No cover

To say life isn’t fair, doesn’t cover it.  My beautiful son, Sam, should be attending college at IU today but instead he died at sweet sixteen the victim of an unknown synthetic drug that was sold to him and two friends who unknowingly took it thinking it was LSD and it was my sweet Sam, that died overnight from poison.  

To say that right now is the first time that I’ve cried today for my loss of Sam, doesn’t cover it. I’ve cried several times today and it’s been over two years.  The loss of a child does not leave you now.

To say that I’m the only one experiencing the loss of Sam, in no way covers it.  Even those who may not have known Sam personally have experienced something by his loss if they’ve touched me or his family and friends in any way.

My mom was here recently.  She loves catering to Nick when she is here and he correspondingly knows this as well.  He text her with today’s modern communication which “grandma” is more than up on and asked that she bring donuts to school for one of his Friday classes.  She, upon receiving the text, at our home, was on it.  She planned what time to stop by Dunkin’ Donuts, a Sam favorite, and what type and how many donuts she would purchase and get to the high school by Nick’s need-it-by-time, and off she was.

When my mom returned instead of the look of accomplishment I expected on her face, she said that she had stopped by Sam’s stone on the way back and there someone had left a 2016 graduation tassel, in Sam’s favorite red along with white.  She tried to stifle but could not, cries, as she told me what she had seen and I cried in response… cries of love… To the friend that left the tassel, Sam loves you… To those of us left behind in Sam’s love, God’s peace.  #muchlovetosam

To tell or not to tell

My divorce is official more than eight months now… another major life change for us all since my teen son, Sam, died overnight two years ago on Mothers’ Day unknowingly taking a synthetic drug. I consider I could be alone the rest of my life and I know, I already am alone except for God’s precious grace upon me. I have extended myself prior to and since my divorce to further understand this world we live in; this world which would allow a drug dealer to sell a poison that my son took and killed him while life in general goes on. I was inspired by one of my mainstays of the past two years. She met her future husband online and they are planning a Labor Day weekend wedding that my son, Nick, and I, will be in attendance for. If she could find her next Mr. Wonderful online, couldn’t I?

I set up my online profile and stole her Headline or tag line as if I was branding myself… she didn’t need it anymore, right? Besides, it was I and my working spouse at the time that had brainstormed sitting outside of a local pub one night after work to come up with it anyway?! A few winks, likes, faves and emails later, I realized I needed to be a full-time admin to manage this online “stuff.” I adapted and before too long figured out how the actual “meet and greet” occurs. Aziz Ansari, comedian from Parks and Recreation fame and author of “Modern Romance” also helped me out when I listened to him via audio book one trip to visit my parents in East Central Illinois.

I’ve found a few categories for online guys; those I could actually share Sam with and those that I wouldn’t begin to. Not all for the same reasons though. For example, Music Man, my first online date, didn’t even provide me enough picture-wise that I could recognize him in the crowded Rick’s Cafe Boatyard. I enjoyed getting to know him though; unfortunately, when we left two hours later, he really didn’t know me at all. I didn’t tell him about Sam. Then there was Bonefish, an IT executive that I met at the restaurant of the same name. I didn’t tell him about Sam either. The mechanical engineer that I met at Fireside Brewhouse, for some reason, I told about Sam, when we met. I don’t believe it was because I hadn’t told the first two, that I told the mechanical engineer, but despite what I may have told him, I did not want a second date and he had decided the same when he emailed me a few days later.

I met three guys many years younger than me and whether it was our age difference or not, I did not tell them about Sam. A fourth, younger than me, a consultant type, I did share Sam with. It was his Mr. Mom-demeanor coming out that allowed me to feel “safe” I later reflected.

For some reason, there were two guys that I met and after-the-fact told. One, I somehow felt compelled to. “M***hole” was what he called himself. I hadn’t heard the term before but apparently people from Massachusetts are familiar with the term and pride themselves on their up-front expressions that are cuttingly concise, keenly to the point, ripe with opinions and fearlessly full of conflict. I believe I told him in the hopes of somehow striking a human chord in there somewhere. “Nic" with the “k” missing; I told after meeting him, like “M***hole”, with the hopes of finding a human somewhere in the midst. It didn’t work with either one. ’nuff said.

The guy I nicknamed “007”; a former intelligence guy turned entrepreneur, I did tell about Sam. He humbled me when he profoundly responded, “We are all broken.” So there was a second date. It was then that I learned intel entrepreneurs don’t much like conformity, not even of the homeowners association kind. Since I don’t live that far out on a limb, there was no date three.

The guy I nicknamed “Major McHottie” I most easily told about Sam as he had lost a son as well; another military guy turned entrepreneur. Beyond that, I’m not sure we had anything in common although we dated many times.

I’ve thought about it. Why do I tell some and not others? The answer is the same as why here on Earth we fail. Because I’m human. #muchlovetosam

50: Who I am

It is the eve of my 50th birthday.  I just watched what I call “Sam’s video” again: .  I miss Sam.  I cry.  I cry a lot.  The tears do not end.  Tomorrow I will turn 5-0.  I have no choice.  My life is but half what I had expected.  Half of what I had wanted.  Half of what will be.  I am half of what I am... I only have love… #muchlovetosam

To be all right


On Mothers’ Day 2014 as Pastor Dave came into our home after we first learned that Sam had died overnight at just 16, his words were those of comfort… I can close my eyes and here his voice tone, calmingly saying that all is right with Sam and because all is right with Sam we will be all right.  It rang so true because I knew with all my heart that all is right with Sam.  

