Grief blurs reality. It's just so big, sometimes I can't see behind or beyond grief. Tuesday morning the grief fog must have lifted enough for me to see something about Aaron's life. I'm clearly a visual and simplistic person. A simple line, a time-line, cleared the haze. This is what I drew and what I saw:
_____________________ ___________
Sixteen years of being a typical boy - 6 Mo.of chaos - 17 Mo. Safe Recovery & Peace
The line is not to scale. It's the best I can do in a pinch. The six months were a short time with a gigantic impact.
As a Froshman in High School Aaron ran varsity track. His first meet was an indoor event in Oshkosh. Aaron qualifed for the finals by placing in his heat. Standing at the finish line were Kathy, Dave, and Amanda Greening, Patrick, Cathy, and me. Aaron ran well in a fast race. At six feet tall, he did not have the control of his limbs that he would have a year later, but there was an awkward grace of hurdler-to-be apparent. Going over the last hurdle, Aaron caught his foot on the hurdle and stumbled. I hurt for him at that instant. Never one to sulk about his athletic results, Aaron scrambled to cross the finish line. His hand might have touched the ground, I don't remember. Aaron scored points for his team with that effort.
In the track race and in life Aaron sprinted, hurdled, stumbled, regained his balance, and finished with his head up. Determination. Grace. Strength. Responsibility.
Sixteen years and seventeen months are not overshadowed by six months. What had felt like a lifetime of conflict is in its proper perspective for me for the first time.
Peace tonight.
Tom
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Time Slipping Into the Future
Eleven days have passed since my last post. Days have been different as if a page was turned again. Not sure what caused it, but I went from feeling twisted about Aaron's death to feeling at peace. It wasn't an overnight thing, more like a violent late winter storm followed by cold, crisp, quiet.
When I was a little kid, the quietest place I knew was in the big snow drifts on the edge of a giant potato field. I could see for miles. The only break in the view were a few sticks of trees and an old, orange brick farm house. The late afternoon sky in January was gray-orange with streaks of clouds. No noise. No wind. When I think of peace, that image comes to mind. A snow-mobile suit, stocking cap, choppers,and Sorrels kept me toasty warm. Eleven years old; Total peace.
Today I focus on keeping clear of the turmoil. A moth to a flame is the way I see the dangers of getting caught up again in the temptations of life. Never again do I want to think I am more than what I am. Never do I want to throw caution to the wind or extend myself beyond what I know are my capabilities.
There was a time in my adult life where I disagreed with contemporary attitudes about limitations. I was forming an idea that the only person who can truly know my capabilities is myself. "Recognize your comfort areas and be honest about your abilities", I told myself... Then I gave way to a more "fighter" attitude. "Go where others fear to go! Drive for success! Never quit!" These mantras where more in line with champion thinking. Somewhere along the road, how things looked became more important than how things were. There is not alot of peace in that life.
Life's lessons taught me the difference between being a Warrior and a Fighter. To me the Warrior has virtues of prudence, self honesty, humility. The Fighter is ignorant to reality. Denial and resentment fuel the fighter. Aaron was a Warrior in the end. I think we both were fighters for a time---that didn't work well for us. I hope to be a Warrior like my son.
With respect for my son,
Tom
When I was a little kid, the quietest place I knew was in the big snow drifts on the edge of a giant potato field. I could see for miles. The only break in the view were a few sticks of trees and an old, orange brick farm house. The late afternoon sky in January was gray-orange with streaks of clouds. No noise. No wind. When I think of peace, that image comes to mind. A snow-mobile suit, stocking cap, choppers,and Sorrels kept me toasty warm. Eleven years old; Total peace.
Today I focus on keeping clear of the turmoil. A moth to a flame is the way I see the dangers of getting caught up again in the temptations of life. Never again do I want to think I am more than what I am. Never do I want to throw caution to the wind or extend myself beyond what I know are my capabilities.
There was a time in my adult life where I disagreed with contemporary attitudes about limitations. I was forming an idea that the only person who can truly know my capabilities is myself. "Recognize your comfort areas and be honest about your abilities", I told myself... Then I gave way to a more "fighter" attitude. "Go where others fear to go! Drive for success! Never quit!" These mantras where more in line with champion thinking. Somewhere along the road, how things looked became more important than how things were. There is not alot of peace in that life.
