The Unexpected Death of a Young Man

25 years ago I built my home. Whereas many people move every 5-10 years, I’ve never felt the need to move. I felt the desire once but never the need.

My house was the first house built on our block—see the photo, above. In front of me was an open pasture of land. Behind me was a 40-acres of young apple trees being nurtured to become a commercial apple orchard. One-by-one new houses were added.

Then the kids started coming. I already had a 2-year-old. The year Karen and Ray built their house next door, Karen gave birth to Shannon. Then it was Clark and Lori’s turn across the street. They had Alex. Alex was born with a hole in his heart and all of us mothers rallied around Lori, unable to imagine the fear she must have felt. Thank goodness for modern medicine. The doctors were able to patch up Alex’s heart and he came home when he was 6 months old. Several times throughout his life, as his body grew bigger, he had to return to the hospital for updated procedures but Lori, a nurse by trade, always made it sound like it wasn’t that big of a deal.

As our block was developing, so was the cross street one house over from mine. My side neighbors (I was their back neighbor) were Amy and John. They had two kids. Their youngest, Dillan, was best friends with Alex.

Because the end of our block was a cul-de-sac we spent the spring, summer and fall evenings sitting in one driveway or another while the kids all rode their bikes, skateboards or rollerblades up and down the block. As the kids got older we replaced swing sets with basketball hoops. Once the kids were in High School our interaction was limited to waving to each other or the occasional chat at the mailbox.

Then people started moving on. One man passed away from cancer. His wife remarried, sold the house and moved. Another got a job promotion and they moved to a bigger house. A third lost his job and they downsized. Almost the entire neighborhood turned over. Except for Karen & Ray, Clark & Lori, Amy & John, and me.

I had heard that Alex had struggled with drug addiction and gone into rehab. I had also heard that he was clean and living back home with Lori and Clark. I often wondered how he was doing. It didn’t seem appropriate to knock on the door and say, “Hey Lori. I hear Alex is a junkie. Anything I can do to help?” So I just wondered.

Until this morning. At 2:15am. Sirens blazing on my quiet cul-de-sac. Three cop cars. Followed by an ambulance. Stopped in front of Clark and Lori’s house.

Alex. This kid who had been born with a hole in his heart and had been saved from that could not be saved from these horrendous street drugs that plague middle-class America. And no amount of life experience could have prepared me for it.

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