As I’ve gone on the two years past that day, I have stumbled; I have fallen and I have tried to pick myself up.  I have tried to pick those I love up around me as well.  If I’m honest with myself though, I am still fallen.  We all are.  It’s only been two years.  There is no smile when looking at a picture or remembering a precious moment with Sam.  We love him and he is gone.  We are not all right.  I know Pastor Dave is right though.

Even tonight after a wonderful night with family and friends, Nick and I drove home after to our new residence where Sam is here but Sam has not been here.  The air is thick and it is not all right.  Life is not fair.  Then I look at my phone to check my emails and what do I see but my quote of the day email… “Everything will be all right with you, when you are all right with everything.” - Lorrin L. Lee

It is true.  It will be all right when it is with me.  Today is not that day though.  I am still waiting… #muchlovetosam 

McHottie walks in

When he walked in and said “Hello”, I knew right then I was going to like him. But what I would do from there, I had no idea. I know very little about who I am now after losing my 16-year-old son, Sam, tragically on Mothers’ Day 2014, when he experimented with what he thought was LSD but was a deadly synthetic hallucinogen drug, 25i-NBOMe. My Sammy took the same amount as his two friends who were fine the next morning yet it was Sam that didn’t wake up to celebrate my day.

Instead the unbelievable walked into my life and I have changed nearly every aspect of my life since to survive and find my soul. Once broken, always broke? Indeed we all are broken I now know. So, too, was Major McHottie as we talked for hours that first night we met. He had experienced the loss of a child which comforted me yet I know too well I cannot grieve like any other and no one can experience my grief except me. That is one way we travel alone in life’s journey but Hottie’s conversation helped ease the pain of the ride or so it seemed.

What transpired over the next two weeks after meeting Hottie, is still a puzzle to me. It seems like a writing from “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” except the script was what my heart and mind naturally improvised, not a 2003 film with “alright, alright, alright” Matthew McConaughey and the beauty Kate Hudson that ends in a love ever after way. I learned as much about myself as Kate’s character, Andie Anderson, did in that same time frame. McConaughey’s character, Benjamin Barry, was instead my Major McHottie, nicknamed so because of his initial military career and his obvious attraction level with the added “Mc” to note the heartthrob “Grey’s Anatomy” t.v. series characters, Dr. McDreamy and Dr. McSteamy, all rolled into one and on display by Hottie’s imminent words and actions.

What did I do with Major McHottie? Our second date was a few days later on Friday night. I called him a “player” a total of 11 times he told me. I also threw the book at him when it comes to reading between the lines of anything he tried to say to me so I could get to know him more, or even if he tried to compliment me. I preferred to cast whatever came out of his mouth or by his manner in a negative light for my own self comfort. When the second date was over, I thought I had done well; I wouldn’t hear from him.

The door had been left slightly open it appeared. I had a Sam’s Watch speaking engagement the next night and although I had time free, I was not committed in trying to meet up with McHottie after. He apparently was. When I got Hottie’s call later that night asking me where I was and what was happening, I had nowhere to hide from how I ran from a possible third encounter. In that bareness though, I thought that was it and I went back to my single person’s way of life. I planned to go to the movies alone on Sunday evening. I’m still not quite sure why he reached out to me that day or how we ended up with a dozen other people in the darkened movie theatre but Hottie was insistent that we wear the dorky 3-D glasses for the full screen effect. It was a good movie, too. The amused smile on my face was hidden in the darkness so no one could see.

The next day I got 100% on my first paper for the second semester and shared the news with my text contacts of which Major McHottie was one. Everyone’s kind replies were encouraging; Hottie’s reply was that we needed to celebrate. My thought: that’s strange. In celebration, Cooper’s Hawk, always nice, was with Hottie a time like I had not had before. I was still as obstinate as possible, even when acting coy as he surprised me with a bottle of my favorite from the wine tasting. It was truly the dessert that melted me; sharing together that irresistible s’mores deliciousness layered with light creamy vanilla pudding, smoothly crushed graham crackers, luscious gooey chocolate-ness and topped with warm marshmallow creme toasted just like it had been made by putting a marshmallow on a stick over an open heat-flaming bonfire. Oh, how my mouth watered with thoughts of it after, as also my thoughts softened and my heart went on defrost.

What happened next appears to be a set up of unknown sorts. I had wanted to attend a high school sporting event on Friday which would require a short work day on Hottie’s part. Hard work is what Hottie knows and is what he can throw himself into consistently while all else around him blurs into oblivion. I talked to him by phone about it the next afternoon after our evening at Cooper’s Hawk. Not one to make promises he can’t keep, his response was only that he would try. I was in grad class that evening and did not expect to hear from him. I drove home after class thinking how I hadn’t heard from him and maybe all my defense mechanisms might have worked in my favor after all. Then I woke up Friday morning a little disappointed that I had not heard from him but telling myself it’s a free world and if he wanted to move on, that is always an option, and why wouldn’t he after how terribly I had treated him?

