Parents put up with a lot of heartache, just to get to moments of perfection. Keller was whiny this morning, for no particular reason, he just didn’t want to do anything. He likes to scream bloody murder when you put him in the tub or the shower and he doesn’t want to. It used to bother me, the deafening screams and shrieks, or the defiant attitude. The past two weeks have given me patience with this. I wish I had more of this with Blake. Though, I was infinitely more equipped to handle an infant the second time around, I still couldn’t tolerate the inexplicable crying. We’d go through the motions: it’s not time to eat, try a pacifier, nope. Oh, is it your diaper? Nope. Oh, do you want to be held? Standing up? For hours? Sometimes. Or, slung over my shoulder so you can get that gas bubble out? Almost every time. Those moments with Blake are over now, and I’m left with the memories of watching a football game, with him slung over my shoulder as I pace back and forth across our bedroom so Lindsey can spend some time with Keller who was getting a little jealous of the attention Blake received. Everything and anything that could distract him long enough in between feedings, that boy could eat.
I’m not good at being an infant’s father. I like, or need the interaction to know what I’m doing right. Infants cry. A lot. Which makes me feel like a failure after going through the motions and nothing works. I found out with Keller that I could sing songs and he’d smile as I moved his arms and legs to my out-of-tune melody. His favorite was Barbara Ann, by the Beach Boys, or Jan and Dean, or someone from that genre. I tried the same with Blake, nothing. Keller also loved Chuck Berry’s My Ding-a-Ling, which was my favorite growing up. Now that I’m old enough to know what the song is about, I’m aware of how inappropriate it is, but with an infant, you do whatever works. I tried that with Blake. Nothing. Painfully ironic now, his song was Last Kiss. Lindsey told me how morbid it was to sing something like that to him, I knew it, but it worked. He would smile, I’d move his arms and legs, and that giant toothless grin still lights up my heart and face thinking about it. These are the moments I want to remember. This made me feel like I was doing something right.
Most of my views on this are confused as anger. I’m not angry. I’m broken. A lot of people have told me
that Blake is now with “our Lord”, or he’s “in a better place”, or “he’s resting with angels”. That makes them feel better, I know, but part of me breaks a little more each time I hear it. I haven’t been right with God, or the church in over a decade. And what I’m offered is “he only takes the good ones from those that are strong enough to handle it”? Strength. It’s a mixture of distraction, denial, and determination. I’m determined to provide, love and care for Lindsey and Keller. My friends provide the distraction. The denial is slowly dissipating, and reality, its evil twin, creeps in when you least expect it. We didn’t and don’t need to prove how strong we are to God. Our son is gone. I held his lifeless body two weeks ago, pumping his chest, and giving him his last breath, until they took him from me. Blake left this world two weeks ago today. They brought him home to us last Wednesday. Our son is in a box, in ashes. His spirit is with us. That’s what I know.
I can’t describe how painful this is. There are moments of clarity that I rejoice in, feeling like I can do this. Whatever ‘this’ is. The wound is so fresh, I continue to fool myself into thinking I’m capable of flipping a witch and going back into work mode. Dad mode. Husband mode. There are a couple moments each day where I don’t think about all that’s transpired, maybe more of those moments will come, when it’s not the dominating thought. It’s hard to look, or hug, or kiss, or comfort Lindsey without thinking about it, without knowing how broken everything is. I see it, and I can’t fix it. Then there are moments where we can laugh, and embrace each other, and it feels....normal. That’s a shitty thing to say, but I can’t stand leaving the house, or watching her leave, or Keller, without wondering if that phone call is coming today. After all this, I’m waiting for “the other shoe to drop”. Life can’t be lived that way, but it’s still so fresh it creeps into my mind every single time one of us walks out the door.
