Uncle Aaron

The last time I saw your face was 18 years and two hours ago. Your energy lives on in your nephew Wesley. He has his Mom and Dad's kind, loving, and gentle personality. Underneath, he has your zest for excitement and an eagerness for rough-and-tumble play. Tonight he told me, "Papa. Your hair is white." I told him, "Your hair is the same color as Uncle Aaron's." He replied, "Mine hair is the color of Uncle Aaron's?" You'd love him and he'd adore you. Megan and Patrick, make sure he knows about you. You should hear him say, Wesley Aaron. Wesely Aaron.  Hugs Air Bear. 

 

Grief Books and Business

 

Is there anything more personal than grief? In 1.033 seconds, Google gave me 192,000,000 references. Google is lazy. Had it given another second of effort, I bet they'd dig up a billion. 

When you think of your personal grief, do you see it as a journey? Is it a new life, or is it even life at all?

Grief is a zillion-dollar business. Some people take out loans or pay cash for higher education and earn advanced degrees to become experts. For a lot of money and time, a person can earn a prestigious title and a license to charge money to hear from people who paid the impossible price to pay cash to sit in the comfiest chair in the office and use free tissues. I think we have it backward. The counselor is still the student when an expert is in the room. 

Seventeen years ago this spring, I started this blog. It was intended to be a way for me to learn about blog writing, and my topic was going to be book reviews. You don't need to know my story to know I didn't stick to my plan. I wrote and wrote but reviewed only a few books. Oh, I read books by the pound. You can tell something about a person's life by looking at the books on their shelves. (I judge news commentators by the books behind them.)  A friend had an impressive library in a tidy home office. All of the books were best sellers. If you opened any one of the books, you'd be the first to turn their page. For my friend, the books were fancy wallpaper.

Two years ago, I decided to lighten my load of books to move the last halfway across the country. A heavy load of grief books went back on the shelf at Half-Price-Books, where I hope they have found new owners. As a grief book consumer, I wrote as I read. If you pick up one of my recycled books, you'll see my comments, notes, highlights. (Feel free to judge me by my scribbles.)  I added nothing to the author's insight or the book's value.

Because no two griefs are the same, no book or advice will ever cure the cause; and that's good news for the business of suffering. 

Sunset 1464

 

Warm mornings in early May signal the end of hostilities with winter. In Wisconsin, where April hangs on to March to the bitter end, these are remarkable moments.

Soft air on the front porch at 6:30 am is a sure sign that I've survived. The smell of fresh-cut, green grass lawns is better than cinnamon. One of life's little pleasures is adjusting the car seat to account for no winter coat and excess layers. F-you wind-chill; the sunroof is open.

In 2005 the tenth of May began with all signs that better days were here. The dark days that blanketed the years since 2002 at our home were in the past. Is that the thing called HOPE? I don't know. I remember a sunny sky at noon and a warm southerly breeze at 3:30. The sun went down on that day with me on my elbows and knees, head on the floor, in the corner of a room at our house. I remember seeing the carpet and the shoes of a priest. Through all of the trauma and noise, I remember a slight pause where I realized this image would be unforgettable. 

One thousand four hundred sixty-four suns have set. The shoes were laceless and black.  There was no sun on May 11th. Rain. Overcast skies. Mud. If hope is one side of a coin, despair is on the other and they're separated by razor-thin chance. 

Where do tears come from? What are they made of? 

Four Days in May....year fifteen

April 2, 2005. The last photo ever of Aaron and me. I remember how it felt to reach up to put my arm around his shoulder.

Angry, bitter, resentful are always choices. The sun is setting on May 9 for the 15th time since 5/10/05. The last of the Four Days in May begins about  6:00 am tomorrow.  Six hours will tic away by the hour, then the minute, and then the final painful seconds. I'll see each opportunity we had to change destiny fifteen years ago; they will come and go untaken again.

We fear potential consequences when we see our children making dangerous choices. We fear possible outcomes when we contemplate our reactions to those choices. As bad as we imagine things could be, we do not come close to grasping the ruthlessness of finality compounded by time.  Time heals nothing. The reality of the atrocity combined with time wears down resistance. The pain of fighting against what can not be defeated doesn't cease to be.  Pain is the reward for having fought and lost, and more or less lived.  I tip my hat to those who fight for the lives of their children.

We say we will do anything for our children. Will we? Will you stand against your friends, the educators, the coaches, community leaders who tell you you're wrong, you're overreacting? Will you confront the parents who facilitate reckless choices? Will you change your preferences that contribute to the tragedy brewing? What will you give up to save a child's life? Be prepared to hold yourself to your answer. You're going to fight the battle alone. And you will never know that you succeeded, but you will know you if you don't.

Your god doesn't answer prayers

Your god does not answer your prayers to keep your family safe or cure your loved ones of illness.

To believe a god requires homage to deliver us from evil is to believe your god is the same as a president who withholds assistance from people in need because they don't praise his generosity.

Go ahead and believe what you want.  Before you say your god answered your prayers be prepared to explain why your god rejected the prayers of others. 

29

  Patrick is 29 today. In a matter of weeks, he will be a dad to a son.  If it is true there is a God who has a plan and that plan includes deciding life and death then it is that God who is the greatest threat to life.  And that's insane. 

Another Revolution

Blackbird You were only waiting for this moment to arise. Here Comes the Sun It's been a long cold lonely winter. It feels like years since it's been clear. Let It Be

I remember the serious eyes of the doctors on May 10, 1987 and sad eyes of everyone on May 10, 2005.  Trepidation, anticipation, joy, pride, and in the end, sad. 

Fourteen years ago tonight I went to sleep. Aaron was with friends a few hundred yards from our home. He'd be asleep, home safe and sound in a few hours. Peace. Content.

I remember his laugh and yet I can't recall it. I remember his little boy voice was full of enthusiasm and anticipation. If only reality could have met his imagination.  For only a few days he had an eighteen year old voice. Calm. Chill is the word he used. I can almost hear that voice. It's out there just a little ways out of reach.  I strain to hear.   My jaw is so tense.

Its a bullet train bearing down on me. I see it, hear it, feel it. It's out there and coming. I've been here so many times before. No matter what happens in the 12 months between appearances, when the engine is due, there I am standing at the station. The train never stops. It never slows, it has a place to go. Hell if I know where it goes. It just goes. Around and around. A revolution a year. This silver train will blow by me tomorrow afternoon. I'll see it fade to white. 

Maybe the train is the phone call. "Are you Aaron Meyer's dad?" Don't answer. Don't answer. Hang up.  Let it go.  Unbelievable. It's been 14 years and here I am. Writing in the same blog. The one I've tried and failed to quit. Tears. Snot. Head pounding. Teeth clenched.  Older, no less sad. Heartache, Grief never ends. The moments of reprieve grow wider.

With the sun setting behind me, the Cadillac turned the corner and disappeared with my son behind the church. When there's nothing more to see, and only the red tail lights, and vanishing car in my brain, I turned and walked into forever. Keep walking.

There are no stories with happy endings, unless you stop telling the story before the ending.