It was just before noon on Friday that I got an instant message from Hottie on Facebook which was surprising to me. He was wanting to know why I wasn’t answering his calls or responding to his texts. I immediately replied that I had not heard from him. He asked that I call him. On the phone he said how he had worked the night before until 9:00 p.m. so that he could rearrange scheduling and take me to the sporting event I wanted to go to. He had text and tried to call me the night before but I didn’t respond. He had also tried to call me several times that morning and I didn’t answer the phone. I was adamant. I told him that I had no texts from him and no missed calls or voice mails from him either. He was adamant in response although he had a call come in that he was waiting for and had to call me back. “Huh” I thought as we disconnected. I looked again. No texts. No calls.

A friend called me then and I explained it all in exasperation and our thoughts conspired that he must be lying. I hung up balanced again after my friend conversation. Then he instant messaged me again to call him. I did. He then proceeded to tell me he had tried to call me just then and left two voice mail messages and that I needed to check my messages. I assured him that my phone showed no messages from him and in the midst of that he had another call come in and gone he was. Never one to leave room for doubt I went back to the old fashion voice mail access where you call and enter your password. When I did, I found my liar wasn’t lying. There were two messages from him. At that point, I was bewildered. Realizing I was within blocks from the geeks of where I purchase my cell phones, I pulled in and entered the mobile store.

The lady who offered to assist me from behind the store counter, developed a frozen smirk on her face as I explained what was happening with my phone. Then she asked to look at it. “Which contact is it?” she inquired with her eyes dancing. When I pointed to it, her eyes lit up and her smirk turned to a huge smile she could not hide as much as she tried. In a high pitch voice she noted, “Oh, Major McHottie, well let me see here.” She looked at call history and scrolled through his contact listing and she suddenly exploded in laughter to the point that she had to bend over to try and maintain herself from her outburst that must have been causing her stomach to ache. I was entirely absent of her expressed amusement. She stood back up and barely through her chuckles explained to me that I had blocked him on my contact list. Apparently blocking is an option on your contact page and by doing this you no longer receive any phone calls or texts from the contact that you blocked. If I was as technology savvy as the lady behind the counter, I suppose I would have figured that out without her. I, on the other hand, am not that. How I would have blocked Hottie I have no idea either. So despite what she was telling me, I really hadn’t done that but whatever. So to Hottie I did eat crow and somehow that was alright with him.

Hottie was alright, too, when he saw the “me” that is the mother who lost her son and still has so many questions and thoughts to work through. The first of my deeper sorrow for him to experience was when the applications arrived for high school scholarships in Sam’s memory. Instead of Sam graduating, one or more of his classmates would receive a monetary gift towards the bright college future that awaits them beyond the high school walls where they’ve already made recognizable accomplishments; a place my Sammy will not leave as he is forever a Trojan. Hottie’s response as my confusion, heartache and unanswered despair leaked out in my telling him about my day; “I’m sorry. If you want, I could be there…”

The 10 days to lose a guy came and went so many times over despite my defenses, floundering and blunders. I don’t know that I’ll ever shake the denseness of darkness since losing my Sammy, but besides coming into the light from God’s grace and my mother’s love for both my sons, maybe I’m closer to understanding I have not been cast into the shadow away from the warmth of lasting sunshine. Just maybe… #muchlovetosam


This is the thing about life. No matter how hard you try and try as hard as you might, but you cannot control life's affects on you. Why? Because life is full of moments far beyond what we can anticipate.

When that moment of sudden, stop-you-in-your-tracks impact occurred for me… my son, Sam, died, and my feelings, being, and thinking… everything… it all changed. There were crashing moments of the past relived back to the earliest memory I have, colliding into the generation of a new outcome from what had already taken place. While other thoughts of love, loss, and “who am I now” was spinning in my head repelling me to places I never would have been, instances of what someone should not ever have to be blended with instances of pure joy and peace of what could not have been known before one tragic moment had occurred… that moment that ripped my son, Sam, at only sixteen, from my world.

What happens when those moments change our lives forever. What if, one day, there’s that moment and its presence changes not only everything that happens at that point in time and going forward but also changes the moments that already happened before… Changing them just like being sent back in time to relive them with new actions and different endings. It is with awe that moments in our life can change what the impact is of those moments that already took place. Where does that leave you? Where will it take you? Where do you go? Because now your past is not in the past but instead a ripple effect towards the future that was to be and now will be a future of something else totally unexpected.

"Who am I now?" I’m weightless just as though I was traveling in outer space; floating with no sense of gravity to pull me back down. No obligation, guilt or burdens to be bared as they are smothered by stifling, sharpened painfulness, that as a mother who has lost a child, should not ever be expected to go away while here on earth. I do what I want. Say what I want. I have no boundaries. Have no excuses; sometimes have no words. My life is my own now; no one else would want. My endless pain has set me free. #muchlovetosam

It's Independence Day

I was just going to go to bed early tonight after a day filled with activities that got me through this holiday… another holiday without my dear Sam, who died at 16 unknowingly taking a synthetic drug as a curious teen in initial exposure to our drug using culture.  I have an early shift at the hospital tomorrow so I wanted a good night sleep.  

After lying in my bed listening to the myriad of fireworks outside as the same myriad of loud bursts of thoughts occurred in my mind, I could not drift off to sleep.  So I am up now in front of my laptop to write what I don’t want to think about.  