Today is not a good day. I had the best run since the week before Blake passed, today. Had coffee for a few minutes afterwards and thought I can get through this Tuesday. Then something was triggered on the ride home. The image of Nanny patting him on the back as I ran into the house and that brief moment of relief completely overwhelmed me today. It’s been in my head all day. There’s constant reminders, and as that hour approaches of when the call came, I just run through every second of that day in my head. Hoping the hurt will be less each time I run through it. That’s how therapy is supposed to work. I remember Lindsey and I talked that morning about his (really, hers) outfit choice, the onsie that said “you make me happy when skies are gray”, it was a sunny day. That smile. Those pictures. I found one of him in that onsie. He was cremated in that onsie. It was his. Not a hand-me-down. His. Between that and Last Kiss, our boy lived a brief, yet joyous life. He was loved. Beyond measure. He’s missed. Every damn minute.
I know days will continue to pass. The wound will get a little smaller. Our baby boy will still be gone, but
never leave his sacred place in our hearts. I miss him. I miss him so damn much. The shrieks, screams and cries of Keller are a welcome relief, almost joyful, I just wish they were louder.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Love Heals
Grief plays funny tricks on the mind. I’ve gone from smiling and laughing to crying to numb in minutes. I’m angry at nothing. I can’t put my finger on anything. I feel like a shell of myself going through these motions waiting for life. At times I feel physically sick. At times I feel like I can do this. Then I get there, and it’s gone. Your mom cried in my arms last night standing in the kitchen. Keller, you watched and just said kept asking “whatchu doing mommy?” and “wasa wrong mommy?” It allows me to laugh, you’ve been the best thing in the world through all of this. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be. I can’t comfort her, because I don’t know how to comfort me. My face hurts from the tears. My mind gets fixated on things, then runs through a series of unrelated, and insignificant events from the past. I look for escape and that answer is you. You allow me to breath, to be, to continue to exist with a purpose. I drove to my workout this morning, then turned around and came home. I crawled in the bed with you, and you laid on my chest for an hour or so before doing your normal kicks, turns, and flips. Those magical moments allow me to forget how much this hurts, that you’re still here, that you need guidance, protection, and love. I hope I never fail you in those, but especially love.
Death Plus A Week
It’s been a week almost, since Blake left us. That’s still very real and painful. Keller, you don’t even
understand it fully yet. It hurts to know that, but it provides tremendous comfort knowing that you’re incapable of this pain right now. Like last Tuesday, I cut this morning short, for the same reason – I had
to poop. It happens. Shit happens. All the time. We cannot avoid it. The only way through it is to do it.
Everything else provides false escape. Drugs, alcohol, whatever, they’re mere tools for shutting off a part of you that you can’t escape from. When they’re gone, it’s still there. None of it works permanently. This day last week is playing over and over in my head. It was such a lazy Tuesday, worrying about scheduling patients, getting reimbursements, updating reports, developing plans for the new office. Nothing monumental. Your nanny called, I thought someone was crank calling me, I don’t know why her number wasn’t stored in my phone, it was before. I just heard heavy breathing. Then my name. And she said it. Racing over there, I kept thinking, this doesn’t happen to me, to us, it, life always works out for us. We’re the lucky ones. I opened the door as I’ve done hundreds of times before and she was patting you on the back and bouncing you on her knee like she does after you’ve eaten. For a moment, a fleeting moment, relief, and it was gone when she handed you to me. I tried, Blake. I remembered what to do. I went through it. I gave you your last breaths. I made your heart beat. I tried to give you life. Again. I wasn’t as lucky this time. You weren’t as lucky this time. None of us were lucky this time. They told me you were gone. Keller, you were so brave, so scared, so confused. You laid on your mat, eyes wide awake, not moving. I let you see me cry. I swore I’d never do that. You hugged me, offering a comfort you don’t know, you held me, I helplessly cried and waited for mommy. It’s hard to summarize the worst day of your life into a single paragraph. But, this was not. This was the single worst moment of my life. That morning, your mommy and I got you two ready to go, I was lucky enough to drop you both off. Say goodbye. Say I love you. And left for work like any other day. A normal day.