Life's lessons taught me the difference between being a Warrior and a Fighter. To me the Warrior has virtues of prudence, self honesty, humility. The Fighter is ignorant to reality. Denial and resentment fuel the fighter. Aaron was a Warrior in the end. I think we both were fighters for a time---that didn't work well for us. I hope to be a Warrior like my son.
With respect for my son,
Tom
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Time is Smug
Entering Pic n Save this evening I met one of the Dad's to a boy from Aaron's class. It was good to hear how well Joe's son is doing playing baseball in the South. This young man of 19-- Luke, was a little boy with Aaron playing youth football in DeForest not so long ago. His Dad tells me he is now 6-4 and 240 lbs. I remember being impressed by Luke when they were in fourth grade. They were all good boys. They were surely better boys than I was a coach. I do miss those days.
The speed of time from little kid to adult is lightning fast. To me, I was 9 and 10 forever. I don't recall childhoods going by so quickly in the 60's. Everything is faster today.
Listening to Joe remember the youth football days and seeing how proud he was of his son gave me a good feeling. I like to hear about the guy's becoming young men and experiencing accomplishments. Definitely my heart feels the void of not having Aaron. I can't speak for all Dads, but it seems to me that Dads mature with their sons as natural as hair turns grey; one day we're crawling around on the ground playing monster to their hero, and next we're sharing ideas and suggestions for the better or eachother.
When I was 16 my Dad died suddenly and I'm sure my growth into being a young man was retarded by the loss. Now when I would prefer to be a Dad to a 19 year old young man, I'm sort of out of the game again. My feeling is not one of being cheated, but instead there is a pain that could be maddening. To be certain, my constant pain is for my son. The salt in the wound is the collartoral damage injuries.
Oh I know I am supposed to trust that Aaron is in a better place with God, but one should understand that logically that suggestion doesn't add up. God made life on earth and if God did not want us to value and protect our life on earth, would God have made life on earth? Less philosophically, because we value life, we can not turn around and say "Life is good, but loss of life is better". To change the order of values is common. To change to value the negative opposite of one thing is unusual at best. How can one continue to value life and at the same time value death? Can I value Peace and Violence at the same time? I suppose I can value rain and sunshine, but neither of those is evil.
I trust in God. I know God did not kill Aaron. I am working diligently to grow. No one ever knows the extent of a person's personal growth work. That's why from the outside it looks like "time heals". It's just an old cliche which cheapens a person's agonizing work. The Good Work a person does over time is what heals. The person does all the work, and TIME gets all the credit without bearing any of the pain. For what it's worth, a person hurt by the death of a child could use the same amount of time and turn themselves into an angry, bitter, cruel, resentful person. Intoxicated or addicted for that matter. Time is a greedy bastard; always too slow or too fast. Never on our side. Time runs out on us. We get in trouble for not being on time, but do we ever get rewarded for being ON-tim? And then Time gets all the credit for healing. I think Time is smug. It takes all the credit and says nothing. No humility.
I want my son Aaron to grow with us; the same as his friends. How empty it is to not have a story to tell about Aaron. The story of Aaron's life ends where stories told by other Dads begin.
The train has left the station. Everyone's son who was coming home got off. Everyone's son who was going somewhere got on. I'm standing at the depot trying to hold my head up and the tears back. I'm hanging on to Patrick and Cathy.
Thanks for the suggestions Aaron. You're my hero.
Keepin' on--
Dad
The speed of time from little kid to adult is lightning fast. To me, I was 9 and 10 forever. I don't recall childhoods going by so quickly in the 60's. Everything is faster today.
Listening to Joe remember the youth football days and seeing how proud he was of his son gave me a good feeling. I like to hear about the guy's becoming young men and experiencing accomplishments. Definitely my heart feels the void of not having Aaron. I can't speak for all Dads, but it seems to me that Dads mature with their sons as natural as hair turns grey; one day we're crawling around on the ground playing monster to their hero, and next we're sharing ideas and suggestions for the better or eachother.
When I was 16 my Dad died suddenly and I'm sure my growth into being a young man was retarded by the loss. Now when I would prefer to be a Dad to a 19 year old young man, I'm sort of out of the game again. My feeling is not one of being cheated, but instead there is a pain that could be maddening. To be certain, my constant pain is for my son. The salt in the wound is the collartoral damage injuries.
Oh I know I am supposed to trust that Aaron is in a better place with God, but one should understand that logically that suggestion doesn't add up. God made life on earth and if God did not want us to value and protect our life on earth, would God have made life on earth? Less philosophically, because we value life, we can not turn around and say "Life is good, but loss of life is better". To change the order of values is common. To change to value the negative opposite of one thing is unusual at best. How can one continue to value life and at the same time value death? Can I value Peace and Violence at the same time? I suppose I can value rain and sunshine, but neither of those is evil.
