In "His" Shoes

 

In “His” Shoes by John Montuori

 

I had just landed in New York, gotten my rental car, and was on the Grand Central Parkway when I got the call.  After Katherine delivered the news, I was dumbstruck.  That is to say, I couldn’t process the message I’d received.  I went from confusion, to misunderstanding, to shock, to denial, until I was somehow parked at a rest stop, stumbling alongside my vehicle, succumbing to anguish.  

 

When I collected myself, I made a few calls.  Katherine picked Jack up from school.  We told him together.  He fell apart.  They went home, and I was in a trance over the next 48 hours.  

 

An abrupt change of plans, I found myself at a hotel near South Street Seaport.  I checked in, changed clothes, and decided to go for a walk.  With air pods in to drown out the life of the city, I wandered the streets listening only to white noise.  I drifted through neighborhoods I’d never been.  I entered churches I’d never seen.  I lit candles.  I bought lepidolite angels.  Eventually I found myself in Central Park.  It would be about 4.5 miles as the crow flies, but I meandered on and off course numerous times, either lost or being led.  I still don’t know.  

 

I thought about hopping the subway back, but decided to walk a little further.  A little further turned into completing a round trip, clocking a full 13 miles.  

 

It was still two more days before I finally got home.  I drove from Tyson McGee Airport straight to Jeanne’s house at 10pm.  It was time to put the shock and pain away just long enough to be the John that Kyle knew me to be.  If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’ve been that John since. 

 

As a family, we’ve experienced a fair amount of grief.  In just the last 5 years we’ve lost a friend to addiction, one to cancer, and one to sudden cardiac arrest.  But these were all adults.  Each tragic in their own way.  

 

This.  This isn’t the same.  I don’t know what THIS is.  It’s not grief.  Not in a normal sense anyway.  Because not only do I feel this in my own body, I’m also experiencing it through one of Kyle’s best friends. 

 

Every. Single. Day.  

 

He’s my son.  Kyle was my friend’s son, but before that he was my son’s friend. Not just any friend; a best friend.  The kind of friend who when he heard the news, waited about 6 hours before texting Erica and asking if he could deliver the eulogy.  7 months later and I can’t type those words without my eyes filling with tears.  

 

Navigating grief with a 13 year old is weird.  There aren’t big emotions like I would’ve expected.  Instead, there are quiet moments every single day when Jack will say “Kyle loved this song” or “You know who this reminds me of right?”  

 

“What color are we doing your braces this time?” they ask at the orthodontist.  

 

“Orange for my buddy Kyle”.  

 

Every.  Single.  Day.  He is here with us.  He’s in our house.  He’s coming through our radio in the car.  He’s at sporting events.  He’s ever-present.  Everything is a tribute to Kyle.  They knew each other for what, 6 years?  8?  Doesn’t sound like a lot, but that was most of their lives.  I’m 45.  That would be like me losing a friend I’ve had for 30 years.  I’m not even sure I have a friend I’ve been close to for 30 years.  

 

The imprint that Kyle left on Jack has forever changed his life.  The person Jack became the minute Kyle left was a version of himself that he may never have known otherwise.  Kyle’s service was Jacks first experience speaking publicly.  He had been solid as a rock until we sat down and the music started playing.  Moments before it was time, he started to get cold feet.  Nevertheless, he somehow mustered the strength.  

 

As he stood there, shaking in his shoes, he  managed to share what he wrote in front of 1000+ people.  That wasn’t just Jack up there.  That was Jacks big heart filled with Kyle’s charismatic spirit.  That was my shy boy being lifted up by the mayor of Rocky Hill.  Jack will carry Kyle in his heart forever.  And I can’t help but be reminded of the EE Cummings poem that Cameron Diaz reads to Toni Collette at the end of “In Her Shoes”.  

 

“…(Here is the root of the root, and the bud of the bud, and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart. 

I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”

 

I think if you knew Kyle….if you taught him, coached him, played a sport with him, babysat him, trick-or-treated with him, went to a game with him, hiked with him, laughed with him, or simply were on the receiving end of questions from him (“Mr John…?) then chances are you carry him in your heart too.  

 

 

The Teacher

One of my favorite things to do in life is to explain things to people. And not in a condescending way, but in a teaching manner where people can understand and, in some instances, take ownership of their actions. It's one of the reasons I gravitated towards coaching and certain professional leadership opportunities over the years. Yes, I have personal goals, but if we can all learn the right way to do something, then a rising tide raises all ships.

I often comment that if I had to do it all over again (and it paid well enough) I'd have been a teacher and coach at a high school level. 

I've said before that the thing I miss about Kyle is his voice. I miss talking to him. I miss arguing with him even. And I miss coaching him. And not just in sports, but in life. 

Upset with your mother? I had some advice.

Pissed that you committed an error? I had a drill I could show you.

You think a girl is cute? Talk to her like a person and ask her a ton of questions. People love to talk about themselves. 

Last month we took on a pretty aggressive renovation project in our backyard. We hired a team to demolish our deck and replace it with a stamped concrete patio and new landscaping. And mind you, this wasn't a two bags of Kwik-Krete and two mums sort of job - half of our backyard was a giant dirt and rock pile for almost a month. By the time they finished the grass was so tall I was convinced rat snakes were lying in wait for our dog as he took his morning bathroom break. 

