It's In The Mail

A typical walk to the mail box yields a few bills, a credit card offer, an official looking envelope with a little peak at something resembling a large figured check made out to me, and of course the smallish figured Victoria's Secret Magazine. Nothing to make the heart race, still I like checking the mail box. Everyday there is the anticipation of a gift. Something special in the mail box for me; what could it be today?

Real mail is cool. It's personal. Nothing like the electronic dashes and dots that make up e-mail. Where's the personality in e-mail? Tic a tic a tic tic a on the key board, the letters all look the same. No handwriting. No doodles in the margins. No personality in the signature. No tear drops on the paper. And definitely no scent of a spritz of perfume. (OK, that was something I last received in 1979 but I remember!)

The entire process of real mail makes the postal service worth keeping. Somewhere, someone makes a decision to send something to another person. That something is an idea, a suggestion, a thought, a share, a wish. Something that started in their personal self. They take the time to put the information on paper, insert it in an envelope, LICK the envelope with their own personal saliva, stick on a self adhesive stamp that cost them a hard earned quater, dime and two pennies. And then, unless the mail (man) person picks up at their box, they drove to the post office and dropped the envelope in the box labled STAMPED, which is segregated from the lower class junk box of METERED mail, and then flown, drove, and sorted until the envelope reaches your personal box, delivered by a kind looking person who's not weary the military style blue wool uniform of Jerry Sybeldon, my neighborhoood mail main in the 1960's. A sweet process of human touch.

I had an Aunt who used to write. Aunt Blanche. My Dad's sister. She did her part to maintian the connection between our parent's generation and the children and their children. There must have been dozens and dozens of people in her friends and family network. Blanche wrote letters to everyone a couple of times a year. Those were sweet letters. When I think of Blanche I remember her eyes, her voice, and her letters. The letters arrived in those tiny envelopes they must not make anymore, the kind that held letters from friends and family, not banks. Reading Aunt Blanche's letters I could hear her voice, "Hello Tommy. How is Cathy and the boys? They must be getting big now. Your mother tells me Aaron is into football and Patrick is playing baseball. They sure grow up fast...."

Aaron and I visited Blanche during her last summer in '02. She gave us a tape of her husband's songs. We made the tape into CD's. Aaron copied them onto discs and we mailed a bunch to Blanche. She mailed them to the nieces and aunts. She probably wrote a letter with each -- "Tommy and Aaron made these recordings of Ted's songs. To hear Ted singing so clear makes me feel like it's 1972 again..." That's a good use of mail.


Today's mail was uneventful at first look. Statements, bank offer, a clothing magazine. I didn't notice the 8 1/2 by 6 white, yellow, and blue glossy newsletter. A second look through the stack revealed the piece. Donor Services--Weaving Lives Together. The newletter is taped closed with one of those circle pieces of tape. I was hesitant to break the seal. There are always pictures of "Donors" when they had their life. Before their tissues were weaved into other lives. The pictures show say to me there are parents out there who hurt like we do. Siblings who hurt like our son. Relatives who are hurt and feel helpless like our's. I don't want to be on the Donor Services mailing list. What I mean is I don't want to be on the list by the way we came to be on the list.

Two years ago Aaron was alive and we were planning ahead. Today we are on the Donor Services mailing list because we were asked in the later afernoon of May 10, 205 if Aaron would have wanted to contribute. A necessary but brutal question for which we had not planned ahead. We are on the mailing list. I'd rather be receiving a letter from Aaron asking for money, cookies, or advice. Or to get a letter that just said, "Love Ya! Peace. Goodtimes. AJ. Air Bear. Your son, Aaron."


Is there a mail box in heaven?

Missing you.
Dad

Virgina Tech; All Students Call Home

All students are urged to contact their parents as soon as possible to let them know individuals are safe.
From the web site of Virginia Tech tonight

That one sentence jumped out at me and pierced my heart. The Mother who gets the "I am safe" call from her child is in my prayers of gratitude. The Father who hears the words from the deputy,"I'm sorry to tell you..." will hurt, but not the worst just yet as he has the impossible role of telling a Mother that her baby is dead. Their worldly life ended today.

So many families. The magnitude is beyond comprehension. They've been told the horrific news and they will beg to hear an error was made. Each phone ring, each door opening is a nano second of hope. The nightmare will end. Please. Please say it's a mistake.

My heart aches for these people.

When it most seems God's mercy is a lie, is when God is closest to those who mourn.

A fellow traveler,

Tom

Eight Days in May

The Aaron Meyer Foundation journey connects me with families who experience the chaos of addiction. Where I once spent my time in selfish pursuits, I now find more satisfaction sharing with people who still have a chance to positively affect the future by changing their lives. Some are young persons at various points along the way of recovery, and some are parents or affected family members. Others are professionals working on solutions and counseling. I miss Aaron so deeply that I can feel a hollow space in my chest and the connections with people take up some of the space some of the time.

