Shattered Glass

"Do you have any children?" As Damian was an only child I no longer know how to answer this question. I could say, "Yes" or "Yes, I do." Present tense. This in no way conveys the reality of my situation (i.e., "I did once, but he died)." Worse, this response may likely lead to a series of follow up questions (e.g., "How many?", "How old?", "Boy or girl?"). Questions that I probably won't feel like answering. I could play dumb and just talk about Damian as if he were still alive, but I think that would feel wrong. Disingenuous.  An alternative would be to say, "I did". Past tense. While technically accurate, this response is likely to create an uncomfortable moment as my interlocutor processes what I've said and comes to understand the meaning of my words (i.e., "I used to have a child but I don't any longer. For you see, that child has died."). Where does the conversation go from there...

I'm not able to connect with my feelings of sadness. Not like most people. I try but I'm not able to lean into them. My mind just can't do it. When I was much younger, before I was 14, I was a sensitive kid. I would cry often. Some might say too often.  As is often the case with sensitive types, my vulnerabilities were used against me. In my case, my biggest tormentors were other kids at school and, more importantly, a family member. One whose principal responsibility should have been to nurture and protect me but did neither of those things. After enduring many years of crap from both inside and outside the home, I hit my breaking point. I then decided I would no longer give others this advantage over me. It was either that or die. Life was that unbearable. The easiest way my 14 year old brain could see to accomplish this was to wall off my emotions. Over the course of the next 2 or 3 years I did just that. But I only walled off the emotions that made me look soft, weak. T...

 Don’t say “no”. This was some advice that I gleaned recently by way of a personal anecdote. It’s because of this that I’m here in Florida. In the days immediately following the death of my son, I received texts, emails and phone calls from lots of people that I hadn’t spoken to in years. Kind of blew me away. News travels fast; tragic news travels at the speed of light. And farther. One of my old friends, a fraternity brother and former roommate, came to Atlanta the following weekend for the visitation and the celebration of life. We hadn’t seen or or spoken in the better part of 15 years. He never met Damian, but here he was. With a head full of silver hair. It used to be jet black.  At some point during that weekend we had the chance to sit down and talk. Just the two of us. We had a  good chat. As we talked about the tragic turn of events that led us to be together that day, he told me about his mother-in-law and her journey of the last year following the death of her...

I. Hate. This. Life. I did not ask for this. I want absolutely nothing to do with it.  This is me having a tantrum or, if I’m being really hard on myself, a pity party. I am a grown man (53), responsible, mature but, goddamn it, I feel like I’m allowed to have this one - probably others - and without any judgement from anyone. Including myself. Yeah, it may not be the best reflection of who I am, but I don’t care right now. The world can suck it.  I just spent the last 7 1/2 hours in a car driving to Florida. Lots of time on my hands to reflect on what has happened and what I’ve lost. I feel like I’ve lost almost everything. In the blink of an eye. I made this same drive a month ago. The 3 of us spent the week of Thanksgiving in St. Augustine. I remember it like it was yesterday. Because, literally speaking, it was pretty damn close to yesterday.  I remember my son flying a kite on the beach. I remember him losing one of his Apple EarPods in the condo. I remember the 3 of...

 I felt a new emotion today: fear.  It is the anxiety that comes from being on a specific path and then, suddenly, being on a different path. A path not of my choosing. A path without predetermined stops.  For better part of the last 16 years, my main path has been the one called "parent". There are many attractions on the Parent path, almost all well known and well documented. Mine was really no different. Sure there were bound to be some unique challenges that I hadn't seen coming - the death of my father, quitting drinking, my motorcycle accident - but, on the whole, it was predictable, known:       Preschool, elementary, middle, high, college, career.  And that's what life is - being predictable while at the same time being unpredictable. It's an interesting dichotomy.  But now that path for me is gone - there will be no school, no graduation, no college - and I don't know what will happen next. The fear comes from the not knowing because...

One sock. That's all it took to snap me back to my new reality. One lousy sock... Earlier in the day I had brought a load of laundry down from Damian's bedroom. The load consisted of the sheets off his bed and bunch of socks that I found in his bed or under it. Unbeknownst to me at the time, one of the socks had fallen out of the pile as I walked down the stairs from his bedroom. I only found it later, when I wasn't looking for it.  When I saw the sock on the stairs, it was all by itself on the staircase. Under normal circumstances, this would have been unusual. In the before the stairway was almost always buried in a collection of shoes, sweatshirts, school stuff, and jackets. All of it Damian's. Now everything was gone. Picked up, sometime in the after, by either me or his mom. All the things that were Damian gone from the stairs except now for this one sock that had innocuously fallen from a pile of laundry.  As I climbed the stairs to retrieve the sock, the finality...

