I've always been told to write what I know. But sometimes what you don't know is far more important than what you do.
I didn't know Jason Wren. You didn't know him either. Jason was a 19-year-old student at Kansas University. Jason died in March 2009, alone, in a bed at his fraternity house. His autopsy report indicated that Jason had a blood alcohol content level of .362. Jason's friends put him to bed at 2 a.m. He got up and was walking around until 3 a.m., when he was again put into bed. No witnesses report seeing him again after this. Jason's friends went to wake him up at 2 p.m. the next day. He was "cold and unresponsive," according to the autopsy report. The paramedics were called and Jason was pronounced dead at 2:43 p.m. A paramedic reportedly said "it appeared that Mr. Wren had been dead for some time."
I know Jason Wren. You know Jason Wren. Maybe your Jason went to your high school. Maybe your Jason was in an article like the one I just read. There are hundreds, thousands of Jasons, too many, too often.
When does it matter? When does it hit you, slam you, knock you down, that realization that every breath you take is finite, precious, and can be gone in an instant? It won't be today. It won't be after reading my words. It might not be for years. The timing is irrelevant. It's the knowing that matters. You know that one day your Jason will not just be a figment, a symbol, a young life taken far too soon. He will be the person in the hospital and you will be the person in the waiting room and what you don't know will be killing you.
This weekend, someone I had just met, someone I knew for only a few short hours, was that person in a hospital bed. I was with a couple of his very best friends in the waiting room. We were having a party for my friend's almost-birthday. And then we were in the hospital. It only took an instant.
This person I barely knew, let's call him "D," had a BAC level very close to the one Jason had. D is fine, but he may not have been. It's a matter of degrees. D may have become a name, just like Jason, a name used as a warning, a cautionary tale, a sad story. Instead he is alive.
I have a few questions. I'm not sure which ones should be answered. I think I'm afraid to even ask.
Would Jason still be alive if instead of putting him to sleep, his friends had taken him to the hospital? Maybe he just seemed "really drunk," a state we all recognize and usually categorize as "not a big deal." Maybe Jason's friends figured if they had all been drinking the same amount, then probably he would be "fine." We don't know. We never will.
What if D hadn't fallen down the steps? Would we have called the hospital if he was just walking around incoherently? Did falling save his life? Would I maybe have thought he was just "really drunk;" would I have given him some water and been on my way?
How many times should I have called the hospital and I didn't? On any given weekend night, after a football game, at a huge party/pregame/postgame? How many times should I have gone myself?\nWe're all guilty. I'm guilty of having had too much to drink, to the point of being in a very dangerous situation. I'm guilty of putting the people I care about in an emotionally tortured state - "How could you do that to yourself?" We're in college and we drink and we drink too much many times and when did we forget that every breath is finite, precious and can be gone in an instant?
I'm mad. I'm mad that people at my apartment didn't want to involve the police or paramedics. I'm mad that people can look at a boy, bloody and unconscious, sprawled on the steps, and tell me that he's "fine." I'm mad at myself. I'm mad that I've let my friends walk home alone from a bar, completely "out of it," because I was completely out of it. I'm mad that my sister has called me and texted me, not knowing where I am, because I didn't even know where I was. I'm mad that I haven't yet realized how dangerous and worthless these drunken nights are. I won't today, I won't after reading these words, my words. Maybe I won't for years.
This is not a public service announcement. This is not a warning. This is not a plea. This is a story about a boy, a boy who didn't make it to see his 20th birthday. This is a story about a boy whose parents will wonder for the rest of their lives, "What if, what if, what if." This is a story about someone you don't know. This is a story about someone you do know. This is a story about you.
Mary Scott's column runs weekly Thursdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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