Journalist’s fifth W proves formidable question in deaths

Journalists are trained to ask the five W’s: who, what, when, where and why. This formula is the foundation for news writing. The first four are straightforward; it’s the last question that’s often problematic.

I’ve been troubled by unanswerable whys lately.

Several times a week I drive past a memorial to Andrew Rosell. The red floral remembrance on the corner of Magnesium Road and Nevada Street marks the place where the 16-year-old was struck and killed by a city recycling truck.

It’s been two years since the accident, but the silent tribute offers evidence that Rosell is deeply missed. I remember his death vividly, because he attended the same high school as my sons, and the news of his passing shook his classmates.

Teenagers often feel invincible. Death in a crosswalk on a beautiful spring day seems impossible. Yet in an instant, a family was robbed of a son, a brother, a grandson. Why?

More recently, my 17-year-old came home from school upset. He’d just learned that a classmate had committed suicide the night before. “He sat in front of me during WASL testing yesterday,” Alex said. “And now, he’s just gone.”

We talked throughout the afternoon as Alex puzzled over this young man’s death. “We went paintballing, he had lots of friends, he was a good kid,” he said, blinking back tears. My own ran unchecked, dripping from my chin, splashing onto my blouse. I grieved for a boy I’d never met, and for a mother and father who’d lost their most precious gift.

I pondered the tragedy on The Spokesman-Review blog, Huckleberries Online. The question, “Have you ever been touched by suicide?” triggered a flood of comments – many of them raw and incredibly painful to read. The aftermath of suicide is devastating and undiminished by the passage of time.

No parent wants to talk to teens about suicide; it’s easier to pretend such things don’t happen. Often we’re afraid we’ll plant these thoughts into vulnerable minds.

But Alex needed to talk – and so did I. Our conversation was gut-wrenching for me but seemed cathartic for him. When I dropped him off at soccer practice, I held him close and kissed him. I didn’t want to let him go. As he got out of the car, Alex said, “I just don’t understand why he would do this.”

Last week another death hit even closer to home. We attended the funeral of 17-year-old Tyler LeLaCheur. I’d held Tyler in my arms when he was one day old.

It’s amazing to look into a newborn’s eyes. He gazed back at me with unblinking solemnity, and I wondered what kind of boy this baby would become. Would he be a handful like his big sister? Would he be a friend to my unborn son who kicked impatiently within me? Would he be musical like his father, athletic like his mother? It never occurred to me to wonder, will he be healthy?

A week later, his parents received devastating news. Tyler had multiple congenital heart defects, and was born without a spleen. There was so much wrong with his tiny heart that his doctors scrambled to find a comparable case. His family was thrust into a world of medical tests, appointments and surgeries in a desperate quest to keep their son alive.

Tyler didn’t get to go to preschool with my son. His asplenia meant that he was extremely vulnerable to infection, and any kind of infection could be fatal. For the first years of his life he stayed at home with his mother.

Eventually, he grew strong enough to attend school and become active in his youth group. He enjoyed video editing and produced amazingly creative videos. Multiple surgeries bought him time but unfortunately couldn’t fix him. His health issues didn’t quench his quirky sense of humor, though. The night before his final operation he stayed up late making a surgery punch card for his doctors. It read: “Open Heart Surgery Punch Card: Come in for four, get your fifth free!”

However, there was no more time to be bought for Tyler. People all over the world prayed for a miracle, but really, every breath he took for the last 17 years was a miracle. His faith in God was unshakable. He believed absolutely that when he died, he’d spend eternity in heaven and be reunited with his beloved grandmother. That same faith comforts his family now.

Yet for each of these families there’s an empty chair at the dinner table, a laugh they’d give anything to hear again, and a hole in their hearts where their sons’ names are forever etched.

Our community has been diminished by the loss of these young men. Their absence has caused me to draw my own children even closer, to revel in the noise, the mess and the chaos that living with teenagers brings. Loss teaches how fragile life can be.

So, I’ve given you who, what, when and where, but I’m afraid for this story the why will have to wait.