Christmas. Two weeks to the day.  Time flies. It feels like a month ago. Or maybe an hour. Time is weird for me right now. I've experienced big chunks of the day go by in the blink of an eye; other times it feels like time is standing still. Hmm, I guess I had similar experiences before, but it feels different now. More pronounced... I've noticed over the last couple of days something interesting. It seems that everyone feels the need to wish me a "Merry Christmas", even the people who know.  While uttering "thank you" through gritted teeth, my mind, upon hearing these words, has been screaming: "There is nothing "merry" about this Christmas. Are you insane or just cruel?" This followed by some saltier thoughts of where these Christmas well wishes could be placed. No, the holidays will not be filled with joy or happiness. At least not for me...but, hold the phone, what about someone else?   Early this afternoon, I did something altruistic...

It's Christmas eve...and I feel directionless. Not lost - I know where I am - just not sure where I'm going. Or why. I don't remember despair being one of the stages of grief, but I am seriously questioning what the point is to all of this is. It seems so meaningless right now. Kind of like saying "whatever" to life's more existential questions: don't know and pretty sure I don't care.  If I could get away with it, I think I'd be ok riding out my days someplace warm by the ocean or maybe on a snow-capped mountain. I don't think I would need much - just the open air, a nice view, and some place clean and comfortable to sleep at night and shelter inside when the weather is crappy - but that's probably wishful thinking. It's easy to romanticize something that I've never experienced - living in relative isolation - but, if I layer on top of this daydream who I am the dream quickly falls apart. I'd get bored, then cranky and irritabl...

Today is getting off to a chilly start but it's supposed to warm up nicely - upper 50s. Clear skies and sunshine. It's uplifting in a way. Better than gray skies and rain, anyway.  The day that Damian died was stormy. The same storm system that ravaged Kentucky came through our area that afternoon. By the time it got here, it was a shell of its former self - some rain, some wind and a couple rumbles of thunder. Nothing significant. At least not here. The same could not be said for other parts of the country, especially the Kentucky towns of Mayfield, Princeton and Dawson Springs. December 11th is likely to be a day that the citizens of these towns never forget.  The passing of a family member, a loved one, a close friend can be like that, too. I will always remember this day. The devastation. The anguish. Probably a lot of the same emotions as those who survived the tornado outbreak. But I will rebuild - no, scratch that. I will build anew. I won't rebuild my life from the ...

Here is a list of the things that I am not: - Sentimental - Religious - Spiritual - Superstitious I am a pragmatic person. I am analytical. I believe in the things that I can see, hear, feel, taste and smell. I believe in science and facts. So why is it then that I can't go into my shop?  Full disclosure: this is where my son died. It's where I found him when I was violently and irrevocably thrust into the after.  I have not gone into my shop - it's a room in the basement of our house - since that morning. The door has been locked ever since his body was removed and a very close friend took away some artifacts that were inextricably linked to the tragedy.  As I lay in bed this morning thinking about what I was going to do today, I briefly considered working on the sheetrock repairs I need to make in my home office (also in the basement). The moment I realized that that would require going into my shop, I dismissed it from further consideration. Nope. Not going in there....

Acceptance : a p erson's assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing its process, condition or circumstances.  Today I've been struggling with acceptance. No, that's not quite right. I'm not challenging the notion of acceptance but wresting with whether or not I've truly accepted what has happened.  On the one hand, I'm able to view this clinically - someone has died - and understand what this means in scientific terms - this person is physically gone and will never return. I can do this all day long. And I have and I do.  On the other hand, I have to personalize it - my son Damian is dead - and try to understand what this means to my life - Damian is physically gone and will never return. No new memories will be made with him at the center.  Although I can write these words, it feels like I'm writing about someone else. It's a feeling of detachment. Almost like a distant relative that I didn't know very well but, for some reason, still have lo...

 I spent the weekend surrounded by old friends. One thing that jumped out at me was that my closest friends, the people I've known for years, didn't treat me any differently, here in the after. Sure, they were (and likely still are) grief stricken and in agony for me and for themselves, but overall they just treated me like me. They didn't tiptoe around or treat me like I was going to break at any moment. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that had it happened. (It mostly didn't.) There were a handful of times, where I was a little startled by the casualness of the conversation. No filters. Like in the before. I love my friends. 