The more I learn about addiction, the more bewildered I am. My world is filled with people who have been touched by addiction. There can be no other disease that causes so much turmoil, pain, shame, hurt, rejection, and loss.

Someone mentioned to me in the winter of '03 that Aaron might have an addiction and my reaction was to cut them off immediately. Not my son. This was a behavior issue! I was wrong. We were deep into the shit and I didn't know anything. By the time I was ready to admit that my son was an addict many months had passed and we had only weeks left. April 15, 2005, I was preparing to go to Austin, TX and Aaron was battling temptations. I was still accusing him of poor decisions. Bewildered---both of us.

Last year during the countdown to May 10th, each day I felt the need to stop the slide to the fateful anniversary. This year I don't have the same desire to put on the breaks...I have evidence that it can't be done. I do feel ill about the approaching day. The left side of my head has a dull ache between my temple and my ear. Sometimes this fist size aaargghhh causes me to clench my teeth and then it rises to the top of my head where it could be released in a geyser of steam.... but there's no pressure release valve.

Birthday May 6th, anniversary May 10th, Mothers Day May 13th. That's a brutal stretch I know I can't stop from arriving, but maybe I can leap over. Yes, maybe there is a way to skip those eight days in May.

In the medical terminology of professional grieve counseling, my preoccupation with next month is called--- living in the future. Addicts and mourners are cautioned against such projecting. Live in the present, we're told. Avoid living in the past and future. Unfortunately, the present and the future have too much of what I don't want and only the past holds our family as I wish it were.

Can't stop the hands of time. Can't go back. Can't stay here. Gotta walk one step at a time, one day at a time. I still want to run back two years.

Tom

Keep You Safe

I wish I could have kept you safe.

You rode your bicycle face first into our mail box the day you first peddled a two wheel bike.

I picked you up.

You cut your hand and cried "Dad!! I can't do something!" when you were four.

I carried you up the hill.

You had a seizure at day care when you were one.

The ambulance rushed you to the emergency room and your Mom and I held you.

You broke an arm and barely complained.

We tried to keep you in a sling, but you were all boy and had things to do.

I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe, and now you're gone away. It's been too long. I miss you.

Love,

Dad

How To Be Friends

"Dad, when you were a kid, if there were guys you wanted to be friends with, what did you do to be their friend?"

I remember the question, not the answer. Aaron was probably in first or second grade. School opens the doors to kids from different neighborhoods. And Aaron loved going to school for abundance of friends. Erik and Zach were already good friends when their three lives merged at Windsor Elementary School.

As our conversation on the friends question progressed, I discovered the question was more than hypothetically inspired. Aaron had never hesitated to introduce himself "Hi, I'm Aaron. Do you want to be my friend?" Something was obviously different about these guys and Aaron was being careful to make the most of his opportunity.

I recall mulling over the essence of the question starting with when I was a kid.

When I was a kid, I wasn't about to go it alone. Kids either came to me to be friends or I connected with the loners. I was a one-kid-friend-at-a time kid. I did have a situation I related to though. A new kid came to town in second grade. I wanted to be this kids friend. His sister and my sister were two years older and they connected. The boy in my class became friends with my friend--me, not so much. Instead of having two new friends, we fought on the play ground of St. John School and spent more than one recess writing spelling words. It was in one of those Nun-imposed writing in silence isolations that we decided on a peaceful co-existence. My friend became his friend. Other kids became his friend. His friend base grew. Our peace plan enabled us to do recess and from time to time we were OK friends. The attitude of non-physical violence lasted through high school with resentment just below the surface. Today we are good friends.

I don't know what Aaron's approach with Zach and Erik was way back then, but something happened as it should. A bond was formed in grade school and it held through some challenging times. Like any friendships, there would be moments of growth, investigation, experimentation, discovery, and exploration. Experiences they did not always share in. I know Aaron was glad Erik and Zach never abandonded him. I know they were glad Aaron came back.

This picture was taken only days before the three would physically part forever. I see Aaron being completely comfortable with himself. He grew into his own in his time away from home. The picture was re-discovered two days ago. Zach's Mom gave it to us along with another picture. For two years this photo hid behind the other in a frame. By chance the frame was opened and out came this treasure.

I love the picture for what it reminds me of and what it says about friends. The double edge of the sword though cuts deep into my heart because it also shows me what is lost. And I miss what is lost more than I remember what was.

Whatever those little boys did in grade school, I'm grateful. Those three knew how to be friends.

Tom