Two of my regular readers have noticed my absence from these pages and wonder what’s going on. The answer is that I lost one of my three faithful readers. For any writer that is bad. The fact that the reader was my oldest son makes the loss a tragedy beyond comprehension. The death of my son Christopher is a blow I cannot begin to describe. But as writer, I must try. My generation, the Baby Boomers, and subsequent generations of Americans are very spoiled. We are not used to young people dying, only the elderly. Our ancestors, as well as many people in Africa, Asia, and South America haven’t been as lucky. As of last week, my luck ran out.
When my mother died at age 56, my 78-yr-old grandmother was so devastated she passed away shortly thereafter. She kept saying that it wasn’t right to have to bury her daughter. Debbie Reynolds died of heartbreak days after her daughter Carrie Fischer died. Today, I understand completely. If it weren’t for the rest of my family, I would gladly die today. But I don’t have that luxury, so I must take this journey that most parents fear from the moment their children are born. I am fortunate in that I have a support network that includes people who were forced onto this path long ago. And so, for those of you who may not have as much help in such a situation or for those who need to provide support to others, I will try to create a map to help. None of you know when or if you will need it.
The phone call that told me that my world had changed forever came from my other son rather than a stranger. That was a small comfort. Much of what transpired over the next week is stuff you have heard about but never understood on the gut level that the death of a child strikes. Yes, Christopher was a grown man and not a child. But to a father and mother, there is no difference. Exhibit A for the new normal is the phrase, “my world changed forever.” You have probably heard it before . . . every mass shooting follow-up news story shows someone repeating the phrase. What you don’t understand is that the space –time continuum itself actually changes for us.
Time no longer travels in the discrete increments that I was used to. Now, hours flash by in seconds and seconds, particularly those at 4 AM, take hours. Memories of my son bombard me, overwhelming me with grief following no rhyme nor reason. Space itself is altered and neither my wife nor I can operate normally in our environment. We drop things and knock over things… I even tried to walk through a wall at my son’s bank. We are like adolescents again trying to get used to our new bodies after a growth spurt.
My preliminary advice to those who would like to help is just standard grief protocol. When you learn someone has lost a friend or family member, just acknowledge their loss. Keep religion out of it unless you know it is welcome. And understand that for a parent losing a child of any age, grief is much more intense. Food and flowers have been sent to us in mass quantities. My wife appreciates being surrounded by the beauty of the flowers. For me, their slow death is a painful reminder of our loss. Living plants, like the orchids that Christopher loved so much, are another story. The food is nice, so we don’t have to worry about meals. But on the other hand, none of us has had much of an appetite. It’s not a diet I would recommend but I have lost a pound a day.
It is hard doing all of the work of death as well as cleaning up the aftermath. Cremation, memorials, banks, and moving companies all play a role in our daily to-do lists for now. I find myself sobbing in places that I would have been embarrassed by during my old life. Fortunately, most strangers have been kind, understanding and helpful. Although to the Chase auto finance help desk person who told me to, “Have a nice day” after I had just told him about Christopher’s death, I have a message that I couldn’t say then because he transferred me so fast. “Fuck off, you soulless corporate drone. Try actually listening to your customers you worthless piece of shit.” Christopher would have approved that message.
My last piece of advice for those who want to help is don’t say, “If there’s anything I can do please ask.” First of all, don’t say it unless you mean it. Secondly, we don’t even know what to ask. We are overwhelmed with grief. It is now, after the services are over and the flowers have all died, that we need the most support. It is now, when the wound is so tender, fresh and painful that we need the most help. Just do something. We will appreciate it. I don’t know how many more parts I will produce for this map of grief. Only time will tell.