 Today I'm angry. Not irate, not yelling and screaming, but seething. Doing a slow burn but with intensity. It's an inner rage fueled by the cruelty of my circumstance exacerbated by my impotence do anything about it. I can't undo it or make it go away. I just have to live with it. All while the world marches on. "Merry Christmas!" and "Happy New Year!" my ass.   I want to scream. I want to channel my anger toward someone or maybe groups of someones. But who? Maybe those who didn't come to pay their respects, or the parents who are now outwardly sad but, internally, eternally grateful it wasn't their child. Or the blissfully unaware that wish me happy holidays. I want to be angry at all of them, but I can't find it in myself to go there.  When I'm not actively trying to channel my rage towards someone, I'm back to being melancholy. Or maybe it's sadness tinged with the novocaine of denial. Either way, not fun to be or to be around...

This morning I gave comfort to my wife. As we lay there in bed, her weeping, I just held on, hugging her tight.  I didn't speak because there are no words. It feels like the only possible remedies to restart a shattered heart are love and time. To my wife I can give both of these, unconditionally. At least I think I can. I feel strong today - resolute - but will I waiver? 

 Two down, one to go. Is it wrong to think of this weekend in those terms? A big part of me just wants to get through tomorrow and then retreat into my shell. Like a turtle. I feel safe there...

I'm 7 days into the After. It still feels surreal, but there are reminders everywhere that this is all too real.  I just took out the trash - Hey! Life goes on, everyone. At least until it doesn't, that is. - and as I turned the corner of the house to walk to the trashcan I couldn't help but notice the 2 parallel ruts coming from the backyard up to the driveway. Ruts made by a gurney, weighted down, into soft Georgia clay. How long will these ruts be visible? Another week? Two? Will I always see them even if they are gone?  There are the pictures - one as recent as 2 days before the After - but there will be no new ones. There are the clothes, the shoes, the school backpack, the cell phone, the Apple EarPods. All the signs of a life that once was but is no longer. Will I find the strength to let go or will I surround myself with these artifacts in a fruitless attempt to hold onto something that is forever gone? For now, I'm just going to kick that can down the road. At ...

The first wave of family has arrived. I spent time nesting before they got here. I HAD to do the dishes and HAD to clean off the kitchen counter. Then I HAD to clean out the floor of the pantry. Threw out some open bags of chips and old bottle of Sunny D. It felt important to pick up the house, at least a little, before guests (?) would arrive.  Up to that point my house looked almost exactly like it did the moment my life shattered into a million pieces. Things that would have normally been put away were still out. Walking in from the outside you may not understand or appreciate why there is a dirty dish on the counter, a box on the floor, mail sitting on the kitchen table. But that's what happens. Everything. Just. Stops.  It's like that scene in a movie where the protagonist notices a clock, or several clocks, or a watch that is stuck on a specific time. The exact moment that life as we knew it - the 'Before' - stopped. My time was 8:03AM Saturday morning (day #1). T...

Almost no tears today. Almost.  The tears, when they did come, were like a soft drizzle; a welcome departure from some of the torrential downpours of days 1, 2 and 3. Will there be more downpours? Probably. Just hard to say exactly when although there's a good bet it will happen several times over the next few days.  Family is coming to town tomorrow; friends from out of town arrive on Friday followed by visitation, cremation on Saturday, and the celebration of life service on Sunday. I already know it's going to be hard but there's not much I can do about it. This needs to be done. For me, for my wife, for others. This is how the process works: someone dies, funeral arrangements are made, the funeral is held, and then everyone moves on.  But who is everyone? Am I in that group or will I be left behind? Given the depth of my grief, I fear I will lag far behind. (The only other person on equal footing is Poodle.) Does that make me selfish? Is my grief more important o...

It's been 4 days since my world came crashing down around me.  Today, so far, has been ok. There have been only a couple waves of grief and those have been mercifully tame compared to the monster, rogue waves of yesterday. I had a good night's sleep - should I feel guilty about that? - and woke up alone in bed.  Waking up alone was ok. Compared to the previous mornings that is.  Grief apparently knows no schedule - it's hammered me at different times of the days since and almost always without any warning - but it had shown up in full force the previous two mornings. It's been like my very own version of Groundhog Day where each morning I wake only to realize in the first few first moments of consciousness that what happened on Saturday is real and can never be undone. From there, I spend the next few minutes reliving the raw emotional trauma of my profound loss and the tears that come with it. Then, somehow, I find the strength to get out of bed.  But today has been...