I trust in God. I know God did not kill Aaron. I am working diligently to grow. No one ever knows the extent of a person's personal growth work. That's why from the outside it looks like "time heals". It's just an old cliche which cheapens a person's agonizing work. The Good Work a person does over time is what heals. The person does all the work, and TIME gets all the credit without bearing any of the pain. For what it's worth, a person hurt by the death of a child could use the same amount of time and turn themselves into an angry, bitter, cruel, resentful person. Intoxicated or addicted for that matter. Time is a greedy bastard; always too slow or too fast. Never on our side. Time runs out on us. We get in trouble for not being on time, but do we ever get rewarded for being ON-tim? And then Time gets all the credit for healing. I think Time is smug. It takes all the credit and says nothing. No humility.
I want my son Aaron to grow with us; the same as his friends. How empty it is to not have a story to tell about Aaron. The story of Aaron's life ends where stories told by other Dads begin.
The train has left the station. Everyone's son who was coming home got off. Everyone's son who was going somewhere got on. I'm standing at the depot trying to hold my head up and the tears back. I'm hanging on to Patrick and Cathy.
Thanks for the suggestions Aaron. You're my hero.
Keepin' on--
Dad
Monday, August 14, 2006
Long Distance Please
Aaron was gone for 13 months to MBA and we could only talk when he was permitted to call-usually once a week for ten minutes on a Thursday night and a couple of times a month for an hour conference. For several months prior to going away, our relationship was not one of pleasant conversations. An exchange was rarely more than guarded-both ways.
In the few months Aaron was home before he died--God that hurts to write, our conversations were mostly fun and caring. Anything else was just as typical for Dad's and sons. Aaron would check in on me during the day, and I'd check in on him in the evenings. Example: Me- "AJ, how's it goin'?" Him- "Great Dad. Just watching a movie (playing a video, etc...)we ordered a pizza and then I'll be home. Nothin' to worry about." Me- "Good. I always worry about you until you walk in the door. Be home by midnight OK?" Him- "Sure thing. Glad you worry about me, Dad. I'll be home on time."
I still reach for my cell phone when I have something I want to share with Aaron. Probably happens several times a week. I just hate the thought of the world changing and not being able to hear Aaron's point of view. I want to tell him about so many things. Every time I think of something that I want to share, if the phone is near, my hand moves toward it. But there is no number to heaven. Aaron's number is still programmed into my phone AJ 772-1529. It doesn't get answered.
My phone is the same old one I had on May 10, 2005 when the deputy coroner called me. I hate that phone. Someday I will smash it. Maybe on the exit to Seminole Highway where the world ended.
Tom
In the few months Aaron was home before he died--God that hurts to write, our conversations were mostly fun and caring. Anything else was just as typical for Dad's and sons. Aaron would check in on me during the day, and I'd check in on him in the evenings. Example: Me- "AJ, how's it goin'?" Him- "Great Dad. Just watching a movie (playing a video, etc...)we ordered a pizza and then I'll be home. Nothin' to worry about." Me- "Good. I always worry about you until you walk in the door. Be home by midnight OK?" Him- "Sure thing. Glad you worry about me, Dad. I'll be home on time."
I still reach for my cell phone when I have something I want to share with Aaron. Probably happens several times a week. I just hate the thought of the world changing and not being able to hear Aaron's point of view. I want to tell him about so many things. Every time I think of something that I want to share, if the phone is near, my hand moves toward it. But there is no number to heaven. Aaron's number is still programmed into my phone AJ 772-1529. It doesn't get answered.
My phone is the same old one I had on May 10, 2005 when the deputy coroner called me. I hate that phone. Someday I will smash it. Maybe on the exit to Seminole Highway where the world ended.
Tom
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Wondering
A Broken Heart Still Beats, by Anne McCracken and Mary Semel, a collection of writings by people who live the loss of a child, was found on my sister Kathy's book shelf at the Angel Inn, in Green Lake. Anne and Mary each lost a child and share their emotions in the book. I "borrowed" the book, and may return it one day.
Writing about my experience is one way to "talk". Only yesterday I was wondering to myself if anyone is still reading my talking. This morning I got the answer--someone wrote to me. The writer was not sure if it was OK to read along. Very sweet. Yes, it is OK. This evening a friend stopped by and mentioned that the stories are good.
