Day 365

Today marks the 1 year anniversary of Damian's passing. One. Whole. Year. 

Looking back, it's difficult to say how I feel today about everything that I've gone through. That Dawn and I have gone through, together. "Surreal" still comes to mind, but not exactly for the same reasons as it did in the beginning. Well, some of the old ones are still there.. 

  • Did this really happen? 
  • Is Damian really gone? 
  • Has it really been a year since that December morning when I (we) lost my (our) only son and my (our) world irrevocably shattered? 
...but now there are new ones as well:

  • Did I really travel to Rhode Island to tour a school that teaches the art and science of wooden boat building? 
  • Am I serious about moving to RI so I can attend this school? 
  • How and when did all these new people that I feel so connected to come into my life? 

"Grateful" is another feeling that runs very deep. As difficult as this journey has been (and at times, still is), I struggle to think how much harder it would have been without the love and support I received along the way. I am grateful for the many phone calls, texts and emails sent to me during the last year. Each gesture of support made it that much easier to face the day. The credit for making it possible for me to breathe and continue living, however, goes to my wife, Dawn, and our grief counselor, Andrea. Without their unwavering commitment and love, I doubt I would have survived this ordeal. I learned early on that a person doesn't have to die in order to stop living. Thanks to them, I'm able to live my life, even with an enormous hole in my heart. 

And finally, "acceptance". I remember many months ago writing about the struggle with "acceptance". At the time, I knew that Damian had died. I could say those words, either out loud or quietly to myself, and knew what they meant, but only in the clinical sense. Parts of me, however, refused to accept the finality of his death. I didn't want to let go; to accept that I would never see him again. To hear him, his laugh; to see his knowing smile that  said, "I know what the joke is, Dad. Do you?" To wrap my arms around him and smell the overdose of his cologne. Letting go meant there was no hope of having any of those things ever again. While I could say that Damian had died and understand what this meant, my heart, and that part of my brain that is wired to it, couldn't let go; it simply refused to do so. While I can't say for certain that I've fully accepted everything that his death means to me, my life and what's left of it, I do know that I'm much closer to it now than I was. Admittedly, I do still have moments where I find it difficult to believe this really happened – to us; to him – but I know that it did. Letting go has been the hardest thing I've ever had to do. 

Damian named his first boat "Firefly". (He was 7.) I now think of him as my firefly – an all-too-brief warm glow in the night sky that makes me sad and happy at the same time. Sad because I couldn't hold onto him forever; happy because for the few short years I did get him, his light lit the path before me. 

*****

Dear Damian, 

It's been exactly one year (to the day) since we lost you. A lot has happened since then. Your mom and I have gone on several trips (including a cruise in Alaska!), we bought a big sailboat (28 feet) and have made several new friends, some I expect we will have for life, and have gotten much closer with some of the friends that we already had like the Bryants, the Brocks, and the McBurneys.  

We had a really big party last night here at the house. I didn't sit down and count them all, but I'd guess around 30 people came, maybe a few more. Most of your Lakeview friends were here: Lara, Scott, Adam, Emma, Abby and Amelia were here. Mikhail, his wife, and Joe were also here. With a lot of help from the Bryant's, we had everyone decorate Christmas cookies. Everyone had a good time, but of course everyone missed you. 

Your mom and I also got lots of well wishes this weekend from people who couldn't make it to the party. I mention this not to make you feel bad; just wanted you to know how much people miss you. You were much-loved, my son, and still are. By me, your mom, and many others. 

I'm sorry for not having written to you the last couple of months. I was asked to take on a project at work that has kept me really busy - we had a tight deadline and a lot to get done. In fact, the project is being moved into production this weekend, just without me in the driver's seat. Your mom and I took this weekend and tomorrow (Monday) off so we could focus on each other and try our best to honor your memory. I think we did ok and that you would have approved; you would have really enjoyed the party.  

Oma and Emily came here for Thanksgiving. Your mom and I spent a couple of days really cleaning your bedroom before they arrived. Oma stayed in your old bedroom (on the first floor); Emily stayed in your current bedroom (over the garage). Emily really appreciated being able to spend time in your room while she was here. Both Oma and Emily like the new sailboat. I took Emily for a short sail on Thanksgiving day. It was a little chilly but the wind was blowing so that made going out worthwhile. 

Speaking of boats, Will got a brand new Laser  - early Christmas present from his mom and dad. Will came to the party last night, but Pierce wasn't able to make it. According Chris and Bridget, Pierce is now almost as tall as I am. Scary, right? Hard to believe for me, too. 

I received an email today or yesterday from Helly Hansen about the 2023 NOODS. St. Pete is still the middle of February. I don't know if I told you this, but they included the Melges 15 as a class in this year's (2022) regatta. Looks like it will also be an active class in 2023. 

Jasper and Griff are still themselves, just a year older and a little slower. 

I'll try to be better about writing to your more often. That will be easier to do once this project is over, but I will  a point of sending you something at least once every 2 weeks, even if it's just a brief note saying "hi" and "I love you". 

Be well my firefly, wherever you are. I hope you know that I love you with all my heart. Always have; always will. 

Dad

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