As a family, we spent most of our fourth of Julys’ when we were together, on Lake Vermillion, where my parents have a lake home.  I remember the one in particular where we got to see all the air balloons going over head during day light and then at night fall saw fireworks from the Danville Boat Club.  The stuff that traditions are made of.  That particular July 4th, Sam brushed his knee on part of the boat and ended up with a cut that for him was incredibly painful.  He was 3 and he cried a lot as the fireworks were going off… so much so that his voice was heard more than the “oohs” and “aahs” of the exclamations from the visual bursts of light and sound.  I held him and talked to him and couldn’t imagine how it could hurt as much as his tears were showing.  

Fast forward to Sam’s sophomore year playing Center Grove High School team basketball.  Mid-season he sprained his ankle.  I took him to the ortho med center and he got the ankle support equipment that he needed, some physical therapy and attention from the team trainer and he didn’t miss a game… didn’t express any amount of pain.

Looking back now, the brush with the metal guard on the boat must have been painful.  I’m glad I was there for him whenever he needed me.  I now miss not being there.  In the time following his death, I needed others there for me instead.  I remember the first year, just months after Sam’s passing, and I had stayed a week at my parents and then we were all sitting at the boat club for the fourth of July “celebration.”  I remember looking down at my phone and going back through my text messages and seeing a group text that included my mom, Nick and Sam, etc.  Even though I knew Sam would not get my text, I text in that message that I missed him and loved him.  I don’t know why I did it.  

Then I walked the short distance from the boat club back to my parents and when in the house, had my personal melt down.  As I thought in the house, I got up and walked outside just to be walking.  My dad, always the observant, must have seen me leave the boat club and followed me home as when I walked outside there he was sitting in his usual lawn chair.  He held me as I cried and that was the best that I could do at that time.  I had been comatose most of the week reading books that I had gotten in Danville about a mother that lost three daughters all in one accident and her struggle back to the living in the year that followed, plus there was the mother who lost her son to an uncommon cancer that allowed them time to say good-bye before he died.  Then there was the two families where each lost their spouse and the two families joined into one.  Happy endings?  

Mr. Big; what happens in the storm

I’ve been divorced more than six months now.  My dear son Sammy died over two years ago from unknowingly taking a synthetic drug that killed him overnight.  Even now it is all too unimaginable…  

I met Mr. Big in still yet a stormy time of my life and he somehow, unknowingly, made it all seem better.  He was my Mr. Big with the charisma and sex appeal of the same character by that name that Carrie Bradshaw fell madly in love with in the t.v. series, “Sex and the City”.  He said “Yes, dear” oh so sweetly, that it made the biggest smile appear on my face.  A wide-mouthed grinning smile that I hadn’t recalled having since way before my son, Sam, died. 

I had a sense of peacefulness knowing he was in my life.  When we were together, peace was overtaken by his reaching for my hand or sideway glance which brought out the same in me.  Our feelings for one another grew with the passing days.  What was happening between us brought me an insight as to how I might still be able to live with the loss of Sam.  I’d be the best that I could be and that seemed good enough.  I could smile.  I could laugh.  I could live; at least for a little while.

Just like it went in the t.v. series for Mr. Big and Carrie in “Sex and the City”, so too, goes for me and my Mr. Big:  what seemed good in theory, didn’t work.  After many promising months of peacefulness, I was thrown back into feelings of more loss and more grief on top of what I carry with me daily with the loss of my child.  In the simplest example of another overnight change in my life, what was once “Good morning”, “Smile for me” and “Good night” was instead a blank text screen staring back at me. 

That’s when I realized he was the true-to-life Mr. Big character; the tumultuous kind who leaves others in tears as he goes off into the sunset for his next adventure without further ado.  “He” was the kind of Mr. Big that left Carrie behind time and time again.  I wasn’t Carrie though and my life, especially my already broken heart from my loss of Sam, wasn’t made for t.v.  

What I hope for from my Mr. Big experience is the same as when we found each other; one day I will turn around and unexpectedly find what I was no longer looking for. 

Birthday wishes, Sammy...

Today is an extremely sad one.  As a parent who has lost a child, I am daily with that loss.  Today, his birthday, is not a memory... not a reminder... not easier than yesterday.  In fact, today is harder because I am always, whether he is with me or not, the same as I was the day my Sammy came into this world nineteen years ago today.  I am his mother.  Life hurts.

May 11, 2016: What to do

It’s been two years… it’s only been two years… Oh, what the mind ponders when dealing with grief post-year one and now marking the end of year two.  Different? Yes.  Less painful?  No.  Resigned?  Maybe.  

The beautiful boy embedded in my heart is still there.  In the outside world, he is now safe from all harm.  In reflection, I see the power of light from my broken heart but it is dim in the darkest of places we walk with ourselves alone.  People exclaim, “I don’t know how you do it.”, “I couldn’t be as strong as you.”  No one told me I had a choice… to walk on Earth with the joy that my son, Nick, brings to my life, or to pass on to Heaven and be reunited with my son, Sam, who died on Mothers’ Day 2014 from unknowingly taking a synthetic drug.  I didn’t know I had a choice because I don’t.  We mourned Sam this Mothers’ Day, the day he died and again we mourned him this May 11, the actual date he died.  Whether a holiday or a date on the calendar, we are always in mourning, even now; even behind what we do, be it bowling, golf, etc.  

