Moving Forward in the Face of Tragedy

**Trigger Warning**

This piece mentions suicide. If you feel like you are in crisis and need someone to speak with, please call the Suicide Crisis HelpLine at 988.

Ryan was my first child, born on March 31, 2003.

I had waited 35 years to have him after I met my husband Terry when I was 30. As a Police Detective specialising in Child Protection, he sure was a blessing. Terry was a renowned Osteopath – treating patients all over the world.

Ryan was born into a loving healthy family. We lived in a beautiful home looking at the Ocean. His nan and pop were just 600 metres from us and as the boys grew, they used to ride their little bikes there for french toast for breakfast. It was one of Ryan’s favourite things to do.

Ryan has a brother, Oskar, who is 21 months his junior. He is now 19 and without his best friend and brother. Right now, he doesn’t know how to articulate what he is feeling. He is angry, and lonely and only just the other day admitted to these feelings of missing his brother.

Ryan was a sporty kid. It didn’t help that his mum and dad came from a sporting background. I was a triathlon coach and just loved taking the boys swimming, running and riding with me and the squad. I remember all too well swimming alongside him stroke for stroke and him smiling at me as we swam. It was a beautiful moment. I am grateful, so very grateful. 

It was a healthy, good life and he had a wonderful tribe of people around him.

Ryan wanted to play rugby, not because he really wanted to, but because all of his mates were. To fit in, he felt he needed to play. 

I was reluctant. Very reluctant. He was in sixth grade at school and training equated to two afternoons a week. It was very basic and skills on tackling were not a priority. Ryan was a tall skinny boy being a triathlete. He wasn’t built to play rugby or football. In one of his first finals matches in Rugby, I recall him being tackled by a much bigger boy.  I still recall this day.

The crowd, the sun, the fresh air. It was a big crowd. The match was close.

Ryan got the ball and was running on the wing when a big boy came from the middle and tackled him. Suddenly, he was smashed into the hard ground. There was a moment of silence. The crowd, who all had sons on the field, stood and let out an audible gasp. When he got tackled,  there was silence. He should have been taken off the field. In hindsight, I should have run on and got him off knowing what I know now. A mother lacking the knowledge to protect her son. 

The difference between him and the boy who tackled Ryan was so very obvious, probably 10 to 15 kilograms. Some schools were known to scout for certain boys of size and stature to inflict as much damage as possible on the opposition. It worked on this occasion. 

I recall him coming off the field that day, over 11 years ago, and him telling me his head hurt. To think of that now and what I should have done breaks my heart. His little body standing in front of me holding his head saying, “Mum my head,”.

Ryan’s next concussion was when he was playing basketball and the ball hit him in the head and knocked him out. He fell to the ground and lost consciousness. The school put him in the sick bay and let him rest and that was the only protocol at that time.

Ryan was a champion swimmer and runner. He was a naturally gifted athlete with size 11 feet by the time he was 13. He was wearing a men’s size small shirt. He had the most amazing big blue eyes, they sparkled, and his smile would light up a room. He was cheeky by nature and just a beautiful soul.

He and his brother went to boarding school for their senior schooling, like their dad, and became involved in Rugby.  Ryan didn’t want to be involved, but being in an all-boys school, he felt he had to be part of a team. He wasn’t that kid, he was tall and strong, but oh so very soft-hearted.

He was away at a game, and I received a call from the school. They told me I had better come and get him as he had had another concussion and was a bit “doughy.” I will never forget that day, the day I picked him up from school, he was tired and wanted to sleep. He was usually a chatterbox full of good humour. Not on this day, He was on the precipice of 16, he was tall and so very handsome. I later found out he had had two concussions in one game, the initial concussion where he was left on the field, and the second concussion shortly after, where he was knocked out cold.

My husband Terry was away in the USA for work, I called him and told him what had happened. He said to keep an eye on him, which I did. On that night, at 7 p.m., I saw there was swelling under his left eye. I took him straight to the hospital. At the hospital, they examined him but wanted me to drive him to another hospital to treat pediatric patients. 

I refused, worried he could have a brain bleed. They refused to do a CT due to his age and there was no specialist available until I demanded it. Eventually, he was examined and found to have a moderate concussion. He was sent home in the early hours of the morning with me where I slept in the room next to his to be close to him. 

It was from this point on, I liken it to me treading water, holding him above my head, trying to save him. He went back to school gradually.

He never recovered.

He was never the same. He couldn’t cope with the isolation of not playing football and being part of a team. He had issues being able to focus and was extremely emotional. He went from not wearing glasses to needing glasses. Some months later he left school, and we brought him home. He was struggling, I saw him go from an outgoing young man to withdrawn, struggling to sleep, moody and depressed. On reflection, there was no doubt he was suffering from Post-Concussion Syndrome.  

As a mother, I felt he was lost. We spent so much time trying to help him. No one would listen to us. 

Over the next two years he started to become impulsive. He was emotive and self-medicating. He attempted suicide on the 26th  of February, 2020. 

His note read, “To my loving family, I love you all so much, but I can’t do this anymore, I haven't been the same since the head knocks. I’m sorry.”

Luckily on this occasion, we found him. 

We had him examined by a specialist brain clinic and they summed up that he had a MODERATE brain injury. Not mild, moderate. There were another nine suicide attempts, sleepless nights, impulsive, aggressive behaviour, self-medication and erratic behaviour before he left us. 

And so on May 27, 2021, just three weeks after the death of his father, my husband, at age 18, my beautiful boy left us. He was just two months into his 18th year of life. 

His struggle was just too much. In one of his letters, he wrote, “My head’s never quite working right these past few years after the injury. I have noticed the changes in who I am and it’s heartbreaking for me knowing that’s not who I am.” 

How is a concussion worth a life so young? 

If there is one thing I want to get across to parents of children playing sports it is this:

Concussions are real. It is a brain injury and if treated correctly 80% of people suffering can recover, but only when we are serious and understand concussions and what they are. It doesn’t just equate to a direct head knock. It can be a shoulder charge, it can be a landing where the brain is moved with such dramatic force to create movement in the skull. It should be treated as a concussion.

I have lost my son. My heart is eternally broken and if by doing so I can make just one parent realise that we need to take concussions seriously then that’s one person we can save. 

I am not suggesting we shouldn’t play sports, I am saying please be educated about concussions, their effects, treatment, the seriousness of it and the long-term effects.