Synopsis
On January 11, 2003 my only child committed suicide. The suffocating darkness threatened to swallow me with him. How would I ever get through this?
“Tell me what to do, give me a sign, show me a way out of this,” I screamed over and over again to an empty house.
Daily my pen would scribble of resources and gifts within me and the love and support all around me. I had a hard time believing it. My tightly held grief and fear did not want to let it in.
The more I wrote, the more my pen persisted. So I ventured beyond the walls I was hiding behind to test these thoughts and words.
This is the story of my journey from the dark void of fear back into the light of love, and of a pen that encouraged a new acceptance of myself and those around me--the answers to the desperate pleas I had cried out for.
The Phone Call
It was 9:30 at night on January 11, 2003 when the phone rang. I was so close to being asleep I didn’t consider a call at that time of night might be bad news.
The next thing I knew “Kelly something” from Los Angeles County was asking me what my relation was to Carlton Harris.
“I’m his mother,” I answered groggily.
“Well,” she said, “I have some bad news.”
Did I realize at this point that she was from the police department? Probably not.
She told me Carlton had been found dead.
What was she saying? Who was I talking to in this dark bedroom?
She told me again and a slight feeling stirred.
Then she wanted to know if there was a family history of medical problems.
I was trying to understand this noise on the phone.
“Does Carlton have a history of medical problems?”
“Oh, well, he has asthma, and he’s had a couple of seizures,” the mother of Carlton answered.
“Tell me about the seizures.”
“There was one when he was quite young, fever-related. And then one a little later at the age of six or seven. He took Phenobarbital for a couple of years after that.”
Why was “Carlton’s mother” being asked about his health, I wondered. I wanted to be getting information, not being the one givng it.
Kelly asked if there was a history of heart problems.
OK, that’s enough. My assertive voice said, “Tell me what happened!”
She began some story about an e-mail he sent to a girl up north.
Up north? My logical mind sorted through this strange information. Where the hell was that?
“The girl was concerned and called the police. They broke into his apartment and found him.”
At some point my sensible voice asked if this was a joke. I couldn’t picture what she was telling me. Was this some TV show I fell asleep watching?
She told me it was not a joke and another vague feeling stirred.
“Was it suicide?” the voice from my mouth asked.
Kelly didn’t know. There were no drugs or alcohol.
“Was there a note?”
“No.”
“He attempted it once before about six or seven years ago.” I felt further detached from this noise.
“Oh,” Kelly said. And I wondered if they had even considered that.
“He’s been running and he’s a vegan,” I said, in the voice of a mother proud of her son’s lifestyle.
“A vegan?” she questioned.
What did that mean? I bristled, the tentative pride vanishing. Was Carlton missing some trace elements vital to his system? Did she have a problem with vegans? Or was this just a question?
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I whispered.
She said she would give me more information about that in a minute and continued her line of questioning. “Did he have a history of depression?”
“Well, yeah. It’s sprinkled rather generously throughout our family,” I said defensively.
“Was he taking anything?”
“Not that I know of.” And this sad mother realized how little she did know about this man-child she birthed 27 years ago.
“The e-mail girl says he told her he was a sociophobe. Is that right?”
“It’s very possible,” I answered, wary of the droning voice of authority on the other end. I knew he called himself a severe introvert, which is also sprinkled generously throughout our family.
“What do I do now?” I quietly asked.
She told me his apartment had been sealed and my mind pictured duct tape and that yellow police line stuff. I felt like I was back in front of the TV.
Then she told me I needed to call a Los Angeles mortuary.
Really, I thought. I didn’t happen to know of any.
Then she suggested calling one here in Shreveport and letting them call Los Angeles.
That sounded more doable, and that strange stirring inside me returned. My panicky voice offered an expletive and told her I was here by myself.
“Breathe,” she said, “and call a friend when we finish talking.”
My scared mind realized there were not a lot of people I felt comfortable calling. Leah was the obvious one. Linda’s mother was in a hospice. And my brothers’ band just started playing their first set at the Oak Creek Lounge.
Then there’s talk about a medical examiner who would do an autopsy and may be able to tell us more.
Clutching my pillow, I asked how long he had been dead.
Kelly didn’t know.
Man, those TV cops seem to be able to determine a lot more at the scene.
She gave me her name and number and told me she would be there until midnight. And then she would be back again on Wednesday. Well, since this day was Saturday, I didn’t hear that as helpful information.
She gave me a case number and hung up.
Did I understand what was happening? I felt like I was in a thick fog. I had no tears.
Who was this person holding the phone? Who were all these voices? Who was the person watching these scenes from a TV show? Who am I now?