This anniversary I managed myself enough not to melt down in public… not to hurt those I love by revealing the most complicated grief in my soul.  It’s there.  It does no one good on display; not even me, but it is who I am now.  Everything in my life has changed in two years.  Losing Sam; losing sense of family.  Experiencing God’s grace and mercy through loving thoughts, prayers and acts of kindness so many time over to sustain me during a long time for which I could not make it on my own any given day. Starting graduate school in clinical mental health counseling with wonderful, kind souls that speak to me in such positive and loving ways whether they say something or not.  Moving from the family home that I couldn’t care less whether I lived in before Sam died, then couldn’t imagine ever leaving, to having to leave to be able to breathe.  Leaving a healthcare business career I cultivated over a decade and starting a new career in order to save myself, by helping others in a way that also helps heal me.  That’s what’s different.

I still think about him night and day.  Not with precious memories that bring a smile to my face but by reliving memories that were to have happy endings that no longer will.  I don’t love Sam less; I love him more.  No, it’s not less painful.

Today as I realized where I am in making a difference in this world with my pain, it is because of Sam living, not because of Sam dying.   There is no rest because this current life was not what was to be.  But it is. #muchlovetosam

Labor of love

The day he came into this world, I woke up to a regular work day on June 26, 1997.  I took a shower and got ready for the work day and it was before I left the house that my water broke.  I called Sam’s dad and told him, which at first was of no increased sense of urgency, but then after he repeated what I said, he said, “Oh, okay, I’ll be right there.”  When Sam’s dad arrived back home, off to Noblesville’s Riverview Hospital we went.  It was early morning when we checked in and I intended to go without medication as one of those mothers who could brave it through labor without.  Then as the intense pain continued after showers and endless laps of the delivery ward I caved to have an epideral.  That did not even help the pain that continued until 11:26 that evening when Samuel Xavier Motsay at 7 pounds, 11 ounces arrived into this world.  In the process of the difficult delivery, Sam suffered what his dad so lovingly called a “broken wing” as he had a break above his left elbow and below his left shoulder.  He was not only swaddled but in bandages to hold his left arm in a stable position.  Amazingly, after two weeks, his “broken wing” was completely healed… the miracles of babies.  

That was Sam’s entry into this world and I never anticipated being able to tell of Sam’s exit of this world, much less any thought that I would be here for both.  Sam had a “broken wing” and I now have a “broken heart.”  Some wounds do miraculously heal like Sam’s but as for mine, the tears started hours ago as the clock hour moves closer to the time that Sam left this Earth two years ago.

I know he touched many and that day he came into the world he touched me like I never ever imagined was even possible. I can still see my mom there staying with us and holding, soothing him to sleep in the early days of coming home from the hospital as he had colic.  She was a Godsend.  She now soothes our family as well.  I don’t know where Sam’s story ends.  In my heart, it did not end with his death because I as well as many others carry him with them today.  We are blessed.  #muchlovetosam

It's here

I’ve been limping along through this week to keep up with my second semester grad studies before finals next week. Half the time I’ve had physical symptoms of being under the weather mixed with what is likely anxiousness that this time of year is upon me a second time without Sam. I made it to today, Friday, my free day, but even this day I am imprisoned by my suffering.

I started out at the gym where I was exhausted more from doing less. My trainer looked at me perplexed when we ended the session. I told him it wasn’t a good time for me and as we talked he understood why. He continued to look confused as though there was something he wanted to do yet what was it?

I pulled out of the gym parking lot anticipating that I would go somewhere next or do something. I considered going to Dunkin’ Donuts for a delicious iced coffee that I could already taste and made my mouth water. Then I remembered I don’t go to Dunkin’ Donuts. It’s one of those spots on the places I don’t go since I lost Sam because they are places that we went to that defined who Sam was here on Earth. Missing him in new surroundings is what is currently manageable. That means I haven’t had one of those mocha iced coffees that I was tasting in two years? Two years and I can still taste it.

My eyes welling up with tears that I wiped away so I could continue to see to drive, I went directly back to whence I came. Home. I landed softly on the couch where T-Bone, Sam’s yellow lab rescue dog, licked away as many salty drops as he could while they streamed down my face. I lay there some time and wept. When my eyes were dry, the feeling that my hand was reaching out and touching an electric barb wire fence remained. Even the shocking pain though didn't keep me from drifting off to sleep... With thoughts of all being well with Sam and that through the grace of God and many others here on Earth, I am sustained by faith, hope and love... even now. God's Peace

It happened; his name is Sam

I had heard about it in other families that I have come to know in my parent grief support groups but I didn’t know when or if it would ever happen in mine.  Instead of saying his name so as not to have a crackle in our voice or tears stream down our face, he was the silence that hung in the air after a thought of him came to mind.  

Too soon it will be two years since my son Sammy left this Earth at the tender age of sixteen having unknowingly taken a synthetic hallucinogen drug that killed him overnight.  Here on Earth, we are still in recovery mode; protective mode; don’t let them see you cry mode; can’t stop thinking about him every moment even now mode and all the other modes that try to put into words what is not definable to you as you experience it, let alone enables you to express it to another living soul.

