We Lost The Baby

We lost the baby, again. Every day I pray your mom doesn't call me. Not because I don't want to hear from her, but the amount of anxiety built up in the few seconds from me recognizing her name on my phone and answering to hear her calm voice are so full of the same fear I had when I got the call from Nanny. I'd rather get her text or emails every day, all day, but when the phone rings and it's her, I recoil from answering.

I answered yesterday, forgetting she had a doctor's appointment, and the pause in her response followed by the tears had me thinking the absolute worst - I lost you and Connor. However, we lost the baby.

Twelve weeks, that's the amount of time they tell you to wait before letting anyone know. I've never waited, I can't contain my excitement and want to share it with the world. This time, I was more contained, and only shared with your uncles and a couple people at work. My thought has always been we make strong babies, what's to worry about. It's a fear that's hidden far back in your mind, one you never expect to realize, but allow yourself to ponder just on the off-chance acknowledging it somehow prevents it. It doesn't, we lost the baby.

I quickly turned to the Internet to figure out what to do. It's full of advice on what to do, but it doesn't tell you how it compounds past wounds. I did as the articles instructed, and avoided telling her "we can try again", and just held her, asked Gaga to come over, and we shared a beer (because that's what we do). Your mom loves you boys more than life itself, and having to watch her relive the loss of another one of you is beyond bearable, but that's what you do in this situation. You bear the inconceivable, you put on a happy face, and you create a safe place for your children, for your sanity, for your family. We've been through this before, losing a baby.

I don't know where we go from here today. I'm beyond scared of what can happen the next time around, and I don't want to put your mom through this again. I don't want to fear her phone calls. I don't want to worry about you boys. Without all this, I guess I wouldn't be parenting, and since this is its price, it's something I continue to bear, because the infinite possibilities of parenthood don't always end with losing the baby.

On Sunday night, I prayed to Blake. I've talked to him a few times this year, but not as often as I should. I prayed he watch over Harlie and keep her safe throughout her recovery, it's not her time. Her recovery is going better, and she's beginning to turn the corner. I don't know how I forgot to ask him to watch over your mom, and the baby. I've asked him to watch over several people who've joined him lately, and vice versa. I pray he watches over each of you, and keeps you safe when I'm not there to. We never know when things will change, and they turn on a dime, without reason. We look back to what we wish we'd done, what we could have done, and bargain for that moment back. I can't rewind to Sunday, and ask him to watch over mom, keep her safe. I forgot to ask him to watch over the baby, and now we've lost it.

Life isn't fair. It's lessons are unending, and incredibly taxing. You smile. You grieve. You hold on to those you love that are here. They may not be for long. Love you, buddy.

My Dudes

Ambiguity Needs a Strategy

Men are fixers. We see a problem, and our first instinct is to fix it. You'll run into times in your life when you can't. In this moment of ambiguity you revert back to your most basic self, the one you've tried to repress and hide. I have this problem. I think my dad has this problem. I think his dad had this problem. The problem is alcohol. I've denied it to be an issue for me since I was in my early 20s. For the most part, it's not. I don't drink daily, I don't drink to wake up, I don't need a drink. But, when faced with being unable to fix something, I'm forced into an ambiguous situation and I become scared.

I loved marrying your mom. I still do. It was the best decision I made in my life. However, the greatest moments so far have been watching the birth of you, Blake, and Connor. It wasn't immediate, like some movie soliloquy. I watched each of you being born, and that was it. You came out, the doctor pronounced each of you boys, healthy and took you to a table to do the necessary identification and APGAR scores. I looked, and helped when asked to move you or keep you still. It happened so fast, and even by the time Connor was born, I was still unsure of what they really wanted me to do. Each of you were then given to mom with the smoothest of transitions and I stood by watching over each, with the formation of tears in my eyes. I wasn't overcome with those intense emotions described in those movies, but I did feel happy each of you were healthy. I cried a bit more during Connor, but I think that was to be expected since we lost Blake about 10 months prior.

