mare - a small touristy town on the shore of the Bristol Channel.  The waterfront and the boardwalk, complete with arcade games and good clean fun, held a concrete lamppost on a beach road and a ten-foot stretch of sand on which my beautiful son would die.

We “lost” him.  He was “gone”.  Two sentences with three words each.  Six words – only six little words.  With those six words, I entered a time frame warped with denial, grief and utter despair.

I have gone through all the emotions that the dictionary can offer.  Anyone who has lost a loved one need not have them listed.  Over and over I have cried out, “Why?  Oh, God, why?”  Over and over I have asked the question, “How can he be gone – just gone?”  “How can we have “lost” him?”  What a stupid phrase – “to lose” someone.  When someone is “lost” doesn’t that imply they can be found?

It would take me over 5 years to find my son, but “find” him I did!  Nothing can replace the joy of physically putting my arms around him.  But to come to the knowledge that he is truly right next to me, while merely in another form, has eased my heart.  And in finding this knowledge, I have found myself as well.