It happened though.  I was at dinner with my son Nick, Sam’s year younger brother. After we had spent the day together at Nick’s AAU basketball games, wrapping the day up by filling our bellies with Nick’s favorite cuisine, Japanese hibachi, seemed appropriate.  We were both laughing as we shared stories back and forth, naturally flowing storytelling between a mother and a son.  I asked him a question.  Then he asked me one.  We laughed some more at each of our responses and how crazy we think the other one is as we clearly established long ago that we don’t beat to the same drum; as well as many moons ago expressing we decidedly like that about each other. 

Another round of questions occurs and with his response I, without hesitation, go on to say something about Sam’s interpretation of the same.  Then Nick, not skipping a beat, grins from ear to ear and in a raised voice laughs and says Sam’s thought on that as well.  It may not happen again soon but it happened.  We didn’t miss a beat together; we missed Sam.  #muchlovetosam 

April showers bring May flowers

I’m exhausted as I have two papers and multiple exams to end my second semester of graduate school by next week.  I go to lay my head down just now and I can’t close my eyes.  I’m afraid of thoughts that haven’t yet come before I’ll find rest.  It’s May 2nd.  Mother’s Day to get through in six days and then three more days until it is May 11th again.  The second time I’ll live through it beyond what my dear, sweet, 16-year-old son, Sammy did, when he died overnight from experimenting with what he thought was LSD but instead a dealer made a synthetic poison concoction, 25i-NBOMe.  After unknowingly taking it, my son went to sleep Mother’s Day Eve 2014 and did not wake up the next day.  I’m crying all the time; sometimes just inside, other times visibly weeping or a tear or two escaping down my cheek.  I feel and it hurts.

Before two years ago, I recall my own pleasant smiles when remembering May was finally arriving.  I would always think of May 1st and say, “Yea, it’s May Basket Day”; the disappearing act ritual of waiting until dusk and hanging on doors those signs of changing seasons to give best wishes.  I was always smiling thinking about May Day Baskets because in the small rural town I grew up in, I had a very pleasing surprise for May Basket Day when I was in about second grade.  One of my favorite boyhood classmates had left May Day flowers at my home’s entry.  He had with care it seemed, crafted a flower vase out of a paper plate with another half paper plate inverse to it and stapled to keep it encapsulated to hold the fresh flowers the “basket” contained.  I imagine my boyhood friend had hand picked the flowers from neighbors’ gardens and bushes on the walk from his house to mine.  The most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever received; I’m not a roses sort-of-girl I guess.  It truly is the thought that counts with me and I was happily surprised.  

May Basket Day now seems more like a forgotten tradition; eventually, like flowers, wilted and drooped, too, I suppose.  For me, May Day Baskets represents a time of innocence.  A good thing.  Like the love for the one I miss heartbreakingly so and cry on for now.  #muchlovetosam

Tidal wave

Friday is my favorite day of the week and what I spiritedly call, “my free day.” It’s to be my day off to do what I haven’t had time to get done during the week. If anyone wants to meet with me or I need to schedule an appointment, I always try and make it on this day because I know I’ll be “free.” This particular Friday, I was free to have lunch with my lifelong friend Robin but it turned out to be a more enjoyable lunch than usual because I beat her at Rummy… twice. After lunch, I lingered at our usual place not wanting to leave for my next scheduled appointment.


When I could wait no longer, I finally left, setting my course for Broad Ripple; the place within Indy where old and new meet, commercial and creative, and suitably vibrant. In the buzz of the quaint coffee shop, I met a local author working on her next book; her writing journey of the last two years. Her subject: living beyond what is bearable. As for me, that is living with the loss of my teen son Sam not even two years ago, and which the petite, soft-spoken yet highly inquisitive author said I qualified. I had no energy to wrestle with what her words meant in my mind.


She said it would take ninety-minutes and it did. The tears fell like they do all the time but then I am most usually alone whereas today I was not. My thoughts raged at 90 miles per hour about what I would otherwise instantly push away from my thought into the furthest, most darkest crevice, of my mind. This Friday those thoughts were let out of the darkness though, in order to share, yes, what is beyond bearable.


In recent months, I’ve been plagued with thoughts that I most instantly push away about the conversation that took place when plain-clothed law enforcement stepped into our foyer and I first devastatingly came to know that Sam was gone. Just like that, he was gone; there was nothing to do. I replay the details in full for the author today but any other time, I right away try and stop the thought while I’m already feeling like I can’t breathe as I’m choking instead, and my chest is heavy with pressure like weight is on top of me that I can’t get off. I also hear inside myself the terrifying sounds that I cannot let out when I open my mouth. I could not let them out in our foyer that unbearable morning either. Instead, I went towards Nick coming down the stairs and I pushed my thoughts to the side and reached my arms around him, holding him and saying, “I got you, Nick. I’m here. Mom is here, Nick. I got you.” Over and over like waves washing up to the shore and then back out to sea again. Each time, with each wave, into the shore and receding again, taking away my… unheard screams, the pressure on my chest, the choking feeling. All receding away from me like the tidal wave that hits and then goes back to where it once came… the furthest most darkest crevice of my mind. #muchlovetosam


Home is home

When today, Easter, came there were so many emotions that came with it.  They were all unexpected.  Having been through one year without my son Sam, the second year the flow of emotions I realize does not change.  First there is the death anniversary, then his birthday, then the fourth of July… school starting and summer ending; Fall and all that his basketball conditioning provided followed by the holidays:  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year, Easter… Each time I take the phrase, “Oh, it’s just the time of year…” Why does it take so long to realize my emotions never end but are an ebb and flow and that today was no different?  

