BRENDAN AND MY BOOK

A little over a year ago, after the first draft of my book was finished (Swimming Lessons:  a mothers tale of navigating the mental illness tide), ending on a note forward-looking and full of hope, a terrible phone call arrived from Rome.  My 30 year old son, who had climbed out of the abyss of addiction to become an outstanding, extraordinary person and student both of life and academia, had died in a freak accident, falling from a building while sleepwalking.

After I screamed, time stopped.   Shock straight-jacketed me for hours, then days.  I kept sitting, wringing my hands, repeating the useless phrase, and hearing that song lyric in my head: "I just don't know what to do with myself!"

A month later, after the funeral and hugs, the tears and more tears, it came time to think about what to do with my book.  Could I possibly go forward trying to share hope with other parents of children with these challenges, when fate had upended my entire premise?  Had all my work been for nothing?  I pondered for a few weeks more, then stood up and said, NO, I won't let this stop me.  Brendan has encouraged me to write this book.  To write about him and his sister honestly and help dissipate the stigma.  So I left the book as it was, and added the following:

AFTERWORD

When I started writing this book in 2013, it was intended to be a memoir that would offer some coping strategies and a message of hope.  I wanted to share my experience and convey to other parents my firm belief that it is possible to survive, even thrive, while raising a child with learning disabilities, mental or emotional illness, or addictions. 

Two of my four children hit the DNA jackpot and endured combinations of all of these challenges.  For my husband and me, it has been a long and difficult journey to nurture, educate and protect two adored children who for years were following increasingly dangerous collision courses with catastrophe.   I was ready to write this book because my son had overcome serious problems to become successful in an amazing way, and my daughter, though still many steps behind, was making slow but steady progress.  The first draft of my book was almost ready for prime time.

Then, on September 8, 2014, a terrible phone call came.  Our son, Brendan, who had just celebrated his 30^th birthday, who had rebuilt his life and accomplished soaring academic success, who was in a serious relationship with a young woman who might have become his wife, had died in a tragic freak accident while studying overseas in Rome.   The young man who had conquered paralyzing anxiety, self-medication that turned to dangerous addiction, whose adventurous exploits had already cheated death many times, was gone.  

The shock paralyzed me for days, and the sorrow and horror have occupied my mind for many weeks.  It has helped a little to receive many heartwarming messages from his friends all around the United States and abroad.  They have blessed us with stories of how he touched their lives; how much he was admired and loved for his brilliance, his courage, kindness, humility and humor.  As part of his own recovery, he counseled others; there were people who came to his funeral who told us that he literally saved their lives.  We have learned that we were not the only people who understood what an extraordinary individual he was. 

Daily living is slowly and gradually returning to a new kind of normal.  There is no path forward other than acceptance, and to go on living.

When this first happened, my thought was that I could never complete my book. The random unfairness of my son’s death seemed to undermine my purpose.  However, after much thought on this, I have come to the conclusion that I cannot allow this terrible event to eclipse my message of hope to other parents.  I remember that more than a year ago, when I told him I was writing this book about his sister, he said, “Write about me too.” And so I included him in my story.

Like all parents who have lost a child, there is no getting over this.  There will be no cure for the grieving, but a scar will make it less of an open wound.  There will be an empty chair in our family forever, but the joy of our pride in his almost miraculous accomplishments despite his personal issues can never be diminished.  

His legacy will go on into the future.  In connection with his love of travel and appreciation for all that the world has to offer, we established a scholarship in his name at the Claiborne Pell Center for International Studies at Salve Regina University in Newport, Rhode Island.  My message remains:  If our son could survive to accomplish his personal goals of getting physically and emotionally healthy, reconnecting with family, finding a good woman to love, achieving academic honors, seeing the world, and bringing back honor to his name, then all things are possible.

Mary McKay

November 2014