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Nothing can prepare you for the devastating aftermath of the suicide of your child.
On 26 March 2007, my  beloved only child, my 18 year old son, jumped from a pedestrian overpass onto a freeway in front of an enormous refrigeration truck and was mangled.
He was not a drug user; his toxicology tests revealed there was very little alcohol in his system. He died because he could not endure the unbearable emotional pain that life was for him...
The reasons many.
I remember, and I could see when it started. As a mother I fought to protect him from the pain of life right till the very end.
Both he and I were helpless to change some of the structures, mentalities, cruelties, and hurdles that are part of this life as we know it, and that the majority are able to learn, from. Not he, he was too sensitive, too strong in his beliefs, creative, too needy for love.
For those left behind, - for me in order to survive - it is essential to release the often intolerable grief with whatever means are available.
It is essential to communicate to the world what I am feeling, because at times it is so surreal that I am lost. 
Feelings of sinking into a hole, enveloped by an eerie silence, I could die there where I stand.
Other times like a pressure cooker about to explode, you need a safety valve, a release to stop ‘you’ from exploding.
There are times again when out of nowhere I will cry or even scream out his name, this usually when I am driving on the freeway.
Sometimes I miss him so much I go into his untouched room, searching for his smell, then collapse, like a tortured animal wailing.

I felt Alex’s pain in a dream. In this dream I was him. I was feeling what 'he' was just before he died. The pain was so strong, incredible feelings of despair, fear hopelessness. It was very dark like you would imagine hell to be. I awoke in shock, but also with a renewed awareness of what it was like for him...I remember thinking that no parent in their right mind would ever want their child to live like this.

Often I must stop myself thinking of him as he was, because it is torture, so I force myself to think of him as he is now... free of pain, happy.

Does this console me? No, and perhaps sometimes when I need a little respite I think yes, maybe.

I cannot emphasize enough how expressing my feelings, whether in writings, talking, helping others, or whatever means are available, is helping me in this rollercoaster of emotions I find myself living now.

Footprints in the Sand – A Symphony of Grief, is a a tribute to my son's short life; to our reciprocal continual love throughout the layers of existence.

Borne from a deep impassioned need to help anyone who is traveling this most treacherous of roads, the most cruel of tragedies, I hope this book can offer something positive to those who read it.

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