I awoke considering that today is my favorite church service of the year; He has risen, he has risen, indeed.  How many services we attended as a family over the years at our church, shouting out that phrase in response to Pastor Dave’s same.  It always felt so good; the fulfilling promise of hope.  

Today, I traveled the ninety minutes back to my home where my mom and dad live in a home on the lake in Illinois, with many thoughts.  I remember Sam and Nick in matching Easter outfits as toddlers at the same home and the Easter egg hunts we had.  They were ecstatic; everyone was happy.  As the years progressed, I remember Sam and Nick being baptized Maundy Thursday at our Indy home church followed by communion confirmation days later.  They were blessed; everyone was ecstatic.  

As Sam and Nick got older, my parents traveled to our home and we attended church and celebrated that He has risen this day.  He has risen, indeed.  All seemed well.  Until 22 months ago when Sam died unknowingly from a synthetic hallucinogen drug, 25i-NBOMe.  Nothing has been the same since.  Everything has changed; it had to in order to survive.  So today, Nick celebrated Easter with his dad while I traveled to Illinois to spend precious time with my parents.  Alleluia, He has risen.  He has risen, indeed.  Alleluia…  

Let it rain

When the tears fall down like rain, you just got to let it go.  Why?  Because I’ll never understand.  As much as I try, even 22 months after my teen son Sam died unknowingly from a synthetic hallucinogen called 25i-NBOMe, it comes on me like a deep, dark thunder cloud of rain.  It’s that unknowingness of “why?” that sharpens the pain.  I didn’t do anything wrong.  We didn’t do anything wrong.  He was a good kid.  I loved him so, so why is he gone?  Why so broken-hearted?  

When I cry, I at some point exhaust all thoughts and when there is nothing, there still yet lies something.  Crying and being so down that you don’t care, if you manage to make it up to the next day, then you have.  There you are for wherever you go.

I thought our loss of Sam might help save others; most of all those whose hearts I still hold close to mine.  This is besides those that did not know Sam that have been impacted by his death of which I have heard from many and can cry out thankfully.  Those who loved Sam directly also had an experience in his loss and no matter what that experience was, it was not a goal that would keep anyone safe from Sam’s fate unless chosen so.  No, mine was not a goal achievement to save others although that has happened with His grace and glory but my purpose was to share my heart, and Sam’s heart, unendlessly, I now realize.

So if I try to save others and if others are not saved, what then?  Have I failed?  In my own soul-searching from there, what is the purpose in life?  What have I fulfilled?  All that is left is all that I had to give to Sam, my heart.  Today by my own hope; by choosing to meet strangers and share my Sammy and by showing love beyond all else in my pain and loss, my soul’s search aligns.

So I’ll cry, if it eases the pain.  And if there is another tomorrow, I’ll be here.  #muchlovetosam

Every time

I was blessed to be with loving spirits last night at the FACE THE MUSIC fundraiser in Noblesville.  I was there amidst the soulful music and wonderful performers and appreciative audience as well as those newly formed friendships I have in the loss of my 16-year-old son Sam from a deadly synthetic drug, 25i-NBOMe, still just 21 months ago.  I knew that my love when Sam was on this Earth was expressed most immediately with my family as a mother’s love.  I now express my mother’s love for Sam most immediately to those that I have never met before and may never know in combination with those who know what loss and pain means and I remain in contact with many. 

I was to speak for only a brief time last night in between band sets with two fellow mothers championing causes for heroin recovery and the dangers of teen alcohol use.  Mothers I know so well now from the pain we have endured and continue to in order to somehow, in what ever way might be possible, make this world we live in a better place than when our son’s left it.  Still as I arrived last night and felt the comfort of those around me in common goals and heart, I quietly asked myself, “Why do this?  Why speak?”  These are the questions I ask myself moments before each chance I have to share publicly my beautiful Sammy.  And I never really know the outcome of what I might say about Sam because it is intangible. It just is.  So still the questions come.  Last night was no different.  

After I speak, what happens is honestly, what keeps me doing it again.  It doesn’t ease my pain or take it away but it does let the rest of the world know that exists.  Many of us live with pain that cannot be seen on the outside; I talk about my pain so that everyone may know. That is my life now after my son was unknowingly given a drug made by a dealer that was basically poison; it hurts.

The other thing that happens when I speak is always some sort of unknown.  This past Thursday, speaking at the Kiwanis luncheon in Bloomington, my lifelong friend Robin and I sitting at a stoplight and she glances over and sees written in graffiti on a nearby utility platform, Motz.  One of Sam’s endearing nicknames short for Motsay.  Sam’s brother, Nick’s as well since they share that last name.  Last night in leaving the reception hall something similar happened as I weaved through the tremendous number of people gathered.  There seemed to be a clear pathway amidst those standing and sitting at tables so that I could exit with ease except as I did so there in the passage way was a penny on the floor that blended in with the floor tile color.  A glimmer of it caught my eye though, so I had to stop and so I did what we do according to the rhyme, “Find a penny, pick it up…”  Until I speak again next week and far beyond… #muchlovetosam 

Busy is the new happy

Weeks ago someone special was telling me how busy they were. “Super, super busy,” they told me. I wasn’t super, super busy or even a little busy as far as I could tell. I shared with a friend how “super busy” this special person was and my friend told me, “Oh, yeah, haven’t you heard? Busy is the new happy.” Well, I hadn’t heard. My first thought was oh, maybe all I need to do is be busy after losing my 16-year-old son, Sam, nearly 21 months ago, then I, too, could have some form of happiness since his death. I started to “get busy.”

