I had a horrible feeling that late October Friday in 2012.
God knows, I’d been in that situation many times before – wondering if Austin was OK. But this time felt different. That Wednesday, he left voicemails that sounded confused – from a friend’s phone, because Austin had misplaced his, again. On Thursday, Austin sent texts from that same phone. Something wasn’t right. I called the friend I didn’t know and told him I was concerned about my son, and asked him to have Austin call me. Several hours later the friend called to say he went to Austin’s apartment but no one was home. I thought about getting on a plane to New Orleans to make sure everything was all right. I don’t know why this time seemed so different; I just knew it was. A few hours later I received a blocked call. I couldn’t answer in time, and there was no message. Three minutes later a call came in with a New Orleans area code. It was the coroner saying my beautiful boy was found slumped over his kitchen table, dead from an opioid overdose. Austin’s journey was over; mine was just beginning.
Like every son or daughter, Austin was a wonderful person. He had his issues, but mostly he was just a kid trying to grow up in a world that throws endless challenges at all of us – some we understand, some we don’t; some we share, some we keep hidden deep within. A loving boy with a huge heart, incredible mind, and amazing sense of humor. He was on his way to becoming a world-class guitarist. Austin loved John Mayer and was nearly as good.
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Bu hikaye Central Park West Magazine dergisinin Issue 61 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Already a subscriber? Giriş Yap
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