I'm grateful to know that the vibrations of the universe transmit clearer signals than cell phones. All I did was wonder and I got my answer.
Next Monday, the 21st, is one year for the DeForest area families who lost boys in the crash on the interstate. They are all on my mind today. I don't know how they feel, but I do know the first anniversary brings its own kind of confusion and grief.
Tonight I'm tired and empty.
Tom
Writing about my experience is one way to "talk". Only yesterday I was wondering to myself if anyone is still reading my talking. This morning I got the answer--someone wrote to me. The writer was not sure if it was OK to read along. Very sweet. Yes, it is OK. This evening a friend stopped by and mentioned that the stories are good.
I'm grateful to know that the vibrations of the universe transmit clearer signals than cell phones. All I did was wonder and I got my answer.
Next Monday, the 21st, is one year for the DeForest area families who lost boys in the crash on the interstate. They are all on my mind today. I don't know how they feel, but I do know the first anniversary brings its own kind of confusion and grief.
Tonight I'm tired and empty.
Tom
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Aaron Throws Patrick a Strike From Heaven
Patrick was hard playing, baseball lovin' little boy. "Play coaches pitch Mom!" was his daily request from the time he started to talk. Unlike Aaron, Patrick was a student of the game and quick on the field. A left handed batter, PT was set up to be a hot pick in the little league "draft".
Aaron played little league for fun and could have cared less if his team won. As long as he had fun, it was all good. A healthy attitude for a kid. His first at-bat he was beaned. I would guess he was one of the most beaned players in his time. Getting beaned didn't hurt Aaron.
A half hour before Patrick's Little League tryout, his baseball career ended. Looking out to our back yard, I saw Patrick throw his glove down, and heard him yelling something at Aaron. Apparently Aaron gave Patrick a preliminary taste of a fastball. The sting of the hardball struck Patrick the same way it stopped his Dad's Little League career--in it's tracks. PT came into the house and announced his retirement through tears and sobs. Aaron's explanation was he was letting his brother know what he was going to experience. I called the Director and Patrick never played baseball again. The Ken Griffey Jr left handed baseball glove is about as good as new.
A friend of Patrick's, Trevor, sells corn behind home plate at the Mallard's games. Trevor gave PT two passes to the Warner Park Duck Pond to see a game of his choice. The last regular season home game was last night. Cathy dropped Patrick and his friend Amanda at the game. I went down later to catch a few innings and give them a ride home. I had standing room only and spent most of the night standing near an area where Patrick and Aaron would scramble with other kids to retrieve foul balls at games played by other minor league teams in years gone by. The game last night was good and the experience for Patrick and Amanda before the game was the best.
PT and Amanda found some seats in the stands along the first base side. The pitcher warming up is number 15 (aaron's high school football number). The first base coach wore number 29 (aaron's youth football number). Aaron's passwords and codes always included the numbers 15 and 29. (His cell phone was 772-1529).
Before the start of the first inning the first base coach picked up a ball and made a motion to throw it into the stands. That got the fans all hustling for position. At the next moment, the coach turned, and Amanda is convinced he looked directly at them. Amanda told PT to "stand up, he's going to throw it to us." As he rose, the coach threw the ball. Patrick put his hands out and caught the baseball in his bare hand! Even though the throw had some steam on it, the ball didn't hurt according to Patrick. Everyone sat down. Still standing a few rows in front of PT and Amanda was a boy with a shirt bearing a name. The name read "AARON".
I think the ball was thrown from Heaven to Home with an assist from the first base coach. Grateful that my boys can still play catch.
Safe at home.
Tom
Aaron played little league for fun and could have cared less if his team won. As long as he had fun, it was all good. A healthy attitude for a kid. His first at-bat he was beaned. I would guess he was one of the most beaned players in his time. Getting beaned didn't hurt Aaron.
A half hour before Patrick's Little League tryout, his baseball career ended. Looking out to our back yard, I saw Patrick throw his glove down, and heard him yelling something at Aaron. Apparently Aaron gave Patrick a preliminary taste of a fastball. The sting of the hardball struck Patrick the same way it stopped his Dad's Little League career--in it's tracks. PT came into the house and announced his retirement through tears and sobs. Aaron's explanation was he was letting his brother know what he was going to experience. I called the Director and Patrick never played baseball again. The Ken Griffey Jr left handed baseball glove is about as good as new.