One day Keller, you’ll grow up and maybe have kids of your own. You’ll be beyond frustrated, tired, confused, concerned, guilty, a gauntlet of emotions will rush over you as a new father. I know, I struggled with you and your brother after your births. I’m not the comforting kind. I get frustrated. I don’t like crying when I can’t console. The crying will go on for what seems like hours, days, weeks. You won’t know what to do. I want you to remember, when you think you’re just too tired to handle it anymore, those cries, they mean your baby is alive. He’s breathing. He’s healthy, maybe. Those cries pale in comparison to the silence. I hope we don’t turn out to be those helicopter parents that force you to miss out on things because of our own anxiety. Our own fears. Our own inability to let go. I want you to do great things. Change the world. Be you. Just be you. You can only learn by living. I can only let you do that by letting go. I wish I was a better dad to your brother. Like I try to be with you, but the truth is, I wasn’t as good with you either when you were his age. I couldn’t handle the screams. I went through the steps. Nothing. I couldn’t console you enough, and handed you to mommy every time. Right around two months, you changed. You grew up. You were and are everything I hoped you’d become. Your brother was at that stage too, he had just started. Sitting with the two of you the Sunday before this past Tuesday is an image, a memory, that’s permanently in my brain. I wish we had more. You and I will. If anything, anything at all that’s good in this, I want to be a better dad, friend, husband, person, for you, your mom, everyone that’s helping us, for me. It hurts knowing I could have been better then. It will hurt more if I can’t be better now. Getting through this isn’t easy. Getting through this is the only thing we can do. Everything seems so trivial, outside of you and your mom. This shall pass, but this scar over our hearts leaves us changed in the way we see it. I hope it’s for the best.
understand it fully yet. It hurts to know that, but it provides tremendous comfort knowing that you’re incapable of this pain right now. Like last Tuesday, I cut this morning short, for the same reason – I had
to poop. It happens. Shit happens. All the time. We cannot avoid it. The only way through it is to do it.
Everything else provides false escape. Drugs, alcohol, whatever, they’re mere tools for shutting off a part of you that you can’t escape from. When they’re gone, it’s still there. None of it works permanently. This day last week is playing over and over in my head. It was such a lazy Tuesday, worrying about scheduling patients, getting reimbursements, updating reports, developing plans for the new office. Nothing monumental. Your nanny called, I thought someone was crank calling me, I don’t know why her number wasn’t stored in my phone, it was before. I just heard heavy breathing. Then my name. And she said it. Racing over there, I kept thinking, this doesn’t happen to me, to us, it, life always works out for us. We’re the lucky ones. I opened the door as I’ve done hundreds of times before and she was patting you on the back and bouncing you on her knee like she does after you’ve eaten. For a moment, a fleeting moment, relief, and it was gone when she handed you to me. I tried, Blake. I remembered what to do. I went through it. I gave you your last breaths. I made your heart beat. I tried to give you life. Again. I wasn’t as lucky this time. You weren’t as lucky this time. None of us were lucky this time. They told me you were gone. Keller, you were so brave, so scared, so confused. You laid on your mat, eyes wide awake, not moving. I let you see me cry. I swore I’d never do that. You hugged me, offering a comfort you don’t know, you held me, I helplessly cried and waited for mommy. It’s hard to summarize the worst day of your life into a single paragraph. But, this was not. This was the single worst moment of my life. That morning, your mommy and I got you two ready to go, I was lucky enough to drop you both off. Say goodbye. Say I love you. And left for work like any other day. A normal day.
