November 6, 2013, my 15-year-old son and my mom were coming home from church, it was a home invasion. I remember my mom calling me around 9 p.m. or so and telling me my son had been shot. I was home with my girls, I hadn’t been home long. I said, “Mom, what do you mean he has been shot, is he OK? What happened?”
My mother, who was in shock, I believe, she just told me the ambulance was there, they are taking him away, and they said he was OK.
He was DOA. I remember them telling me I couldn’t see him. I asked why can’t I see him, the doctor explained he had lost a lot of blood, he had bled out — basically bled to death from the gunshot wounds to his torso.
Then died again when I had to tell the horrific story to my mom. My mom turned pale, and she said “Why God! Why not me?” In that very moment I realized what my mom was going through and I asked her, “Mom what happened!”
She said my son came running out of his bedroom, in his underwear, and pushed the gunman out of her face. He pushed him so hard he knocked my mom down and the gunman down and the gun out his hand. When my son turned around, to help mom up, the gunman got up, found the gun and started shooting. My mother mimicked the gun shot sounds, “Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom!”
She said then she heard my son scream, and she realized he was shot, the gunman ran.
As his mom, all I think about is she didn’t hold him, he was reaching for her, and she didn’t console him. I know, I know my mom was in shock, but my baby was reaching out for her, and I just can’t help to think I wasn’t there to hold him, and just tell him its going to be OK. Even if it wasn’t. The sad realization is, that night it was my son or my mom.