When your mom finally handed each of you to me, and I held each of you, something indescribable happened. That love so often beautifully summarized by an actor (who likely doesn't/didn't have kids) occurred. The intense desire to protect, hold, and show you the boundless love inside me for each of you washed over. It made me different. It made me better. It made me less me.

Being less me is a good thing. I'm less wrapped up in my head. I'm less concerned for me. This is beneficial to everyone around me. Without each of you, I'm an asshole. I still am, but just less of one.

I think it was a September night, and I was supposed to go and ref a wiffleball game. Your mom told me she wasn't feeling well, and was spotting. This moment was less significant to me then. I'm a believer in omens, but didn't see this as one. I've managed to remain stoic in most situations of stress and pressure, and it's served me well throughout life. It's likely also to my detriment, because it looks like I don't understand the gravity of situations to the casual observer. She told me, and my instinct was, call the hospital, I'll have a beer.

I was walking into the hospital where I worked when your mom was roughly 39 weeks pregnant. My phone rang, and without looking I knew it was her telling me, her water broke. I answered, I was right. I walked into the hospital, told them you were in labor, and I was leaving. I drove home, happy, excited, scared. What could I do besides get her to the hospital? Why wasn't she doing this herself? I was an hour away? I got home, and your mom was just moving around, normally, making sure her bag was packed. Why wasn't this done already I thought? I went outside, I made a greyhound.

I've known CPR since I was 18. It changes every couple years, and I get to practice on mannequins and make the associated jokes, commonly used in these courses with the even dumber simulated responses - "does he have a pulse?". On Tuesday, October 14th I received the call from Nanny, Blake wasn't breathing. I maintained a sense of calm that angers me now, and angered me then. I arrived and took your brother's lifeless body from Nanny to begin CPR on the first, and only human, I've ever done this to. The EMS crew arrived and told me it was over. He was gone. I walked outside and shouted "Fuck", exclaimed it really, but I think I held back. I'm angry with myself for this. The gravity of it all wasn't making me feel what I've seen in movies. Life isn't a movie. This is me. We went through a line of questioning with the police, talked with family and friends before leaving for home. I don't remember how we got home. I remember your Uncle Kyle being there and hugging him before walking into the garage and opening a beer.

Since that day, I've met each ambiguous, unfixable situation with an increasing use of alcohol. It's always been my drug of choice. It's normalized in our society, so it doesn't seem evil. Like heroin. It's effects since Blake have been more and more frequent blackouts. I don't tell your mom, she worries. She scolds. I don't want to stop, because I enjoy alcohol, and I enjoy the company I share when I'm drinking. I also don't know how to slow down, or stop, until I pass out when I do drink. Except, there are times, calculated times, where I map out a strategy for drinking. I'm good on those nights, but I still want to get home and have another. It's scary. Each morning I wake up, like today, and I can't remember how I got to bed leaves me wondering how long I can keep this up before I hurt myself, or worse, any of you.

In the absence of knowing what to do, I'm faced with the ambiguity, or more the ignorance of a situation I hide from your mom. You. Your brothers. My friends. I drink. This is what makes me, me. Not the alcohol...It's my inability to act in favor of others over myself. I hope I provide you with the lessons to think, and more importantly act with the thought of your actions' effects on others more than yourself. This one thing will make you more successful as a person than I will ever be. I love you, buddy.

An Evolutionary Reaction

Men and women are different. A very wise buddy, great friend, informed me when Blake died that I needed to be there for my woman. I took it as I needed to swallow my rage, suck up my heart break, forget my pain and be there for her. He was right. I did need to be there for her. But I was and am, just as broken as your mom.

