I don’t know how to remember my son. I know how other parents memorialize their dead offspring. But I am confused for myself. There are no real maps or guidelines that work for me. Perhaps, if I could make sense of his death, it would be easier. But I am no closer to that than I was when he died. The shock and numbness are gone, but not the pain, not the uncertainty of how to move forward. Or even if I want to move forward.
I know other parents who have suffered our fate. Some refuse to do anything to the child’s bedroom. It is as though the child left to go to the bathroom and will be right back. A memorial frozen in time like a Pompeian figure. Some parents get rid of all reminders and speak no more of their terrible loss. As though ignoring a missing leg will prevent the need for crutches or a wheelchair.
Others pick out a few special items and photographs and build a shrine in a prominent place in the house. A place of silent worship like a wishing well that never gives real answers but only echoes our plaintive cries. Other parents create/join organizations, plant trees, or establish scholarships to honor their dead loved one. None of these things have any appeal to me.
Christopher told us, in his memorial letter, to pretend that he has just moved across town. And we do have some experience with prolonged absences on his part. He went into the navy at eighteen. It was very hard on us. We didn’t make his bed or change his sheets for several months. I later found out that both my wife and youngest son imitated me by going into Christopher’s room and laying on his bed. Besides the smell of commercial grooming products, his bedding contained a scent that was uniquely his. We all found small relief for our loss by resting there. When he was on the submarine or went off to his work Saudi Arabia and other places we got a taste of life without Christopher. But we always knew we would see him again.
We cannot repeat that experience. His bed and bedding are long gone, victims of the frantic aftermath of his death and evacuation of his Denver apartment. We do have a lot of his things and some photographs of course. In that respect, we have daily reminders of him. Both his brother and I saved a few articles of clothing. But their scent has faded. I do my best to recreate it by using the same products that Christopher used. I have his body wash (Old Spice), for example. I also use his cologne, deodorant brand (Dirty English), and Cremo beard softener.
Smells have great power for people even though our nasal receptors are poor compared with much of the animal kingdom. Exhibit A is that there is a lot of data supporting the notion that pheromones and smell play a role in human behavior. Even when they are not consciously recognized. Twin studies have demonstrated pheromone roles in attracting mates. T-Shirt studies have demonstrated their impact on female reproductive cycles. Memory studies suggest that women have stronger recollections of events because they associate them with specific smells.
Personal grooming product makers use sophisticated long-term connections when it comes to aromas. Specific olfactory components of baby lotions and powders are inserted into products for those adults who were exposed to those particular smells as infants. Realtors used baked goods, or some imitation thereof to help sell houses. Marketers of all kinds understand the power of fragrance and use it to their advantage.
It’s possible I am fooling myself. Maybe I am even prolonging or worsening the agony over the loss of my son. Contact with things that I associate with his life fools me, however briefly, that he is alive. The smells of his life trick me into thinking he is just offstage. Just out of sight . . . soon to return. And every minute I am deceived is one less minute of despair.