First, I considered my “to do” list which is really just a mental list of my known priorities to be addressed over the next several weeks. First on the list, was to follow up on what was needed for Sam’s tribute page in this year’s high school yearbook. A very thoughtful and wonderful undertaking by the school and staff to remember Sam in what would have been his Senior year. I put that activity in motion by setting a meeting with the yearbook sponsor and set aside time to research beforehand what a tribute page looks like. I knew this would mean finding pictures of Sam for the yearbook. Another busy task that I could be busy with pulling together. I decided okay, if I am busy with the tribute page then what else could I get busy with?

I was already doing daily outreach for Sam’s Watch with schools for participation in National Drug & Alcohol Facts Week so I continued with that, arranging to speak and signing up schools with a total of over 34,000 students to participate this year. Over 1,000 more Hoosier students than participated via Sam's Watch last year. Plus there were registrations from Michigan and Tennessee as the awareness of Sam’s Watch participation has grown. I was also busy with Kelly Wallace of CNN for her awesome article. I was working with NIDA for their excellent Drugs & Health blog on Sam’s Watch, too. Last for media, I talked with the local paper, the Daily Journal, who was promoting the upcoming SWaP Meet (Sam’s Watch & Parents Meeting).

On the home front, I had cleaned out one of Sam’s closet so I needed to continue with cleaning out his room. I set a date during this time to tackle his second closet. After completing that in the morning that worked, the rest of my day I couldn’t be busy. I was left useless afterwards as I tried to process the memories, hopes and pain of loss generated from that one activity. I could not “get busy” the rest of the day.

As I met with the yearbook sponsor, all seemed well with that busy-ness until I had to find pictures. I began to feel like I was moving in slow motion in a direction that I did not want to go because of the pain and suffering that was happening with each picture I saw and that generated again memories, hopes and more realization of loss. I looked on Sam’s phone for pictures that he might have wanted included; it took me days to get busy enough to hook his phone up to the charger so I could turn it on. Once on, it took many outbreaks into tears to reconcile that the so, so handsome young man in the pictures was no longer here with us. I couldn’t be busy.

I ordered the free materials from NIDA for drug facts week and thought about what I would share with students this year in the four assemblies for this week. Then I considered what I could share with parents now that might make a difference at the Feb. 1 SWaP Meet. In the midst of the speaking prep, I found it almost impossible to be busy.

These three main areas were focus above and beyond the quality time with Nick, meeting his needs and participating in his activities as well as the current events of playoff games and planned personal engagements. Those are the high points of what I was caught up in to “get busy.” The low point was I couldn’t be busy, the new happy, with what my life daily has in store for me. I had to take my time, going very slowly, planning appropriately so as not to be tipped out-of-balance, and making very precise baby steps in order to meet what I believe Sam would want, how he can be remembered now and how I can share my mother’s love for him with others. I continue to find myself not knowing what to do; I just know I can’t be busy. #muchlovetosam


I want to say it is a tough week but then it sounds like all the other weeks I’ve had since losing my son, Sam, at the tender age of sixteen.  Sam died overnight from a little-known synthetic drug, 25i-NBOMe, just 21 months ago.  Sam’s year-younger brother and my son, Nick, knows what tough weeks are like.  He’s witnessed firsthand.  What I wouldn’t give to take that vantage point away from him.  I know I can’t.

That doesn’t stop Nick.  When I picked him up from his ski trip last weekend and began to update him on what he had missed in the week he was away, he asked me for a piece of paper.  As the tears were streaming down my face and blurring my vision, I searched through my purse.  I searched past the black t-shirt I’m carrying that was Sam’s that I found under his bed while Nick was away.  Past Sam’s basketball picture button which is right beside the pistachio nut that I found out in the yard after Sam died.  I had bought the nuts at the store and Sam had helped carry in the groceries, grabbed the nuts and went outside to shoot hoops on what ended up being his last day on this Earth.  I remember backing out of the driveway to go buy hanging flower pots for the porch and seeing Sam throwing the nut shells in the grass and picking up the basketball and shooting.  Later, Sam carried the hanging flower pots and put them on the porch; an advantage he had at 6’2” to not need any assistance with. Next to the pistachio nut was the mother’s charm bracelet that Sam and Nick gave me; the countless pennies, dimes and quarters that I’ve found on the ground and never pass without picking up; the Sam’s Watch pen and finally, the small notebook pad for Nick.  I hand it to him.  

Nick takes the small note pad and on a blank page writes something and then hands it to me.  As he hands it to me, he says, “Here, do this.”  As I look at the opened page on the notepad that Nick has written on and handed to me I see the following:  “Not give a shit 2x/day for one month” and a messy signature of“Dr N Motsay”.  I smile in amazement at my young son and his old soul.  Then I look out the car window as Nick puts the car in drive and heads toward home.  A smirk appears on my face as I think about my young son with the old soul.  I look to the sky as I consider how I’ll follow his prescription.  Then I think to myself, “Thank you Jesus… for your sign today.”  #muchlovetosamandnick #missyousammy