One day Keller, you’ll grow up and maybe have kids of your own. You’ll be beyond frustrated, tired, confused, concerned, guilty, a gauntlet of emotions will rush over you as a new father. I know, I struggled with you and your brother after your births. I’m not the comforting kind. I get frustrated. I don’t like crying when I can’t console. The crying will go on for what seems like hours, days, weeks. You won’t know what to do. I want you to remember, when you think you’re just too tired to handle it anymore, those cries, they mean your baby is alive. He’s breathing. He’s healthy, maybe. Those cries pale in comparison to the silence. I hope we don’t turn out to be those helicopter parents that force you to miss out on things because of our own anxiety. Our own fears. Our own inability to let go. I want you to do great things. Change the world. Be you. Just be you. You can only learn by living. I can only let you do that by letting go. I wish I was a better dad to your brother. Like I try to be with you, but the truth is, I wasn’t as good with you either when you were his age. I couldn’t handle the screams. I went through the steps. Nothing. I couldn’t console you enough, and handed you to mommy every time. Right around two months, you changed. You grew up. You were and are everything I hoped you’d become. Your brother was at that stage too, he had just started. Sitting with the two of you the Sunday before this past Tuesday is an image, a memory, that’s permanently in my brain. I wish we had more. You and I will. If anything, anything at all that’s good in this, I want to be a better dad, friend, husband, person, for you, your mom, everyone that’s helping us, for me. It hurts knowing I could have been better then. It will hurt more if I can’t be better now. Getting through this isn’t easy. Getting through this is the only thing we can do. Everything seems so trivial, outside of you and your mom. This shall pass, but this scar over our hearts leaves us changed in the way we see it. I hope it’s for the best.
Thank You, Blake
Lindsey and I are completely overwhelmed, and humbled by the love and support we’ve received over
the last six days. I’m not a very public man when it comes to tragedies, and the fact that this news was shared that way really hasn’t changed my perspective on that. However, I know it’s helpful for her to grieve this way, and I’ve seen the outpouring of supportive messages, text messages, emails, thoughts, gifts, visits. The culmination of it all makes me realize that this needed to be shared, for her, and for me. It doesn’t require “likes”, nor comment. It’s the humblest, broadest thank you I can offer today, and I think it’s something I felt I needed to do, more will follow, but for now this is what I’m capable of.
As I shakily write this letter I can’t help but wonder if that’s from alcohol withdraw or the difficulty of this task. I try to maintain a sense of humor, if only for distraction. We’ve seen so many faces, and in the fog of it all I seemed to forget everyone’s name. However, your offerings have truly made us believe that we are where we belong, we’re loved beyond measure, and we have an entire community of people, both new and old, that we are now able to call friends, if not family.
I’ve thought for two days now how to thank all of you. I’m not able to get to each of your messages or phone calls, but I intend to. Please know they don’t go unnoticed, it’s just incredibly difficult to look at
them for more than a minute or two. Life goes on, it must, because Blake isn’t the first and won’t be the last. If my heart could break anymore right now, I wouldn’t be here. I’m not sure how it continues to beat, but each morning since, I wake up with Keller on my chest and I know Lindsey and I have a purpose in him. I know eventually, the larger picture will be clear. I know we’ll find our way through the haze, and sink our efforts into something greater than we ever imagined. I don’t know when that time will be. However, knowing each of you is there to help guide us is comforting and provides us with a glimmer of hope that this pain and anguish will subside enough to find that purpose.
I’ve spent almost the last two years talking with grieving parents, sons, and daughters about loss. I thought I was empathetic, but like a new friend of mine told me this week, we’re now part of a select fraternity. One that I hope no one ever has to join, but I know some won’t have a choice. I hope if and when that time comes that Lindsey and I have the strength to provide those new members with the same perspective and comfort that a couple of you have brought us. I wish we knew each other under different circumstances, but if this is part of the bigger picture for you, I’m beyond grateful for your strength, encouragement, and companionship right now.
I got up for a run this morning. I was up before the alarm. There’s nothing I want to do, it all feels like it’s
something I have to. The motion of it all is just heavy and exhausting. But, it reminds me I’m still here. Keller is still here. Lindsey is still here. A couple buddies joined me, forced me, whatever, and I know that one foot in front of the other is all I can do. Hills, flats, dark, turns, stories, emotion. I got there. I didn’t want to. Tears come and go. Thoughts creep in. Stupid song lyrics replay themselves in my head. I can’t escape myself, and I’m not at the point where I can help my wife escape herself. However, as much as I don’t want to, this helps, I put one foot down the other follows. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe a month from now, all of this will help the new normal become a little more bearable, and I can help her.
