My son Chris died of suicide on September 9, 2009, at the age of 23. While he had suffered from depression as a teenager, he seemed to be doing well as an adult.

He had just started back to school. Here's how he instroduced himself in an online class, "My name is Chris Moravek, I'm a 23 year old server in Louisville Kentucky. I'm a self taught musician specializing in Guitar and vocals. I've always considered music to be more of an artform than anything else, so I believe it will be interesting to hear how art can be broken down into a scientific format."

For most of his life he lived in Grand Junction, Colorado. He loved ice hockey, music, animals, especially dogs, fishing and, most of all, snowboarding. The year before last he trained for the ski patrol, and last year he worked as a snowboard instructor at Crested Butte. Unfortunately it didn't pay enough to live on, and no other jobs were available.

Last April he came here to Louisville, Ky., to live with us (his step-dad and me). He was working as a server and made a lot of friends while working there. Just a week before he died, he switched to grill, and really seemed to be enjoying it. Just two days before he died, he seemed to be in good spirits when we had dinner with him.

He worked late, and often didn't fall asleep until 4 or 5 in the morning. I frequently wake up for an hour or two in the early hours of the morning. It worked out in that it gave us a time to talk to each other on a fairly regular basis. That morning, I woke up around 3:30. He was sitting in front of the computer watching a movie and inking in a mosquito tattoo on his leg using a needle and blue and red pens. He said to me, "Mom, you don't have any of my artwork." I replied, "You never gave me any." He said, "Let me give you a tattoo." Not knowing this was the last opportunity to ever receive a piece of his artwork, other than the many pieces I've saved that he created in grade and middle school, I said, "but I don't want a tattoo." He seemed kind of down that I was rejecting his offer, but wasn't terribly upset.

A bit later, as I was heading to bed he seemed a bit upset as he told me that he didn't have any way to express himself musically - he had left his guitar in Colorado and just had an inexpensive keyboard that we had picked up at a yardsale. I was tired and in a bad mood, so I didn't reply. That was our last conversation.

I slept in that morning until 7, got up, showered, sliced some tomatoes for my lunch, and headed out to the backyard to pick some basil to go with the tomatoes. When I opened the door to the back porch, for one last, normal moment of my life, I thought Chris was still up (he often went to the back porch to smoke) - then I realized he was gone for forever.

The two months and six days since he has been gone have been incredibly difficult. I keep thinking of the scripture, "This too will pass." While my ripped apart heart will never be the same, through counseling and many hours spent corresponding with an online support group for suicide survivors, I do believe that the pain will, over time, become less intense.

I so wish I could have said something different and done things differently over the years. I miss my son Chris so much, and it hurts so much to see how this is affecting my son Brian, Chris's older brother by two years, and other family members and friends.

In some ways, while Chris seemed to be doing well, I believe he had decided to die by suicide on that date a long time ago. Occasionally he would speak about not wanting to grow up and face adult responsibilities, and he had mentioned this date to me and to friends as being significant - he alluded to Nostradamus predictions, but wasn't ever really clear as to why this date was so important.

I miss his hugs, I miss his music and movie recommendations, I miss his smile, I miss sharing grammar tips and unusual words with him, I miss being his mom.