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Sunday, November 14, 2004
Town mourns a favorite son - and asks, why?
Copyright © 2004 Blethen Maine Newspapers Inc. | ||||||||||||||||||||||
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CAPE ELIZABETH - Timmy Thompson wore an eternal grin. He grinned when he ripped out four teeth in a gymnastics stunt as a preschooler. He laughed and told jokes to his mom in the emergency room after losing part of his finger in a slammed door when he was 12. "He just always had a positive attitude about everything," Timmy's older sister Molly says. Timmy also had boundless energy. He drove his two older sisters, Molly and Emily, crazy. He was forever running, jumping, bouncing around the house like a wound-up toy. "Stop!" his sisters would scream, wanting to pound on him. But they couldn't. Timmy may have irritated them but they could never get mad. "He was like an annoying angel," Molly Thompson says. Timmy's energy also drew the attention of his teachers. Soon after he started first grade, he was diagnosed with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Like many other children with ADHD, he took medication to help him focus and sit still in class. While Timmy's energy caused him to struggle in school, it fueled his passion for sports. He played soccer, basketball and baseball for Cape Elizabeth community and school teams. He ran up and down the field and basketball court with unbridled enthusiasm. "Timmy added a lot of energy and excitement to the team," said Ben Raymond, Timmy's mentor and lacrosse coach for Cape Elizabeth High School. "He always gave his best and by doing that he encouraged other kids to do the same." Along with Timmy's intensity on and off the field, he enjoyed making friends and family laugh. When his buddies were depressed or worried, they turned to Timmy. He told jokes, drove them around town, blaring music, mimicking Bob Marley, his favorite comedian. Whenever he was in trouble with his mother, he'd reel off a Marley riff: "Hey, Ma, look at the gardineas. They're beee-u-ti-ful. Hey, Ma, Mama. . . ." With his outgoing nature, broad smile and bright blue eyes, Timmy was well known in this well-to-do seaside town of 9,000. It seemed Timmy said hi to everyone as he barreled around in his green Ford pickup. If he saw someone walking on the road, he'd pull over and offer: "Hi, I'm Tim. You need a ride?" That energy made him struggle, too, especially in school. Yet he managed to get passing grades or better. He was the kind of kid teachers couldn't get angry at. He left them goofy notes, Bob Marley CDs, candy. He once crawled into class on his belly when he was late. Cape Elizabeth High School English teacher Erika Kent was one of Timmy's favorite teachers. She understood Timmy's his battle to focus. "It took sheer will for him to slow down," she says. By his senior year, Timmy realized it was best if he went to Bridgton Academy, a prep school, before heading off to college. The extra year of school would help improve his grades and give him time to mature before heading off to college. Though Timmy seemed happy about that decision, Kent and other teachers began noticing that Timmy he struggled even more last May, shortly before he graduated from Cape Elizabeth High School. His difficulties came soon after Timmy stopped taking his ADHD medication, Concerta, when he turned 18 on May 1. It was a decision Timmy's family didn't agree with. "I don't need it anymore," Timmy told teachers and friends. Without the medication he had relied on for years, Timmy grew agitated, unable to relax or sleep. He began calling friends at 3 a.m. on school nights, asking them if they wanted to hang out. He parked his truck on the beach one morning and went for a walk at sunrise. By the time he returned, the tide had come in. Timmy's beloved pickup was totaled. Timmy continued to act strangely. He borrowed friends' cars, raced up and down the town's back roads, blaring the horn. He climbed onto the high school roof after midnight, trying to find a way into the school. Timmy had been impulsive before, but his friends noticed he was more unpredictable. His parents had their own concerns. They understood Timmy was under a great deal of pressure the last few weeks of school. Timmy's His senior research papers were due. The prom was coming up. Graduation. The state lacrosse championship game. It seemed Timmy was in perpetual motion. "It was almost like his heart was going to beat out of his chest," his dad thought. In the weeks that followed, Timmy calmed down. But then his energy peaked again and his parents worried. On June 3, his parents made an appointment with a local doctor who specializes in treating ADHD. The doctor suggested placing Timmy back on Concerta and increasing the dose. Timmy took the medication for a couple of days and then stopped. "I can't handle it," Timmy told his parents. "It's making me too hyper." Instead of medication, Timmy tried other remedies. He took fish oil pills, hoping they'd stabilize his moods. He listened to relaxation tapes. On June 12, Timmy and his teammates prepared for the state lacrosse championship game against Yarmouth. Winning the championship was Timmy Thompson's dream. The school's lacrosse team had built a legacy. They'd won the state championship 13 times