I came to work today for the same reason. I have a stack of charts on my desk. I need to continue to go through these motions. It hurts. It all just fucking hurts. I left Lindsey alone, but know her mom and aunt will be there, or are there by now. That hurts. Not being strong enough to provide your wife the comfort she needs just makes you feel like a waste of a man. But, these motions must be made to get to that point again.
The emotions associated with grief are incapacitating at times, and constantly cycling through so incredibly rapidly that every time you think you have a handle on something, you’re reminded how much loss really hurts. There is no comforting words. There’s commiserating, I’ve found that helpful, but I’m sure it’s no good for those that have to relive their own wounds. There’s dick jokes. I’ve found those helpful. I’m aware everyone is sorry, and I’m thankful beyond measure for the encouragement, comfort, and presence of each of you. But, this just hurts so fucking much that right now, a dick joke offers a momentary distraction that simply provides relief in laughter. If only fleeting, it’s more helpful than having to be inside my head with continued thoughts of last Tuesday.
I started out to write a thank you letter, and it seems that it’s more of a letter to myself at this point.
We’ve seen, or heard from people that we haven’t had contact with in years. We’ve made new friends. We’ve discovered new things about ourselves in the last six days. Every one of your thoughts, words, and presence is felt and greatly appreciated. I’m trying to remember everything that’s gone on in the past few days and it’s overwhelming to say the least. We’re so blessed to have friends and family that didn’t give a moment’s hesitation to driving one, three, eight hours to be with us, twice. The community support we’ve received is beyond any expectation. I was reminded of two things this past week. The first was said to me on Saturday: “Can you believe how many people came out? I can’t believe so many people actually like you.” That was perfect, and he doesn’t know how much that brief moment of laughter meant to me at that moment in time. The second I think I told Lindsey, as of next week, I will have spent the most amount of time in a single house, in a single city than I’ve spent since I was 11. That’s 22 years of never living in the same place for more than two years. The glimmer of hope that I mentioned starts with that, the home that’s been made here in Richmond. Our family is smaller in numbers today, but grew in love. From up North to down South, and throughout the city you each descended upon us not knowing what to do, and neither of us could offer you any hope or comfort in an answer. We still can’t. However, knowing each of you is there at a moment’s notice has brought comfort to us. If we don’t reach out, it’s not because we don’t care about you, or don’t want to see you, talk with your, or hug you. It’s because we’re not able to tell you what we want, because it’s to callous to tell you that you can’t get it for us. No one can. Please know that your open arms make all the difference right now, you’re presence, and distractions are all we need.
The cliché is hold your babies tight, always tell them you love them because you’re never going to know
if you’ll see them again. Lindsey and I were lucky enough to do that every day.
the last six days. I’m not a very public man when it comes to tragedies, and the fact that this news was shared that way really hasn’t changed my perspective on that. However, I know it’s helpful for her to grieve this way, and I’ve seen the outpouring of supportive messages, text messages, emails, thoughts, gifts, visits. The culmination of it all makes me realize that this needed to be shared, for her, and for me. It doesn’t require “likes”, nor comment. It’s the humblest, broadest thank you I can offer today, and I think it’s something I felt I needed to do, more will follow, but for now this is what I’m capable of.
As I shakily write this letter I can’t help but wonder if that’s from alcohol withdraw or the difficulty of this task. I try to maintain a sense of humor, if only for distraction. We’ve seen so many faces, and in the fog of it all I seemed to forget everyone’s name. However, your offerings have truly made us believe that we are where we belong, we’re loved beyond measure, and we have an entire community of people, both new and old, that we are now able to call friends, if not family.
I’ve thought for two days now how to thank all of you. I’m not able to get to each of your messages or phone calls, but I intend to. Please know they don’t go unnoticed, it’s just incredibly difficult to look at
them for more than a minute or two. Life goes on, it must, because Blake isn’t the first and won’t be the last. If my heart could break anymore right now, I wouldn’t be here. I’m not sure how it continues to beat, but each morning since, I wake up with Keller on my chest and I know Lindsey and I have a purpose in him. I know eventually, the larger picture will be clear. I know we’ll find our way through the haze, and sink our efforts into something greater than we ever imagined. I don’t know when that time will be. However, knowing each of you is there to help guide us is comforting and provides us with a glimmer of hope that this pain and anguish will subside enough to find that purpose.
