Won’t someone listen to me? I drive around in my car all alone at night and ask God, "Are you listening to me, God?" I’m hurting. I want to scream, "Won’t someone listen to me? Can’t anyone hear me?" I really don’t know what I want, except to get rid of this pain in my heart. I’m crying. My heart is empty. Is anyone hearing me? My John is dead. Oh, God! My son is dead."

On June 24, 1998, my son John (who was mentally impaired) was doused with gasoline and set on fire by three young men in a wooded area behind the group home where he lived. These men were never caught. My God, what a senseless act of violence. John received second and third degree burns over 70% of his body. John’s head, ears, eyes, face, neck, upper arms, shoulders, back and hands were burned beyond recognition. He was air-lifted to the Burn Treatment Center in Buffalo in critical condition. John was placed on a ventilator and other life support systems. John underwent numerous surgeries and many skin grafts. John also had to have a tracheotomy put in to help him breathe. .

On July 30, 1998, John died (not of his burns, that’s another story in itself). The only thing that comforted me is when I asked God: "Where were You, God, when my son got burned?" He answered: "I was right there where I was when my Son died on the cross." Is anyone out there listening to me? Who do I tell? Where do I go? Why didn’t it [[the story AP]] make the front page of every newspaper? Why didn’t the TV stations pick up the story? Why didn’t the fact that a mentally impaired person was a victim of a violent crime matter to anyone? Are you listening? This mother’s heart is broken. I ache inside with loneliness for my son. A local TV channel was called with John’s story, but refused to air it. However, the same channel did not find it hard to run a story about a mentally impaired man who killed his wife two weeks later.

When a mentally impaired person becomes a victim of a crime, it is unimportant to the media. My son John was very important to me and a joy to this family. John was very gentle. He would never think of hurting another human being. He had visions and dreams like anyone else. He was there to help anyone who needed it. He loved life, all too short as it was. He was my son, somebody’s brother, neighbor, friend and a member of the community.

We are dependent on the TV, radio stations and newspapers to report these crimes of violence against the mentally impaired. They must be reported equally, fairly and accurately. The public needs to know the whole story. The media selectively pick and choose the stories they wish to cover. No one knows how many mentally ill people are the victims of crimes when we only hear about the few who are the perpetrators of crimes.

The day my son John died, the world stopped. When it started back up again, my whole life had changed forever. But somehow I keep expecting him to come home. Maybe it’s because this all happened so fast. When John was in the hospital, I would go to see him everyday and I couldn’t even recognize him. (Is anyone listening to me? Can you see my tears? No, because they are shed quietly at night when no one is around.) His beautiful, long, curly hair was gone; his wonderful olive complexion was now burned raw, red, oozing, with reddish drainage, blackened skin; his beautiful lips were swollen to three times the normal size; his bloodshot eyes could not make contact with me; he had no eyelashes or eyebrows. My heart ached when he mouthed around the ventilator, "Mom, take me home. Help me, help me." Mothers are supposed to be able to help their children. Are you listening? I felt so helpless, so hopeless. I’d come home at night and read my Bible, asking God to give me peace. I stand on the verse (King James version, John 14:27): "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, but I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." God has been my strength. No human being can comfort me like the Father can.

Someone out there has to tell his story. Friends and family keep going on with their lives, but I cannot seem to go on with mine. I need to tell someone. Are you listening? Can I tell you? Do you have time to listen to a mother’s broken heart? I couldn’t help my son when he said, "Help me, help me." Can you be there for me when I say, "Help me, help me?" When I see the sun’s rays coming down from heaven, I remember the day I asked the Lord to send a legion of angels to come and take John home. Was I wrong? He was now in an irreversible coma, no hope of ever coming out of it. My thought was, "No one will ever be able to hurt him again." On the mantle is John’s picture, one of the very few I have of him smiling - a moment when he must have found something to smile about. A very rare occasion in his life. Amazing, since he could keep other peoples’ spirits up if they were down.

His medication gave him somewhat of a blank look on his face. You could never tell what he was thinking. He had long hair, a bearded face, and an unkempt appearance. He struggled with his mental illness. He held a good conversation, laughed at a funny joke, but lived in a world of his own. John liked to ride his bike around town, listening to his Bible tapes on his Walkman, as he did not like to be around a lot of people at the same time.

Today I saw a baby raccoon on the road. Oh, how I remember how many of them he brought home, took care of, and released back into the woods. John loved animals. I guess they never hurt him like people did. (Are you listening?) I miss my son. (Is anybody out there?) Won’t someone listen to me?

"Johnny, you will always be a child in my eyes."