out of the past 15 years. Now it was Timmy's turn. During the game, Timmy raced up and down the field. He scored a goal and had an assist. Two more of his attempts hit the goal post. The opposing coach would later say it was if Timmy were trying to put the whole team on his back to win. His efforts weren't enough. Cape lost to Yarmouth. Timmy was crushed. He cried that night to friends on the phone. He sat talking with Rex Malone and his brother Colin till the sun came up. "I'm not going to let this stop me," Timmy told them. "I'm going to become a better athlete and a better person." Those feelings were echoed in Timmy's 2004 yearbook. Next to a picture that showed him grinning appeared the words: "Ambition: To win a national championship, come home and raise the next generation of Cape Athletics." A week after the game, Timmy, his four siblings and parents flew to Venezuela for a relative's wedding. Timmy actied stragely the night before the trip, packing odd and inappropriate clotes and his scocer cleats. On June 18, a couple of nights later in Maricabo, Venezuela, Timmy disappeared hours before the wedding rehearsal dinner. His parents found him with hotel security. Timmy had left his room and gone out on the roof, where he was trapped for a few hours. That night, his father stayed with Timmy in the hotel room while the rest of the family went to dinner. Timmy talked gibberish. He was confused, agitated and hyperactive. He stayed in the bathroom for hours, running water. Timmy's father sat by the door, beginning what would be many months of prayer: "God, please help us get through this night," he whispered. The next day, a local psychiatrist evaluated Timmy and determined he had suffered a psychotic break, leaving Timmy temporarily disoriented and suffering manic behavior. The doctor prescribed Valium to calm Timmy and Zyprexia, a mood stabilizer. Though the medication slowed Timmy down, he had trouble sleeping, combined with bursts of intense energy. On June 24, the last day of their trip, Timmy crashed. He slept the entire way home on the two airplanes and in the taxis. Before they returned to Maine, Nancy Thompson began calling for help at the Miami airport. Her family doctor referred her to a psychiatrist and she pleaded for an appointment the next morning. Dr. Andrew Hinkens, a Maine Medical Center psychiatrist, evaluated Timmy that Friday afternoon. He told the Thompsons that Timmy was manic, suffering from bouts of uncontrollable mood swings. The doctor recommended that Timmy be admitted to Spring Harbor psychiatric ward. Later that afternoon as the doors locked behind them at the psychiatric hospital, Timmy cried and turned to his parents: "Why are you doing this? Why are you leaving me here?" The Thompsons could see the fear in their son's eyes as they kissed and hugged him goodbye. "How can this be happening?" Nancy Thompson asked herself as she left the hospital. "How could Timmy get so sick so fast?" Because he was admitted late Friday, Timmy would have to wait until Monday to be fully evaluated by the hospital's psychiatrist team. As the weekend progressed, Timmy continued to calm down and by Sunday he appeared to be himself again. "Why am I here?" he asked his parents. By Monday, all signs of his manic behavior were gone. His father drove to the hospital, worried, unsure of what would happen next. When Timmy was evaluated that morning, there was no reason to keep him at the hospital. Still, the Thompsons knew their son needed help. Their family pediatrician had suggested they enroll Timmy in the PIER Program based at Maine Medical Center. The program treats young people with mental illness, hoping to prevent them from growing sicker. PIER offered counseling and medication management and encouraged family support in therapy. Timmy's parents were eager to take part. They felt like as if they were in a 100-yard dash to get their son treatment but navigating the mental health system proved frustrating. Their son's age also posed difficulties. Because Timmy was 18 and legally an adult, he could make his own decisions. When he came home that Monday from the hospital, he told his parents he wasn't going to take any more medication. Despite his decision to stop taking the mood stabilizer Zyprexia, Timmy was calmer, quieter. But he was lethargic and slept more than usual. His parents figured the hospital stay had exhausted Timmy. him. They also thought he was nursing the sore back he had injured while playing basketball at Spring Harbor's gym. That following Thursday, three days before the Fourth of July, Timmy and his parents again met with Hinkens, who was in charge of prescribing Timmy's medications. When Hinkens learned Timmy had stopped taking his medication, the Thompsons say the psychiatrist offered no advice to Timmy or his parents on continuing it. Timmy's parents left the 30-minute session disappointed. (Citing patient confidentiality, Hinkens' supervisor later declined to comment about Timmy's treatment.) The following week, Timmy and his parents filled out forms and questionnaires for the PIER Program. They explained their family history, noting that two of Timmy's cousins, one on each side of the family, had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Timmy's uncle also suffered from the same illness. Because of his genetic