Life Is TOO short

There is little doubt that as a CASA we often feel like we are fighting a losing battle. One in which the climb is so steep it seems we will never reach the top. That no matter what we do, it's never enough. This week I want to share you a story of a boy whose battle is over and hopefully remind you why we fight.

People ask me all the time what they should do when they suspect abuse or neglect. "Call!" I reply with fervor and commitment and hopefully convince them that there is no other choice. A child is depending on you. But it's not always as easy as just picking up the phone. Neglect is much harder to report. This young man, we will call him Joshua, was neglected. No physical scars, but hunger and abandonment were the things that haunted him. Surrounded by an immediate family that was indifferent to his existence, he struggled everyday to find someone who would just validate his existence. Just acknowledge that he was breathing and that his breath mattered. I was lucky to be one of those people from time to time. I gave hugs, offered encouragement, teased with him a bit, laughed at his jokes. It was easy to do really, because although his behavior in class wasn't always up to par, he was a kid who was easy to like. A smile that lit up a room, a laugh that was infectious, and a voice that was old beyond his years. It was a bit raspy, and when he sang, it gave pause to those who were listening. And I knew about his hunger. I knew that he was neglected. I knew because he told me so. "Should I call? What would I say? That this young boy said it was so, so it must be true. Right?" But I didn't call.

Teachers, counselors, neighbors, even relatives knew it was bad. Collectively I am sure that we would have all been able to piece together an all too familiar tale of neglect and abuse that this young man and his siblings endured everyday. But it seems we all chose to help independently. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but looking back, perhaps there was. We spoke about him often to one another. Bemoaning his life and shaking our heads in dismay. "Poor boy," we would say.

On the last day of school there was a picnic and, as was typical, his parent chose not to attend. I offered my services as surrogate mom and he accepted. We ate hot dogs and chips and sat in the shade and talked and laughed. When my son and I got up to go, I gave him a hug, told him to call me if he needed anything this summer. Gave him a kiss on the top of his sweet head and waved goodbye. Four hours later he was in a hospital fighting for his life. Five hours after that, he was dead.

His death was an accident. No foul play involved. He wasn't beaten. He didn't starve to death. I am devastated as his death, but moreover I am crushed by his life. That so many of us stood by, "doing what we could" and that this young man who bravely got up out of bed everyday to face a world full of disappointment and instability, was allowed to flounder. We didn't do enough. I could have done more. His death has served as a reminder to me that it is not enough to just care. It is not enough to just "do my part". Someone must rally the troops for boys like Joshua and take the next step. Make the call. Be the difference.

When I told my boys about their friends death, they said to me, "Mom, it's okay. He had a hard life and he's in a better place now." I couldn't agree more.