A friend of Patrick's, Trevor, sells corn behind home plate at the Mallard's games. Trevor gave PT two passes to the Warner Park Duck Pond to see a game of his choice. The last regular season home game was last night. Cathy dropped Patrick and his friend Amanda at the game. I went down later to catch a few innings and give them a ride home. I had standing room only and spent most of the night standing near an area where Patrick and Aaron would scramble with other kids to retrieve foul balls at games played by other minor league teams in years gone by. The game last night was good and the experience for Patrick and Amanda before the game was the best.
PT and Amanda found some seats in the stands along the first base side. The pitcher warming up is number 15 (aaron's high school football number). The first base coach wore number 29 (aaron's youth football number). Aaron's passwords and codes always included the numbers 15 and 29. (His cell phone was 772-1529).
Before the start of the first inning the first base coach picked up a ball and made a motion to throw it into the stands. That got the fans all hustling for position. At the next moment, the coach turned, and Amanda is convinced he looked directly at them. Amanda told PT to "stand up, he's going to throw it to us." As he rose, the coach threw the ball. Patrick put his hands out and caught the baseball in his bare hand! Even though the throw had some steam on it, the ball didn't hurt according to Patrick. Everyone sat down. Still standing a few rows in front of PT and Amanda was a boy with a shirt bearing a name. The name read "AARON".
I think the ball was thrown from Heaven to Home with an assist from the first base coach. Grateful that my boys can still play catch.
Safe at home.
Tom
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Shattered
My memory of the day is just slivers of moments. Someone was with me, but I don't recall who. From the front porch where I just finished a cup of coffee, I walked up to a tree, an oak, with the purple mug in my right hand. In a quick swing the cup shattered into shards and chunks. My heart was broken. I cried. May 11, 2005
Today, walking in the yard, a purple chip, the size of a paper clip, caught my eye. The oak tree has a diameter of 19 inches. It slants slightly to the south--probably bent, but not broken, by the northeast winds that blew when the hill was surrounded by corn and not these houses. At the base lies two shards of the purple mug. One piece is impressed into the ground by an 1/8 of an inch. Its depth showed me some time had passed. I tugged it out with my finger tip. The chip resisted. I left it.
How deep will the chunk bury itself in the dirt? Will a future occupant of this home find it? Just a shard of purple ceramic clay to the finder? Maybe he'll wonder how the sliver came to rest at the base of the oak tree -- seven steps from the front porch. A broken heart. I miss my son.
Peace
Tom
Today, walking in the yard, a purple chip, the size of a paper clip, caught my eye. The oak tree has a diameter of 19 inches. It slants slightly to the south--probably bent, but not broken, by the northeast winds that blew when the hill was surrounded by corn and not these houses. At the base lies two shards of the purple mug. One piece is impressed into the ground by an 1/8 of an inch. Its depth showed me some time had passed. I tugged it out with my finger tip. The chip resisted. I left it.
How deep will the chunk bury itself in the dirt? Will a future occupant of this home find it? Just a shard of purple ceramic clay to the finder? Maybe he'll wonder how the sliver came to rest at the base of the oak tree -- seven steps from the front porch. A broken heart. I miss my son.
Peace
Tom
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Is this the way it's supposed to be?
Fourteen months of work on living with the death of Aaron.
I look at the world differently. Mostly, I don't feel a part of the world as it is. I see traffic moving and people hustling, days turn to night and back to day. I'm a witness to the anxiety of life and less of a participant.
At the same time I feel a responsibility to use with humility, the talents God gave me. That's a different perspective for me. It's healthy.
Football season is coming. This was forever Aaron and Dad time. The fun is gone; now football is just salt on the wound. I find it more than ironic that the last two Packer first round draft picks were Aarons--Aaron Rogers in '05 and and AJ even in Aaron (AJ) Hawk in '06.
Is this the way it's supposed to be?
Tom
I look at the world differently. Mostly, I don't feel a part of the world as it is. I see traffic moving and people hustling, days turn to night and back to day. I'm a witness to the anxiety of life and less of a participant.
At the same time I feel a responsibility to use with humility, the talents God gave me. That's a different perspective for me. It's healthy.
Football season is coming. This was forever Aaron and Dad time. The fun is gone; now football is just salt on the wound. I find it more than ironic that the last two Packer first round draft picks were Aarons--Aaron Rogers in '05 and and AJ even in Aaron (AJ) Hawk in '06.
Is this the way it's supposed to be?
Tom
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