history, counselors said Timmy was at risk for the manic depressive disease. While the family waited to see if Timmy would be accepted into the program, Timmy kept busy working at a company owned by a friend's father. Timmy went to his job each day, gluing rubber parts onto kayak roof racks. His buddies noticed Timmy was quieter but they figured he was thinking more about his future and heading off to Bridgton Academy. Few of his friends knew about Spring Harbor or Timmy's visits to the psychiatrist. In the next few weeks, Timmy and his girlfriend broke up. Some of his friends noticed he drifted off in conversation. His eyes often were fuzzy and unfocused. "I'm really depressed," he told one friend. On July 21, the PIER Program staff called Timmy and his family to tell them Timmy had been accepted. "Thank God," Tim Thompson thought. "We're catching this early on and Timmy's going to be OK. Timmy's finally going to get the help he needs." "Are you suicidal?" Collin asked Timmy. The question stunned Timmy's parents. Nancy Thompson felt as if someone had stuck a dagger in her heart. "Why is he asking my son this?" she wondered. Timmy adamantly told Collin that he never had thoughts of killing himself. Before they left the counselor's office, Timmy asked to talk to Collin again alone. "I'm depressed," he told Collin. The two talked some more and Collin suggested Timmy get back on the mood stabilizer Zyprexia. This time, Timmy agreed to take the drug and began taking it that night. Timmy saw his counselor again the next afternoon and talked about how he was feeling. The two of them laughed before they said goodbye. Collin told Timmy: "Music Man, stick with the music." "I'll see you next week," Timmy told Collin. On the way home, Timmy seemed happy and for the first time in weeks he'd regained some of his energy. He and his mother stopped at the store to rent some movies. Timmy ran into the Goodwill Store and bought a few pairs of socks. That evening, he played soccer. As the sun grew lower in the July sky, he ran from his mother's car, soccer cleats in hand. "Bye, Mom!" he shouted as he raced to the high school field. His old soccer coach grinned when he saw Timmy. The next day, Friday, Timmy spent three hours answering questions from PIER Program administrators. When his father picked him up, Timmy had questions of his own. Timmy asked about his uncle, who lived with bipolar disease. His father explained that his brother lived in a group home in Montana and had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital for several years. Tim Thompson took his son's interest as a positive sign. "He's curious, wanting to learn more about these illnesses," he thought. That night, Timmy's older sister Molly came back from soccer camp and asked Timmy if he wanted to go see comedian Bob Marley. Timmy went to the show with his sister but was unusually quiet. He seldom laughed at Marley's jokes. Molly tried to cheer up her brother and suggested he come with her on her upcoming cross-country road trip. Timmy was excited about the adventure. The next morning, the Thompson family busied themselves with chores and rearranging bedrooms. Weeks earlier, Timmy had said he wanted to move upstairs from his basement bedroom. "It's too dark down there," he said. Timmy's 15-year-old brother, Russell, agreed to switch bedrooms with him Timmy. Timmy's mother, three sisters and brother, spent Saturday moving mattresses and clothing, and hanging new curtains in Timmy's upstairs room. As his family cleaned and readied the bedrooms, Timmy kept to himself. He roamed the house and retreated to the bathroom. A couple of times, his sisters Emily and Molly knocked on the bathroom door to see how their brother was doing. "You OK, Timmy?" Molly asked. "Yeah, it's just some bad stomach thing," he told her. Around 2:30, Timmy told his father: "Dad, I feel like I'm losing my mind. My thoughts are racing." His father suggested Timmy lie down on his parents' bed to get some rest. "Maybe that'll help," his dad said. A few hours later, Timmy came into his new room as his mother was making the bed. He hugged his mother and told her: "I love you, Mom." "Two more minutes," she said, "and your room will be done, honey." Timmy went back into the bathroom. His father checked on him when he got home from the dump just after 5 p.m. "You OK, Timmy?" his dad asked. "Yeah, I'm just going to the bathroom," Timmy answered. A few minutes later, his father heard a large boom. He ran to the bathroom and found Timmy lying against the window and tub. "My God, he's fallen and hit his head," Thompson thought. Then he saw the gun in the sink. Word spread quickly about Timmy's death. Neighbors near the Thompsons' seaside home heard the ambulance and police sirens. Father Michael Henchal heard the wail as he said Saturday afternoon Mass at St. Bartholomew's. He said a silent prayer as the ambulance drove by the church. "Someone must have had a heart attack," the priest thought. Throughout town, cell phones and home phones rang endlessly as parents and teens told each other: "Timmy's dead. He killed himself." A group of Timmy's friends learned the news at Kettle Cove, a hangout for the town's young people and one of Timmy's favorite places. Meaghan Reilly found herself shaking, crying uncontrollably. She'd grown up with