Tribune columnist grapples with sudden death of her son
In a just world, this is something no parent should have to experience or write about.
The unexpected death of one of their children.
I’d give anything to not have had it happen to all of us who loved my son Brian.
But it did.
Brian had many health issues in the past few years, but seemed to be triumphing over them with true grit and laughter, one by one.
Despite some more recent medical travails — including yet another emergency visit to the hospital just last week — Brian was upbeat on the day before he died, even trying for a snooker game with his buddies in downtown in our hometown of Cambria.
He was disappointed when nobody wanted to play, but he was OK with it. How were we to know he’d never ace another game?
When I went into his room later on Tuesday to say good night, we made normal plans for the next day … me waking him at 8 a.m. to take me to physical therapy, then picking me up to go do some errands.
That was supposed to be our Wednesday. Another day of ping-ponging between stores, buying monster blueberries at Ralph’s in Los Osos and a four-pack of French rolls at Albertsons in Morro Bay. Maybe lunch at Foster’s Freeze or Dorn’s, Chowa Bowl, Redwood Cafe or another of his favorites.
When I went in at 8 a.m., he looked totally peaceful, the same way he always did when I’d wake him up: tucked into his quilt, one arm folded under his head, the other wrapped around his chest.
Except, I couldn’t wake him up.
Our medical folks are saying it was probably a very quick stroke or blood clot. No pain, no stress. Just gone.
This felt like a chapter in a truly awful murder mystery novel, except it is my real life.
I’ll never hear his ridiculously contagious laugh again or us giggling together about “his” hummingbirds, the disco ball mushrooms or the garden spinners.
Now, he’ll never see those things again, and I’ll never get the joy of watching him enjoy them, or see his incandescent smile and the leprechaun twinkle in his eye.
He’ll never take another drive along Moonstone Beach or plan to see a concert with friends, play golf with his brother Sean and their friends, or create something magical in the kitchen.
“It needs sugar, Mom,” he’d say. And our chef was always right.
There won’t be any more pre-car-show drives through town with him instantly identifying every vehicle. Correctly, of course.
Never to experience another of his bear hugs or bad jokes in honor of his late dad.
It’s devastating.
I’m left with so many regrets and questions
Why? So many whys, but none of them have answers.
Why was I short-tempered yesterday? Why didn’t I hug him one last time? Remind him how much I loved him? Why? Why? Why?
Through the morning’s tragic parade of paramedics, deputies, mortuary folks, friends, all I could think of was … why, oh why, didn’t I go in to wake him earlier?
Could I have saved him?
Or would that have been too late, too?
What could I have done to prevent this?
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A mother’s supposed to protect her child, isn’t she? I wasn’t able to do that this time, and it always will haunt me. Why didn’t I have that chance?
I’ll never know.
Anytime I’d say any of that out loud, the response is always instantaneous: “Don’t even think that way! You couldn’t have done anything.”
Unsaid by anybody but me in my own head was, “Yeah, because I was too late.”
The quiet is deadening. Literally.
It’s so not fair!
Brian was looking forward to so much. He had concert plans with friends next week. Was planning a trip to Las Vegas in August and a trip plotted out months ago by his longtime buddy, Pat Wade. We were going to go somewhere by train.
My new reality is terrifying
He’d been living at home for years, having come back to help me caregive for his very ill dad, Richard.
After Richard died in December 2020, everybody said how lucky I was to have Brian at home with me, so I wouldn’t have to adjust to widowhood alone. They were absolutely right.
But since then, Brian’s had so many health problems.
People keep saying he’s out of pain, at peace now. And they’re right.
No more worrying about his blood sugar, if he’s hydrating enough, or as a brittle, insulin-dependent diabetic, if there’s any way he can eat what he wants to eat.
No more worrying about why his stomach was rebelling yet again. If his amputation wound is truly healed this time, or if his prosthetic/orthotic and new shoes would cause even more problems in the future.
Or if he, like so many other diabetics, would need more amputations in the future?
Worrying about getting his Real ID and applying for Social Security disability benefits. About finishing his required traffic school for the speeding citation he was given for driving too fast on the Cuesta Grade, on the way to the hospital to have a third of his infected foot removed.
Of course, I wouldn’t want him to go through any of that again, but I want him back. I can’t have both, I know, and fate made the decision for us.
It’s so hard knowing I’ll never again hear him wheeling down the hall to my office or watching the inevitable repeats of what he called his “stupid TV.” I won’t ever watch his much-loved “Bones” repeats again. I can’t do it without crying and railing at the fate that took him away.
Crying because I’m not part of a “we” anymore. It’s just me.
Soon to be truly alone, 24/7.
Our friend Dave summed it up so succinctly, over and over again. “Ah, shit!”
Ditto, Dave. Ditto.
This story was originally published June 13, 2025 at 12:40 PM.
