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.