Timmy and could always rely on him to make her smile when she was down. "How could he have shot himself?" she cried. Colin Malone dropped his cell phone when he learned Timmy had taken his own life. He and his brother Rex had just worked with Timmy a few days ago. Colin felt sick, angry. He went outside his home and screamed. When Rex Malone arrived at his home, he found his brother and parents in their car, crying. Malone refused to believe his family when they told him about Timmy. He shouted at them: "No! No! No!" Within hours, carloads of teens, parents and teachers began arriving at the Cunningham house. The Cunninghams were close friends of the Thompsons and lived a few streets from Timmy's home in the seaside neighborhood known as Broad Cove. Groups of Timmy's friends held each other and cried. Few had words to say. As the ambulance took their son away, Nancy and Tim Thompson tried to comfort each other and their four surviving children. "I need to get them help," Nancy Thompson thought. "We all need help." And then she began to worry about Timmy's friends, dozens of teens close to her son who would be leaving for college in a few months. "We've got to get them help, too," she told her husband. That evening, Nancy Thompson began making arrangements to get counseling for her family and the town's young people. A newly elected president of the Portland Junior League, Nancy Thompson strongly believed in giving back to community. It was a belief her husband shared. On this July Sunday, they knew their community needed them now more than ever. A few hours after sunset, more than 100 teenagers were trying to cope with their grief and shock at the Cunninghams' home. They decided to head to "The Rock." They drove to the 20- by 30-foot boulder that they and generations before them had used as a town billboard. Located about a half mile from the center of town, the rock sits along Route 77, one of the most well-traveled roads in the community. On many nights before this July evening, kids had gathered there, painting victory messages, touting state championship wins. On many nights, Timmy had been with them. On this night, they would paint for him. They transformed the rock into an orange, white and green Irish flag for Timmy, who had often boasted of his Irish ancestry. Over the flag, they wrote in black: "In Loving Memory of Tim Thompson." On the side of the boulder, they painted a small green shamrock with #19, Timmy's athletic jersey number. Others painted personal messages. One wrote: "Why wouldn't we?" a question Timmy often posed to his teammates when they doubted themselves and a win, or to his buddies when they were reluctant to follow Timmy on the a spur of the moment trip or late-night adventure. Others wrote: "I miss you so much. It will be hard without you," and "I love you Bro." By the end of the night, some 200 teens gathered at the rock. Many of them remained there until 1 and 2 a.m. They were afraid to go home. Afraid to be alone. Most of them had never experienced the death of a friend. Losing someone as vibrant as Timmy Thompson in such a horrible way left them empty, numb. That night, they held each other, lit candles and asked themselves: "Why?" Colin Malone and his brother Rex stared at Timmy's name on the rock. "This is like a really bad dream," Malone thought. "What the hell is going on? This can't be real." For those who didn't know Timmy, the rock served as a public announcement of his death and a tribute to his life. Thousands of motorists would pass by the rock each day, wondering "Who is Tim Thompson? What happened to him?" The afternoon after Timmy's death, his family searched for answers of their own. Nancy and Tim Thompson and their four children, Molly, 22, Emily, 20, Russell, 15, and Haley, 13, listened to counselors in their living room. The Thompsons asked themselves, "How could this happen? Why didn't we see how depressed Timmy was?" Tim Thompson also agonized about the gun he'd bought for office security years earlier and had just recently hidden in their home attic. Though the gun was unloaded and the bullets were hidden in Thompson's sock drawer, Timmy had found both the handgun and the ammunition. "You cannot blame yourself for Timmy's death," Phil Collin, Timmy's counselor, told the family. "Do not go to that what-if place. You all were doing as much as you could to get Timmy help." Collin also talked about how suicides can have a profound effect on young people, causing them to spiral into their own depression. Concerned about Timmy's friends, Tim Thompson and Father Henchal drove to the Cunninghams' home later that Sunday. Some 100 young people had once again gathered to seek comfort from each other. Father Henchal led a prayer in the back yard and Thompson spoke to the girls and boys he had watched play soccer and lacrosse on the town's athletic fields, the kids who had grown up with Timmy. "Timmy was sick," he told them. "The healthy Timmy that you knew didn't do this. It was the depression that killed him. "You've got to remember the happy memories with Timmy. He wouldn't want you to be sad. Timmy loved you guys. Share your feelings with each other. If you find yourself getting into a dark place, think of the good times you had with Timmy." "How does he have the strength to talk to us?" one of Timmy's closest