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Sunday, October 17, 2004
Couple's lives spiral into 'hell' after tragic death of their son
Copyright © 2004 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc. | ||||||||||||||
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GORHAM — Night after night, Lorraine Gagnon is visited by a haunting vision. She is running, lost in darkness and mist, trying to follow the wails of her oldest son. "Mom, mom, help me," A.J. Gagnon cries. "Help me, mom." Lorraine wakes up crying and lunges out of bed. Often she ends up in the bathroom, vomiting. A year and a half ago, A.J. died of a drug overdose at age 28. Weeks after his funeral, Lorraine was told that A.J.'s brain had been sent to a Maryland research lab. Later, she and her husband filed a lawsuit that has helped show how few regulations apply when private research institutes acquire human body parts. "I just pray that this helps somebody else, because this year's been hell," the 49-year-old Gorham woman said. Lorraine's life has indeed taken a dark turn since April 2003. Suffering from depression, she lost her job as a contract employee at the state prison in Windham, working for Correctional Medical Services. Her 52-year-old husband, Frank, who is not A.J.'s biological father but raised him as his own son, also became depressed and stopped working, she said. Lorraine's nights are restless, and during the day she often doesn't feel like leaving the family's brown-shingled home in Gorham. "This is 24/7 for me. I don't sleep at night. I live it every day," Lorraine said. Tears tend to well up in Lorraine's eyes when she talks about A.J. She doesn't hold the Stanley Medical Research Institute responsible for the loss of her son - how could she? But the Gagnons do hold the Bethesda, Md.-based research lab and former Maine funeral inspector Matthew S. Cyr responsible for, they say, removing their son's brain from his body without permission. Officials with the Stanley Institute are disputing the allegation in court. The lab's founder, in a June 2003 memo, concluded that Lorraine Gagnon consented, then changed her mind. Gagnon remains troubled both by her son's death and what happened afterward. One minute she reminisces about A.J.'s love of Harley-Davidson motorcycles. The next, she questions whether the brain that was eventually sent back to Maine actually was her son's. When a parent loses a child, the grief can be overwhelming. But for Lorraine Gagnon, the aftermath of A.J.'s death has prolonged and intensified the pain. "There's always something that's bringing this up to her, every single day," said Connie Gagnon, Lorraine's mother-in-law. "She's a completely different woman than she was." Aaron John Gagnon got off to a difficult start, his mother says, as he was born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. As a toddler, he needed surgery to straighten his bright blue eyes, correcting a problem caused by his birth. When A.J. was a month old, Lorraine left his biological father. More than a year later, she remarried, and over the next few years she and Frank Gagnon had two sons. As a boy, A.J. had behavioral problems. In kindergarten, he bit a teacher and was sent to The Spurwink School, a Portland school for children with special needs, his mother said. "A.J. had a very quick temper," she said. "You could tell by his eyes, you know: Something's going to blow." In middle school, A.J. transferred to Gorham schools. He was placed in special education classes and struggled to find a niche. In 11th grade, he refused to attend school, and Lorraine felt she could no longer make him go. A.J. loved working on cars, and he took a job as a mechanic. But eventually he got out of the business - to avoid discoloring his fingernails, his mother said. At age 23, he would be diagnosed with depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder, according to his mother. Looking back, Lorraine recalls some of the forms her son's OCD took. A.J. kept his room immaculate - he knew when his mother dusted - and he dressed with unusual attention to detail. "He wouldn't even go to the store unless everything was just right," Lorraine said. Lorraine, who referred to her son as "Jekyll and Hyde," often was frustrated by A.J.'s frequent misbehavior. "On a good day, he was just a happy, silly guy. He really was. On a bad day, get out of his way," she said. When A.J. stepped out of line, his mother sometimes turned to her own mother for help. Lorraine Leary was a no-nonsense woman - a one-time boxer, she served stateside in the Army during World War II - and she practiced tough love with A.J. And the two bonded over activities that don't appeal to many senior citizens, such as boating on Sebago Lake. "She'd ride motorcycles with A.J. She'd go on the boat," Lorraine Gagnon said. When A.J.'s grandmother, whom he called "Nan," died in 1997, he became depressed. "That took a lot out of A.J.," his mother said. A.J. was always popular with girls; his family's phone was constantly ringing for him. He and a girlfriend became more serious, and in September 1999, they had a daughter, Victoria. "When Victoria came along, it was beautiful for the time," Lorraine Gagnon said. "He adored that kid. He adored her." For two years, A.J. cared for his daughter while his girlfriend worked, Lorraine said. But the couple eventually split up, and A.J. began to see less of Victoria. A.J. had trouble holding steady work. He got his general equivalency diploma, did stints as a bouncer at Portland night clubs and, shortly before he died, was training to become a licensed plumber. Sometimes A.J. felt he wasn't a good father because he was unemployed, his mother said. In 2002 A.J. reunited with Hope Stuart, whom he dated as a teenager, and the two fell in love. Stuart, a mother of three and one-time swimming coach at South Portland High School, had "A.J." tattooed on her back, and the two decided to marry. Their marriage was troubled, and they had no children together, but Hope helped A.J. confront a festering issue - the absence of his biological father from his life. Not long before he died, A.J. met up with his biological father, whom he had not seen for years. The two men clicked, Lorraine Gagnon said. Both liked tattoos; they shared a love for motorcycles. "It was starting to be a very good relationship," Lorraine said. But A.J.'s marriage was turning sour. One factor may have been A.J.'s obsessive-compulsive disorder. A.J. liked everything to be spotless, and it bothered him when their living space wasn't perfectly clean. The couple fought a lot, according to Lorraine Gagnon, and on more than one occasion, A.J. did short jail stints for domestic violence. "I believe they loved each other, but they didn't know what marriage was like," A.J.'s mother said. About a year after they were married, the two got a divorce. Hope obtained a protection order that barred A.J. from contacting her. Lorraine warned her son not to call his ex-wife, but he did anyway. In early 2003, A.J. ended up in jail again, and when he was released, his parents thought he did not seem like himself. On April 24, 2003, a few days after A.J. left jail, according to his mother, he died from an accidental overdose of prescription drugs. These days, Lorraine Gagnon often replays that morning's events in her head. She woke up to find A.J. unconscious on the living room couch in the family's Gorham home. Lorraine believes that A.J., who was snoring "like a freight train," was dreaming about his maternal grandmother. Shortly before he died, Lorraine swears she heard A.J. say, "Nan, wait." The family called 911, and an ambulance took A.J. Gagnon to Maine Medical Center, where he died at 8:12 a.m. "He just went to sleep," Lorraine said, taking some comfort that A.J. did not suffer. More than a year later, tragedy also struck Hope Stuart Gagnon's family. On Mother's Day 2004, the South Portland woman loaded her three kids into a rented Ford Explorer for a hastily planned trip to northern Maine. All four were killed, along with two other women and another child, when the speeding vehicle crashed on Interstate 95 near Bangor. Since A.J.'s death, his parents have struggled. Neither is employed; both say they take antidepressants. Frank Gagnon's feelings are more pent-up than his wife's, she says, but sometimes he'll be reminded of A.J. and become emotional, too. And he is just as determined to see their lawsuit through. "If it's time to fight, I'll come out fighting, but not until," Frank Gagnon said. Both of A.J.'s parents have been devastated by their questions about what happened after their son's death, said John Campbell, their lawyer. "They're just horrified by it," he said. Staff Writer Kevin Wack can be contacted at 282-8226 or at:
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