As men, our first move is to fix things, at least in our culture. It's what we do. There's a problem? I have a pair of channel locks, I can fix this. It's how we survive. Everything.
Then, then the torturous pain of something you can't fix occurs. Something you can't control. Something there's no instructions for. There is no cure on this earth. Yet, it's all we know and it's what we strive to do. An evolutionary reaction. 

I tell my buddies, and now you, the same thing he told me, women don't want us to fix this. Mainly, because we can't, but also they want us to be with them in their suffering. To know what their suffering is. Fixing it doesn't mean we understand it, or them. Fixing it doesn't solve it, it's unsolvable. Fixing it doesn't equate to happiness. And with Blake, or any loss, fixing it, again, doesn't exist. 

Then, the suffering sets in. You're left without an out. You're in their suffering now. You're completely with them. You have the choice of being completely with them in theirs, as it is yours. Or, you retreat to something more comfortable, and ignore it. Ignore the torture, the pain, the suffering. Your marriage. Your best friend. Your existence.

That's not the choice of those I choose to follow. Those I choose to lead me through. I watch them in awe, in utter complete awe. They accept this suffering. They embrace it. They welcome more. Their physical pain is their emotional release. Their character is on display daily, on the hour, by the minute. I seek their guidance. I embrace their wisdom. I am not that man today. I can tell you what to do, and I do, very well. I'm not that shining example for you yet, son. I am not the man I want to be, for you, for Blake, for mom.

I can't fix my woman. I can't heal her pain. I can't fill her loss. I have to accept that. I have to embrace her pain, as it is my own, and it is. I have to show her strength when she is weak, as she does me. This struggle is ours together. Together is our way through, not out. We will talk of your brother often, it's our way of keeping him with us in the present. You may not understand it now, but I hope you grow to love him, to talk with him, to run with him, to pray to him. This is how I make it through my days. You provide so much joy, laughter, and love. Without Blake here, my heart is incomplete and that's not your fault, I hope you know this and remember it.

I am blessed by those I surround myself with, of whom I can turn to for this lesson. They are my heroes. They are my inspiration. They maintain my sanity, which in turn I can help my woman maintain hers. I cannot fix her, I cannot fix me. With them, I can be better. In turn, I can help her be. Better. More. Daily. In time, I hope to be this example for you. For me. For the next person. This pain is not unbearable, but it is unfathomable, until you're here. When pain comes, draw your inspiration from those around you that lead you in the direction of light, empowerment, improvement.

I watched this lesson was on display with an intensity unlike I've ever seen today. To follow the path that led to an unimaginable heartbreak, to complete the same course, to honor the life in the same manner it was taken, escapes me. It's a pain I've put in the depths of my mind, in hopes of never retrieving it. As I ran it with them, I spoke of pride. Of others, in me and my not being able to understand how someone was able to say that of me these past few months. Then I saw it embodied. In her. In him. I watched in quiet desperation for that same strength. That same hope. Their lessons teach me daily, tomorrow is not guaranteed. Don't wait. Don't hesitate. Don't leave anything on the table. Embrace the pain, it's what we have left of them on this earth. Men and women are different, but when a pain of this magnitude hits our struggle is the same and we retreat to what we know, as men. Fixing it.

Pain can lead you down two separate and equally life-changing paths, son. The first seems like the quickest path to numbness. The second, the second provides torturous terrain, unnavigable obstacles, and experiences only few have set out to take on. The crossroads you may one day find yourself at, is a moment you'll never forget. Mine was the Sunday after Blake passed. It was mid-afternoon, I'd been drunk for six days. It was easy. It was numb. I stopped. I got up and ran the next morning. I broke into tears 500 yards into it. I ran up a hill on the south side of the James as hard as I could until my tears were replaced with gasps for air. I ran a few miles more with a couple of friends who were determined to not let me walk down that other path. Tears continued. I was exhausted. This works for me. This physical release, it eases my pain. It doesn't fix me, but it works to get me through my day. Your mom is not me. It's taken me years to figure this out, and this is a new challenge for her, for us. 