friends, Conor Casey, wondered. "How can he be worried about us now instead of himself?" Matt Ranaghan, another of Timmy's friends thought. Before he left, Thompson asked Timmy's friends to come by their home to visit whenever they wanted. "We're here for you." Wiping away his own tears, he added: "I never knew Timmy had so many friends." Over the next week, kids continued to gather at the rock at all hours of the day and night. "Everyone wanted to be around each other," said Meaghan Reilly, who had graduated with Timmy a month earlier. "If you were alone, you thought too much." New messages and mementos appeared almost daily. A few of Timmy's close buddies placed a lacrosse net on top of the rock and hung Timmy's soccer cleats and his maroon athletic sports jerseys over it. Others laid their own soccer and lacrosse shirts there to rest by Timmy's. They planted flowers and left the treats Timmy loved in life: a bottle of Moxie, sunflower seeds, taffy. Often, the teenagers gathered at the rock to cry, to talk or just to sit alone. Several parents worried about their children. Their sons or daughters weren't sleeping. They had lost interest in everything except spending time with their friends. "A lot of these kids were so distraught," said Conor Casey's mother, Deborah. "They felt like there wasn't going to be a light at the end of this dark tunnel. And a lot of them were upset, wondering 'Why didn't Timmy say anything to us?' " Three days after Timmy's death, Nancy Thompson and some of her Junior League friends arranged for counselors from Portland's Center for Grieving Children to come talk. Again cell phones and home phones rang, spreading the word about the counseling session. Close to 300 adults, teenagers and children filled the town's community center. There was standing room only. The room fell silent as Tim Thompson began to talk. "Timmy made a bad decision when he was sick and in a state of depression," Thompson said. "But I'm not ashamed of my son. He had a disease." Tears clouded his eyes and his voice wavered: "I want something positive to come out of this. There is a lot of depression out there among our kids and we need to talk about it, to reach out to each other." As he spoke, Katie Shisler, a family friend who had helped set up the counseling session, looked around the room. "There's not a dry eye in this place," she thought as she wiped away her own tears. And Shisler knew Thompson's words would allow the healing to begin. "For the town's kids, their parents to hear Timmy's story firsthand through tears of love and grief and profound pain, it allowed everyone to begin to move forward," Shisler says. Before the night ended, parents, teachers and teenagers lined up to hug the Thompson family and share their stories about Timmy. One boy sobbed as he remembered the lacrosse game he played with Timmy. "I was scared standing on the sidelines just before I was to get in the game. Timmy took me aside and said, 'Get in there and don't be afraid.' " The boy went on to score a goal that day. The stories and the hugs eased the Thompson family's own pain. "We never knew how many people knew and loved Timmy, how many lives he touched," Nancy Thompson said. The next evening close to a thousand people attended Timmy's wake. The lines stretched outside the funeral home for three blocks. The following day some 800 people filled St. Bartholomew's Church for Timmy's funeral. Father Henchal had never seen a funeral so large in his church. A couple of hundred people had to stand. They lined the church walls, the hallways. Despite the large crowd, no one spoke. "You could hear a pin drop," Henchal thought to himself. The priest knew he had to dispel some myths about Timmy's death and mental illness. The day Timmy died, he had reassured the Thompsons that their son was at peace, telling them the Catholic Church no longer believed that suicide victims were banished from heaven. Now Henchal knew he had to comfort his community. Speaking slowly and softly, he gave Timmy's eulogy. Timmy did not take his life, the priest explained. "He died of an illness. It was the sickness that took his life, no different than if it had been a heart attack or cancer or a car accident. If someone dies of a heart attack, we don't say that he killed himself, although his body certainly did that to him. We say that the heart disease killed him. Tim died of a disease: depression." Henchal looked out at the town's youth, parents and teachers seated before him. The sound of muffled sobbing filled the pews. "Tim did not make a decision to end his life. Because of his disease, he had lost the ability to think logically and make deliberate, rational choices." During the funeral, Timmy's parents also spoke. They talked of their love and pride for Timmy. Timmy's lacrosse coach and mentor, Ben Raymond, also gave a eulogy, telling the kids to do a "Timmy thing every day." "Be there for your friends all the time no matter what. Love your family, make them proud and give them so many great, great memories. Laugh, joke around, smile and make sure that in whatever you do, you have fun." Rex Malone and Timmy's close friends listened carefully to the eulogies. It helped them to understand Timmy's desperate act and to bolster their own courage. "If the Thompsons can be strong," they told themselves, "so