I’ve spent almost the last two years talking with grieving parents, sons, and daughters about loss. I thought I was empathetic, but like a new friend of mine told me this week, we’re now part of a select fraternity. One that I hope no one ever has to join, but I know some won’t have a choice. I hope if and when that time comes that Lindsey and I have the strength to provide those new members with the same perspective and comfort that a couple of you have brought us. I wish we knew each other under different circumstances, but if this is part of the bigger picture for you, I’m beyond grateful for your strength, encouragement, and companionship right now.
I got up for a run this morning. I was up before the alarm. There’s nothing I want to do, it all feels like it’s
something I have to. The motion of it all is just heavy and exhausting. But, it reminds me I’m still here. Keller is still here. Lindsey is still here. A couple buddies joined me, forced me, whatever, and I know that one foot in front of the other is all I can do. Hills, flats, dark, turns, stories, emotion. I got there. I didn’t want to. Tears come and go. Thoughts creep in. Stupid song lyrics replay themselves in my head. I can’t escape myself, and I’m not at the point where I can help my wife escape herself. However, as much as I don’t want to, this helps, I put one foot down the other follows. Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe a month from now, all of this will help the new normal become a little more bearable, and I can help her.
I came to work today for the same reason. I have a stack of charts on my desk. I need to continue to go through these motions. It hurts. It all just fucking hurts. I left Lindsey alone, but know her mom and aunt will be there, or are there by now. That hurts. Not being strong enough to provide your wife the comfort she needs just makes you feel like a waste of a man. But, these motions must be made to get to that point again.
The emotions associated with grief are incapacitating at times, and constantly cycling through so incredibly rapidly that every time you think you have a handle on something, you’re reminded how much loss really hurts. There is no comforting words. There’s commiserating, I’ve found that helpful, but I’m sure it’s no good for those that have to relive their own wounds. There’s dick jokes. I’ve found those helpful. I’m aware everyone is sorry, and I’m thankful beyond measure for the encouragement, comfort, and presence of each of you. But, this just hurts so fucking much that right now, a dick joke offers a momentary distraction that simply provides relief in laughter. If only fleeting, it’s more helpful than having to be inside my head with continued thoughts of last Tuesday.
I started out to write a thank you letter, and it seems that it’s more of a letter to myself at this point.
We’ve seen, or heard from people that we haven’t had contact with in years. We’ve made new friends. We’ve discovered new things about ourselves in the last six days. Every one of your thoughts, words, and presence is felt and greatly appreciated. I’m trying to remember everything that’s gone on in the past few days and it’s overwhelming to say the least. We’re so blessed to have friends and family that didn’t give a moment’s hesitation to driving one, three, eight hours to be with us, twice. The community support we’ve received is beyond any expectation. I was reminded of two things this past week. The first was said to me on Saturday: “Can you believe how many people came out? I can’t believe so many people actually like you.” That was perfect, and he doesn’t know how much that brief moment of laughter meant to me at that moment in time. The second I think I told Lindsey, as of next week, I will have spent the most amount of time in a single house, in a single city than I’ve spent since I was 11. That’s 22 years of never living in the same place for more than two years. The glimmer of hope that I mentioned starts with that, the home that’s been made here in Richmond. Our family is smaller in numbers today, but grew in love. From up North to down South, and throughout the city you each descended upon us not knowing what to do, and neither of us could offer you any hope or comfort in an answer. We still can’t. However, knowing each of you is there at a moment’s notice has brought comfort to us. If we don’t reach out, it’s not because we don’t care about you, or don’t want to see you, talk with your, or hug you. It’s because we’re not able to tell you what we want, because it’s to callous to tell you that you can’t get it for us. No one can. Please know that your open arms make all the difference right now, you’re presence, and distractions are all we need.
The cliché is hold your babies tight, always tell them you love them because you’re never going to know
if you’ll see them again. Lindsey and I were lucky enough to do that every day.
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