Suicide... it is what we were talking about in my SPM colloquium today…

I remember when the word was used to describe the concoction produced when all of the soda fountain soft drinks were mixed together. That was a less complicated time of life--for sure.

We are rapidly approaching the seventh anniversary of my brother's death (July 19, 1999.) Austin died a couple weeks short of his 23rd birthday. The police investigation has never been closed--what was originally ruled as a suicide was later changed to "undetermined." The police could not figure out how he could shoot himself in the back of the head with a rifle—and now, seven years later, we still don’t know. He was living with his girlfriend at the time--and they were "breaking up."

The last time I saw Austin alive was a couple of days before his death. He called me to come pick him up (south of the river) and to take him home (to the arboretum area.) He was wearing a Crenshaw Athletic Club ringer-tee. I was jealous; I had worked there for years (got him his job) and I had never received a tee shirt. We had a good talk—nothing out of the ordinary. I pulled up in front of his apartment, he got out, I drove away. I often wonder if I was just clueless—or if there was really anything to be concerned about at that point.

Late on July 18, 1999 (or was it early on the 19^th?) I received a call from Breckenridge hospital. I had been asleep for 20 minutes or so, and I was fairly discombobulated when I answered the phone (only after first trying to “turn off” my alarm clock.) The woman on the other end of the line was not very clear about who she wanted to talk to. She asked for my father first, and then mentioned my brother’s name… I was still clueless at this point. I thought she was calling to collect payment for something (Austin and I had both made emergency room visits that year—for minor injuries.) Still trying to wake up, I asked, “Why are you calling in the middle of the night?” She said, “Do you know a Daniel Schaefers?” (Austin’s first name is Daniel—but he went by his middle name.) I said, “That is my brother, but he doesn’t live with me.” She said, “There has been an accident, Daniel Schaefers has been in an accident and he is at Breckenridge hospital.” I said, “What kind of accident?” She said, “He has been shot, and it is bad.” I said, “I am on my way.”

I hung up the phone. I picked up the phone and called Leigh. I was almost unable to speak. I told her that I had just answered a phone call from the hospital and that my brother had been shot. She said she would be right over. In the time it took Leigh to get to my apartment, 12 blocks away—I was able to throw on some clothes and go over what the woman on the phone had said. Breckenridge. Accident. Daniel Schaefers. Shot. (I thought, surely not shot… she meant to say that he was in a car accident or something.)

Leigh pulled up to my apartment, I got in the car. I was shaking. I told her that I didn’t remember the whole conversation—because I had answered the phone only half awake, but I remembered “Breckenridge, shot, accident, Daniel Schaefers.” Why would they take him to Breckenridge? Oh yeah… it’s the trauma hospital. Where was he shot? I didn’t know.

We pulled up to the emergency room. Leigh dropped me off and she went to park the car. I walked in to the front desk. I told them who I was and why I was there. They had me wait for a couple of minutes. Leigh came in. Then a hospital employee (social worker) came and found us. We were invited into a small waiting room. A surgeon came in about a minute later.

First, there were some introductions—and verification that I was Daniel Austin Schaefers family. Then the surgeon proceeded to tell us of Austin’s injury. He had been shot in the back of the head with a small caliber rifle—it appeared to be self inflicted. There was too much damage for the body to be repaired. I think I am going to throw up…. a feeling that doesn’t leave for days—maybe months. I ask, is there any chance for recovery—even in a brain damaged state? The surgeon (Austin’s surgeon) said, “his body is being kept alive by machines—but all indications tell us that he is brain-dead.” I begin to cry. Leigh begins to cry. The social worker begins to cry.

I say, “I need to call my parents—they haven’t been contacted, have they?” “No, we didn’t have contact information for them.” She hands me a phone. I dial my mother’s number—busy. Damn! She is up talking to her pseudo-boyfriend. I call my sister’s line. Rachel answers. “Rachel, this is an emergency—Austin has been in an accident—go get Mom.” “What happened?” (Slowly)“Go get Mom.” “Okay.” I hear her put down the phone and run to my mother’s room. I hear the two of them run back.

The hardest words I have ever said: “Mom, Austin has been in an accident—and we are at the hospital—and he isn’t going to live.” (I can hear her begin to cry.) She says, “What?” The second hardest words: “He has been shot in the head and he is brain-dead.”

Tyler is 4 hours away from Austin. My mom usually takes half a day to get here… but not that night. She and Rachel were out the door minutes after I hung up the phone.

I tried to call my dad. His cell phone was off—and I didn’t have his home phone number on me (and it was unlisted.) I ended up leaving about 30 messages on his cell.

I called my friend John… I called my friend Joey… I waited.

(More to come)