can we." As Malone helped carry Timmy's casket from the church, he took comfort in lifting his friend up. "In life, Timmy never really allowed me to take away some of the pain he was feeling," Malone thought. "Now, in carrying his casket I can take some of the burden from him in death that I couldn't take in life." In the days after the funeral, the Thompson family continued to talk to the town's teenagers and their parents. They invited Timmy's friends over for cookouts and to watch baseball games. When some of their son's friends said they weren't sure they had the strength to go to college now, Tim Thompson told them to remember, "Timmy would want you to go. He'd want you to be getting on with your lives." As the summer days passed, cards and letters continued to arrive at the Thompsons' home. More than 300 would eventually cover their dining room table. Mothers, fathers, teachers and teenagers wrote the family. They offered their condolences, their prayers and their thanks to the Thompsons for talking openly about Timmy's death and his illness. One mother, whose daughter was a close friend of Timmy's, sent a five-page letter. "The courage it took for you, the Thompson family, to speak out honestly and unashamedly about what happened to Tim is what gave his friends courage, and saved them from spiraling down into complete confusion and darkness. "That you were able to do it at a time of your greatest sorrow is even more extraordinary." Families who have children with mental illness or who lost someone to suicide also wrote and shared their stories. "As the parent of a child who struggles with depression, I am well aware of how unpredictable and disastrous this disease can be. Please, know that you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers." Another mother wrote: "May you always feel all the love and support from many, many people in Cape, who love you so much." On a fall day, the trees in the distant woods burn with color as Nancy and Tim Thompson stand on the soccer field sidelines, cheering for their daughter Haley. Since school began, they've attended dozens of soccer games, watching their daughter Haley and their son Russell play. And here on these fields, where Timmy once chased soccer balls, his parents now continue to accept hugs and condolences. "I can't tell you how many people have come up to us and said, 'It's nice to see you out here,' " Nancy Thompson says. The Thompsons are both back to work now - he at the insurance office he manages and Nancy at the employee benefits agency the couple owns. They rely more heavily on their religious faith now. The Thompsons, along with most of their children, still seek help from counselors. Timmy's parents also hope to join a suicide survivors' support group. There are still many questions that linger in their minds and moments when they find themselves wondering: "What if and if only . . ." Nearly every day, there are thoughts of Timmy that bring fresh tears to his parents and to his siblings. It can be the memory of Timmy snorkeling on vacation or the sight of his graduation photo. Or the gifts left at his grave, like the small pumpkin with the message: "I love and miss you more every single day Timmy." But with every week that passes, there are more good memories than bad. "We're working on getting back to normal and to the routines of daily life," Tim Thompson says. There are signs that Timmy's friends are trying to do the same. Two months after his death, Timmy's buddies and lacrosse coach painted over the rock and the Irish flag. Before they put a white coat of paint on the boulder, they each fell silent, remembering a young man who made them laugh and inspired them with his spirit and zest for life. Still, some of Timmy's close friends remain troubled and depressed over his death. The Thompsons continue to call them, invite them over to their home. "We want to make sure they're doing OK," Tim Thompson says. On this autumn afternoon, Thompson stands next to his wife. He has just come from his insurance job and is dressed in his work shirt and tie. His eyes follow the soccer ball up the field as Haley's teammate heads toward the goalie. "Good hustle!" he yells. As his daughter chases the ball down the field, Thompson smiles. "It's great fun to see Haley and Russell playing. It's good to be among the kids again." Nancy Thompson is dressed casually in shorts and sneakers. The afternoon light reflects off her auburn hair as she watches her daughter and her eighth-grade teammates run off the field at the game's end. "I can't believe two months have passed since Timmy's death," she says, her eyes welling with tears. "I think of him every day. I'll never forget him. There's a hole in my heart the size of China and it will never be filled. "But we will make sure something positive comes out of his death. If we can help just one family, just one kid, then it will make all the difference in the world." She wipes the tears from her cheek as another soccer game begins, this one coached by her eldest daughter, Molly. The slanting afternoon shadows stretch across the field as she watches the girls race after the ball. "They all have such bright futures," she says. "Such promise." Staff Writer Barbara Walsh can be contacted at 791-6382 or at:
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