Our differences are challenges. In any marriage. Relationship. Organization. Our pain is unifying. Our suffering makes us the same. My channel locks will not fix her. I have no tool available to her, other than my love, support and new found understanding. We're in this together. Together is the only way. I love you, buddy.

36 Days Since, How Do We Define His Legacy?

It’s been 36 days now since you left us, Blake. I wonder where your spirit is. The memory of you sitting up between my knees, smiling while I make you dance along to the terrible singing that drives your brother nuts! It’s what I see now. It’s what I choose to remember. The rest is too painful. Maybe one day. I miss our easy time together, you’d cry, I’d get frustrated, but it was easier the second time around with you. I didn’t worry as much, I almost knew what I was doing. I’d get you to calm down, but I couldn’t keep up with your brother and you yet. Two on one was just too much for an inexperienced dad. I was told before Keller was born, by a good friend, “you don’t have to know how to parent, just make your decisions with love in mind”. I still hear it to this day. I’d throw you on my shoulder and you were content as long as I was moving. I wasn’t worried as much about you as I was with Keller, you were the tough one, you were the big one, putting on weight, your bowels seemed better than his, but your mom did most of work with you. I relegated myself to caring for Keller. It was easier, I know him, his quirks, his needs. He could talk and tell me too. Somewhere around five or six weeks though, you and I started hitting it off. We were becoming buddies. I don’t know how to let go of the hope that we’ll have that chance again. I don’t think I have to. That hope makes this more tolerable.

I see patients at work every day. They tell me that if there’s a small chance something can go wrong, they’re the ones it’s going to happen to. Everything bad happens to them. I never thought that way. I don’t want Keller to have to, or to grow up thinking that way either. Bad things happen. We choose how we respond to them. We cannot control what happens to us, only our response.

I won’t let Keller go through life thinking he’s a victim. He is not. Optimism. Contentment. Opportunities. There are enough people in this world that fail to see any good even in the brightest light. I search daily, hourly, sometimes moment to moment still, for that bigger picture of why you were forced to leave us. We must remain optimistic, without hope there is no faith, no belief. Contentment, we have what we need: love. We’ll figure the rest out as needed. Opportunities, with every disaster there is an end, and a response. We choose what that is. There are so many things we can learn from this time to help become better parents, friends, moms, dads, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters.

That’s not to say the bad moments don’t take hold. The easiest path to take is to run. There are days I want to run away, far and fast. However, my mother, your grandmother, taught me over the years that there will be days where I have to eat shit. I just need to be thankful I’m full. That’s optimism. I’ve swallowed a lot in the past 36 days. I watch my friends who go through this daily struggle, strive to be better each day, to put purpose to a life that no longer beats from a single heart, but thousands of ours. It gives me hope that I’m showing you these things, Keller. That you’ll be a better human because of all this. Because of us. Because of Blake.

I know this pain is a permanent one. I’ve been struggling to accept this for the past few weeks. I can look to new friends now and see that the pain doesn’t have to be incapacitating, that we can keep putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, they won’t be as heavy, and we can lead others down this path too. There will be more. They will know it too. That’s realism, but it provides an opportunity to put our strength on display to comfort them when it’s their time in need.

Keller you’re headed to the beach this weekend. You’ll have your grannies and your papas. Your life is so amazing, watching you experience the world just makes my heart smile. I hope you’re able to find this love one day. It’s unlike any other. I’m headed to the mountains to be with Blake. I’ve been missing him so much lately, I want to talk to him. I thought a church would offer that, but I don’t belong in a church right now. My anger with the belief system of our culture prevents me from that privilege. I’m going to the highest point I can find, I’ll carry pieces of him with me. I need to catch him up on what he’s missed. I hope to catch up on what I’ve missed.

