The questions are still driving me insane. I scratched around in his clothes and searched every pocket and place for something to give me an idea why my son did this. I searched the area under the tree and in the tree for a clue. I searched everywhere like one possessed for anything that could explain why my son did this awful thing. The worst thing was that Emile didn’t leave a letter or anything to explain this to me. I didn’t remember anything that happened to me, I was on autopilot the whole time. I couldn’t think properly or remember anything I did or said or what anybody else did or said. I couldn’t imagine a future without Emile. For months I ate almost nothing and didn’t cook or clean or did anything in the house. There is nothing anybody can do or say to make you feel better. Nobody out there understands what you are going through. There is no help for the unbearable pain a parent experience after the suicide of a child. There was nothing in South Africa apart from The Compassionate Friends who helped me tremendously. I phoned radio pulpit every day and told my story to Christian therapists over and over in the hope that someone could make it better for me.
Every night I was on the Internet for hours searching desperately for somewhere, where I could share this unbearable pain I was feeling. I stayed in bed for weeks and all I could do was cry my heart out.
A part of me died with my son on that fateful day and I couldn’t function in a normal way. My heart was torn into pieces and I felt like dying of a broken heart! Every day was a nightmare. I could not believe he was lying dead on that cold slab of cement. It was the most horrid experience I ever had to go through. The next day we had to go to the mortuary to identify him. My thoughts were in disarray and I felt anxious the whole time. I never understood the meaning of keening, but that night I keened for hours and the weeks following Emile’s death. This is all a nightmare and I’m going to wake up any minute.” On the Sunday evening I returned to my senses and realized it was true. The only thing that went around and around in my mind was: “It can’t be, it can’t be, my son can’t be dead. Nobody believed me because I didn’t cry and told them in a matter of fact way that Emile hanged himself. We went home and I started phoning family and friends to tell them. The trauma officer spoke to us but I did not understand one word he was saying. Everything felt like a nightmare, the daylight was blinding and I heard a roaring noise in my head. I kept asking my husband if I was dreaming, it couldn’t be Emile lying there dead. It was like a dream, I could not believe my eyes. I stood there looking at my son’s face in shock. He led me to a body lying on the grass under the tree covered with an emergency blanket.
I told the trauma officer I thought it could be my son.
The place where my son was lying was surrounded by police tape. Emergency and police vehicles and personnel were everywhere. The area at the tree looked like a crime scene. They informed him that a young man, who fit Emile’s description, committed suicide in the park. About a half an hour after we returned home children from the neighborhood called my youngest son to our gate. I will never forget those words I uttered. In the meantime the vehicle was on its way to the scene where my son Emile, 20, hanged himself during the Saturday night or early Sunday morning in a weeping willow tree in a park near our house. In my ignorance I said to my husband I wonder who died now. My husband and I were on our way to the shop when an emergency vehicle passed us with loud sirens and flashing lights. It was a lovely quiet Sunday morning, on 5 February 2006, when my life irrevocably changed in the blink of an eye.
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