The Last Hug

What loving Sean taught me about grief, music and where souls go

June 22, 2020

It was 6:30am and I ran into my son Sean coming out of his room as I was heading to the bathroom. He had come home late the night before, but I could tell he wanted to talk. We stood there in the hallway, he in his pajama shorts, me in my nightgown.

He was excited. He was thinking about moving out and sharing a place with a good friend. He had been paying rent for the past year but was ready for more. I understood the excitement of gaining independence and smiled inwardly at his joy.

“Mom, we’re planning to share a townhouse with two other people. I can bring my bed and my stuff, then get some furniture from Goodwill.”

“That sounds great, Sean,” I said. “It seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Yep,” he said, with that smile of his.

He came over and hugged me. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Sean,” I said, and I hugged him tight.

I did not know that hug would be the last one I would ever receive.

It was 2pm when I came home from work. I had texted Sean but hadn’t heard back. His car was in the driveway, which surprised me since he was supposed to be at work. Maybe he’d come home for lunch, I thought.

I walked into the house and went back to his room.

He was kneeling by the bed, and it looked like he was praying.

I called his name. He didn’t answer.

I raced over. His face was ashen gray. I tried to resuscitate him. The ambulance came right away. They worked on him for twenty-five minutes.

Sean tried something that morning that a lot of young adults experiment with. He had taken fentanyl.

He was just twenty years old.

But that moment is not Sean’s story.

Sean’s story begins long before that afternoon, and it deserves to be told.

He was born February 7, 2000 and came into this world ten weeks early, but still a healthy 4 lbs. 4 oz. Just this tiny, perfect little guy.

He had the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. He looked up at me while I tried to feed him through the incubator glass. He came home weeks later, after two hospital stays, already a fighter.

From the start he was curious, gentle, and full of personality.

He took his time learning to talk, so we found him a speech therapist. We also enrolled him in YMCA daycare, hoping other kids his age would help draw him out.

Boy, did it work. He became the chattiest kid in the class. Turns out, all he needed was his people.

He was curious, inquisitive, eager to understand the world. He seemed wise beyond his years in a way that would catch you off guard.

I remember standing in Blockbuster when he was just 5. He pointed at a movie and said, “Actually, Mom, this is the one I want.” It was just that one word “actually”, but the way he said it stopped me cold. So deliberate. So adult. I laughed the whole way home.

Sean and developing type 1 Diabetes

In March of 2006, when Sean was six, his kindergarten teacher called. He had been sleeping all day and drinking everything in sight.

His blood sugars were over 600. Type 1 diabetes, diagnosed in first grade.

We sat in that hospital room, all of us stunned. I looked at him and said, “We can handle this. One day at a time.” And we did.

He adjusted and it just became another part of his daily routine.

I think it was harder on me than it ever was on him.

I remember our first real test: a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese. Right before the pizza came out, I took him to the bathroom, checked his blood, and gave him his insulin. I knelt down and looked at him.

“See, Sean. This is going to work just fine. We just have to be consistent, and we have to check your blood. That’s what keeps this manageable.” He just nodded.

Then he walked out and had pizza with his friends like it was nothing.

But he never gave up his ice cream and little Debbie’s oatmeal cream pies. Those were non negotiable.

As he grew older, he developed a great sense of humor. He was relentlessly, joyfully funny.

He used to stand by the bathroom door and jump out and scare me holding this horse head on a stick. It scared me every single time, and every single time he thought it was the funniest thing in the world. .

But beneath the pranks and the laughter was someone who loved deeply and knew how to show it.

His love for his sisters Maggie and Rosie was always visible, and his bond with Rosie grew especially strong as they got older. They had something special between them.

He loved his dad. Despite the divorce in 2008, he saw him every other weekend, and as Sean got older he would take the bus on his own to spend time with him. His dad remained very much a part of his life.

He loved his stepfather John too, and built something real with him over the years: playing catch, going to the movies, just being together.

His Friends

And his friends. He had so many, and from so many different worlds. His neighborhood buddy Tommy. His school band friends. His own band, Sticker Incentive. His gaming friends, his theatre friends, his pole vaulting friends.

To say he wasn’t afraid to try new things is an understatement. Everywhere he went, he found people and he connected.

He was a gifted writer. At 9 years old, he wrote a 60-page handwritten novel and tucked it into his drawer. I found it one day while looking for something in his room. I stood there stunned. When I brought it up, he just shrugged. Yeah, I wrote it. No fanfare. No seeking praise. That was the first time I clearly saw it: his humbleness, and a talent he kept mostly to himself.

He was also a remarkable artist. A drawing he made at 10 years old stopped me cold, the detail, the intricacy of it. I was blown away. He never made a fuss over any of it.

But above everything else, music became his life. At 10 he learned the trombone. Then the keyboards. Then the horn. Then the French horn, which became his instrument, the one that felt most like him. He played in high school concerts, community band concerts, Bowdoin Band performances, and his own band’s shows.

He was always tapping his feet, always feeling the rhythm.

Music was not something he did. It was something he was.

He was still becoming, and he was already so much.

He was also still figuring out who he loved.

At 16, he came to me one afternoon after a date with his girlfriend, stood in the doorway of my office, and said quietly, “Mom, I think I’m bisexual.” Then he walked away and went to his room.

I knocked on his door. He opened it. I said, Sean, love is love. Whoever you are, whatever you feel, that is you, and I love you.

He hugged me like the whole weight of the world had just shifted off his shoulders.

He eventually posted openly about his sexuality. The response from friends was overwhelming and beautiful.

He was twenty years old and still becoming. And he was already so much.

I planned his Celebration of Life for July 4th, 2020. Because we were three months into COVID and public gatherings weren’t allowed, we held it at our home, complete with masks and hand sanitizer.

People came. Lots of people. Friends, family, neighbors.

The backyard was filled with love for Sean.

I gave the opening talk. I wept through most of it.

Rosie sang “Hallelujah” and brought people to tears.

We closed with the Irish Blessing, “May the Road Rise to Meet You.” The crowd went silent.

And at that very moment, a cardinal flew directly in front of the patio where we were and disappeared into one of our trees. My heart knew it was him.

Others stood and shared stories, funny ones, tender ones. Band friends, neighbors, family. I cried through all of it.

But it was what happened afterward, in the quiet conversations people pulled me aside for, that undid me completely. The things they only wanted me to hear.

“He was one of my best friends. He listened to everything I said, never interrupted, not once. He helped me through one of the worst times of my life.” A high school friend, speaking softly, just for me.

Tommy, his neighborhood friend, found me and said, “He was the funniest guy. Always there when I needed him. Never broke anyone’s trust. I’m going to miss him so much.”

Another friend simply said, “He always made you feel like you were his best friend. He just had this way about him. Hard to explain, but he was the best.”

I learned more about my son that day than I had ever known. His character shone more brightly than I had fully realized.

And I was beyond proud that he was mine.

He lived fully.

He mattered.

He gave to the world with his kindness, his compassion and the way he showed up for people.

His soul has not gone silent. It has just moved into a different room.

That last hug in the hallway, two people in their pajamas saying I love you without knowing it was goodbye.

I used to grieve that I did not know. Now I think maybe the soul always knows.

And I know for sure now: Love does not end here.

They continue through synchronicities, signs, messages, dreams. Sean sends his love all the time!

And is still being, in every beautiful way, himself.