A Mother's Reckoning: Living in the Aftermath of Tragedy(64)

Dylan wasn’t a great athlete—he was strong, but lacked agility and the coordination to manage his long, gangly limbs. He did not play soccer particularly well, but he attended practice faithfully. When the team made the playoffs, Tom and I came out to watch. Dylan played poorly, and the team lost.

Still sweaty, Eric and Dylan came over to where we were standing with the Harrises. Before we could congratulate them on a good effort, Eric began to scream. Spittle flying from his mouth, he lashed out at Dylan, ranting about his poor performance. Chattering parents and boys from both teams fell silent and stared.

Eric’s parents flanked him and guided him off the field as Tom, Dylan, and I drifted slowly, in stunned humiliation, toward our own car. I couldn’t hear what the Harrises were saying to Eric, but they appeared to be trying to settle him down. Dylan walked between Tom and me, silent and impassive.

I was shocked by the sudden inappropriateness of the display, and by the extremity of Eric’s rage. Dylan’s utter lack of affect alarmed me too; he had to be wounded, though he revealed nothing. My heart ached for him. I wanted to hug him, but he was fifteen years old and surrounded by his team. I couldn’t embarrass him further.

As soon as we got inside the car, though, I said, “Man! What a jerk! I can’t believe Eric!” As Tom started the car, Dylan stared out the window with a blank expression on his face. His calm in the face of Eric’s freak-out seemed unnatural, and I hoped he’d allow himself to acknowledge anger or humiliation as we drove away, but he did not.

I pressed him, wishing he’d blow off steam. “Didn’t it hurt your feelings, to have him act like that? I’d be incredibly upset if a friend treated me that way.” Dylan was still looking out the window, and his expression didn’t change when he answered me: “Nah. That’s just Eric.”

Tom, I could tell, was fuming. Dylan, on the other hand, appeared detached, as if he’d already shrugged it off. How fragile must Eric’s ego be, to be that upset about losing a dumb soccer game? I was more embarrassed for him than I was for Dylan; the tantrum had made Eric seem like a much younger child.

Over the course of the drive home, I kicked into my Mom Rescue Mode. As if I knew anything about it at all, I suggested various ways Dylan could fix his soccer game. I thought I was probably making his humiliation worse, but I couldn’t stop myself. I told him that if I’d learned anything in my years of being chosen last for every team in high school, it was that the best players tended to go after the ball as if their lives depended on it. The people who won were usually the ones who wanted it most.

Dylan said nothing, and I wound down. At the next game, the last of the season, he surprised us by playing better than he’d ever played before, charging to gain control of the ball. They lost, but Dylan’s coach praised his improvement, and he seemed more at ease with himself. Foolishly, I thought my advice might have helped a little, and Tom and I were both pleased to see that Eric showed no more evidence of poor sportsmanship.

Tom was furious with Eric for screaming. He never did entirely forgive him, but did not forbid the relationship. Dylan, we thought, could handle himself. In hindsight, of course, I wish we had been brutal in our separation of the two boys.

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Losses and other events—whether anticipated or actual—can lead to feelings of shame, humiliation, or despair and may serve as triggering events for suicidal behavior. Triggering events include losses, such as the breakup of a relationship or a death; academic failures; trouble with authorities, such as school suspensions or legal difficulties; bullying; or health problems. This is especially true for youth already vulnerable because of low self-esteem or a mental disorder, such as depression. Help is available and should be arranged.

—American Association of Suicidology



As soon as Dylan’s junior year started, the whole family was bombarded by problems.

The first few months of Byron’s experiment in independence were hard to watch. I reassured myself by thinking about Erma Bombeck’s statement about her own boys: they lived like hamsters. Still, I worried. At least I knew he was getting two or three decent meals a week. He came to us most Sunday evenings for dinner, and always left with a bag of hearty leftovers.

Byron’s diet and housekeeping abilities were the least of our worries about him. That fall, he weathered one crisis after another. First, a car sideswiped his while he was waiting at an intersection. His injuries were minor; nevertheless, it was scary, and his car was totaled. He continued to cycle through a succession of menial jobs. He’d often quit them for trivial reasons, like not wanting to get up early, or to wear the uniform. When he could afford to pay his bills, he’d sometimes forget.

I had a fundamental belief in Byron’s goodness, as I did in Dylan’s. “He’ll get it together,” I often reassured Tom. But when every phone call brought news of a fresh setback, even I couldn’t help wondering if Byron was ever going to settle down.

I was going through changes of my own. In September, after an extended period of political upheaval at the college where I worked, I started a new job, coordinating a small grant to help people with disabilities in the community college system acquire computer skills. I only had to go to the office four days a week, but I took a fairly significant pay cut. The grant was also time-limited, which added a degree of uncertainty. My commute was almost an hour longer than it had been, and I found it a little unsettling to know it would take me so long to get to my kids if they needed me.