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.