That day was 36 days ago. The world never stopped. In fact, it’s sped up. I couldn’t put that moment on hold. I couldn’t bring you back. For a while that day, I remember thinking that it just couldn’t be real. That these things don’t happen to us. They do. They do indeed. Our response determines Blake’s legacy, Keller. It’s up to us to determine what that is. I love you, buddy.

Death Plus Two Weeks

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.

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.

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.

When Your Team Wins...

Keller – 

There’s something you need to learn about sports, being a fan, having a dream, and how they relate to life. I love sports. I love my teams. I very much dislike watching grown men live vicariously through boys, basking in the latter's accomplishments as if it's their own. The passion starts as a child, often passed on by a parent, but what do we teach these young men and women when we spend the majority of our time discussing, watching, and worshiping the accomplishments of others as if it’s our own?

I've been thinking about this a lot recently. With the birth of any child comes the promise of our next President, CEO, super star athlete, or plumber, electrician, or truck driver. You have an opportunity to be anything you want, but the choices I make for you before you could you’re your own will dictate how your interests develop. I, like any parent, want to shelter my son from heartbreak, but disappointment is a lesson you’ll have to learn. I want you to learn it early and often - I want it to fuel you, to be the best damn whatever you want to be, and not be someone who watches from the sidelines celebrating another person's accomplishments as if you contributed to that because you wear a jersey, or go to the same school. Sure, I've jumped up and down and gone crazy after a Boston win, or a UVA three pointer to win the game as time expired because that's what we do as fans. However, those are fleeting moments of my life and in no way correlate to the success or failure I've had as my own person. I’m not telling you being a fan is something you shouldn’t be, but keep it in perspective – you’re watching others achieve and succeed; it’s not the same as your own.

I started you wearing orange and blue as soon as you were in clothes, and slapped that Boston "B" on your head as soon as we could get you in a hat that fit, but one lesson I want you to learn is that these are moments of entertainment, not life-changing events for you. You are responsible for your direction in life, if that's sports and you’re good enough - I'll live and die with every step you take on a field, court, library, classroom, or boardroom, contrary to the very heart of this letter, but you’re my son, and from the moment I put you in my arms I lived and died for you. If you’re not good enough, I hope it teaches you that hard work, dedication, and drive are the only things that will earn you a sense of accomplishment. Watching others achieve is fun, it allows us an escape for a few hours on a Saturday or Sunday, but it will never replace the feeling of doing it yourself. "Doing it" could be quantitative physics, I don't care, so long as you pour yourself into it fully and get after it. Your success is determined by you and the amount you’re willing to put into it. No fan ever raises the trophy of their team; they may be thanked, but really they’re thanking you for paying their salary or tuition.

The lesson I want my son to take away is that, nothing in this world is given to you. Anything that is, is not worth it. You're never going to win 100 percent of the time, and it's the moments that you don't that define the direction your life will take. You'll either go after it and get it, or accept that you're not good enough and quit, there is no in between. Knowing your limitations today, only mean you have something to work on tomorrow. I hope each and every time you lose, you walk away with a plan to put in 10x the effort in practice and preparation for the next chance, whether it's hitting a ball or the books. The second lesson I want you to learn is that watching someone else win, will never replace the feeling and sense of pride you receive when it's you standing on top of the mountain. What I never want for my son is to feel that others' accomplishments count as his own. This is where I get off the bandwagon, sports fans have taken this to the extreme and has caused me to lose some of the love I once had for it. I don't look down on them, I feel sad that it appears the highlight of their lives is watching others achieve, and then blame their circumstances for their position in life. So, my last hope for you, Keller, is that if it never happens for you, don’t let it be for lack of effort, you define success, your success. Your hard work, in whatever field, will pay off when the opportunity presents itself. That's called faith and it's the driving force behind commitment, that's what I want you to learn from sports.

No matter what, you're my son. Whether you're in a tie, jersey or a pair of Birkenstocks, I'm happy to watch you chase your dream.  

I love you, buddy.