But I digress.

In light of this project I was instructed by the landscaping contractor to water, baby, water until my utilities bill was higher than Billy Joel's cholesterol. And even with all the rain we receive in East Tennessee every year, a giant patch of seed and hay needed to be turned from its current muddy, sinking mess* into green fescue grass. So, I have been meticulously angling and moving our oscillating sprinkler for the last three weeks with pretty good results. Growing grass on this giant patch has seemingly become my life's work and I stress about this much like I assume Beethoven did over his 5th or Michelangelo did over the Sistine Chapel. Only I assume they both produced without the assistance of Coors Light and Zyn.

I'm digressing again.

Yesterday our hose started leaking at the faucet. I messed with the hose bibb, the hose and the sprinkler head. I checked for any kinks, tightened the screw in the hose bibb and it still leaked. It's then I realized that a small rubber gasket that fits inside the female end of the hose was missing. I took one randomly located in my toolbox, used the dull edge of a knife to nudge it into its housing and reattached the hose to the faucet. And guess what? No more leaking and no more wasted water. During this entire time I was speaking out loud to no one about what I was doing step by step. It didn't even dawn on me that I was talking to the air, but then it hit me. I was talking to Kyle. I was teaching him how to do something, giving him advice. He's gone, but my desire to teach my son new things is not. I became so conditioned to raising and schooling this young boy on how to grow and be a man that, even though he's gone, that part of my brain hasn't shut down yet. It's still humming along like nothing ever changed. 

You see people driving their cars nowadays and it's obvious they're on their Bluetooth speaker phone. 20 years ago you saw someone speaking in the car without any passengers and you assumed they were crazy. Now it's widely accepted. And sometimes, especially in parking lots, you sit next to someone and you get to eavesdrop on their conversation.

"Hey lady, I'm glad mom's test results came back negative, but will you turn down the volume, please?"

Next time you encounter this scenario on the road maybe you won't assume they're on the phone. Maybe they're talking to a missing loved one about their day. Maybe they're looking for guidance or protection or both. Or maybe they're talking to their teenage son about the importance of keeping their hands at 10 and 2. 

* By the way, as a child of the 80's was there anything they tried to scare us more with than quicksand. The rankings of "Irrational Fears of Children Born Between 1979 and 1985  Brought On by Overbearing Mothers and Newscasters" is as follows:

1. Quicksand

2. Acid Rain

3. Kidnappers

4. Drug dealers looking to give away free drugs**

** Not what one would confuse with a profitable business model, which is why I called BS on this by my 8th birthday

Mother, Mother - Can You Hear Me?

When I was 9 years old I saw the movie "Field of Dreams" for the first time. At the end of the movie the ghost of Kevin Costner's father comes back to play "catch" with his son. And as a child I remember watching that scene and, for the very first time, crying at the end of a movie. I didn't understand at the time why that final scene made me so emotional. 

Some 35 years later I sat down and watched the movie again late one night on Netflix. And just like the first time in my parents living room back in 1991, I found myself in tears. But now I understood why. "Field of Dreams" isn't a baseball movie. It's a movie about regret, redemption and faith. And it's a movie about having enough time.

A Catch With Dad - Final Scene

I have no regrets about my relationship with Kyle. We squeezed every inch of life out his short 12-1/2 years. We told each other how much we loved each other daily and enjoyed each other's company.

We didn't, however, have nearly enough time. 

Yesterday would have been Kyle's 13th birthday. And being that it fell on Mother's Day it felt like it could be an emotionally heavy day for all of us. But something wonderful happened. In the midst of our grief we had a beautiful day surrounded by our best friends and family watching UT baseball, which is exactly what Kyle would have wanted. It's not the same without him there, physically, but his impact was everywhere I turned. His iPad pinged all day with birthday messages from his friends. Our phones lit up with text messages from people near and far. A Catholic Mass was dedicated in his honor through the loving generosity of my aunt and uncle in Oklahoma. Andrew Fischer, #11 for Tennessee, hit two homers and ran his mouth to Vanderbilt players as he rounded the bases - Kyle would have loved that. 

This week Erica received a deeply personal message from Kyle. It was so specific and tailored it couldn't be ignored. Suffice to say, knowing that he's protecting us, especially Leah, made yesterday an easier pill to swallow. 

I'll end with another scene from my favorite movie "Heat". It's in the final third of the movie where Al Pacino's character is pursuing Robert Deniro's character. It appears as if Deniro has gotten away, he's won. He outrun the big cat chasing his proverbial mouse. But there's a sliver of hope that Pacino may win. Realizing his small modicum of power he turns to a fellow detective and says, "Neil (Deniro) is here. I can feel it." It's the slightest motivation that keeps him going in pursuit of what he needs to feel complete. 

Kyle is here, I can feel it. I wear him around my neck, on my wrists and have him permanently etched on my skin. But these are just tributes. I can feel his spirit in me, see it in his sister and observe it when I see someone complete an act of kindness for a stranger. 

It's my sliver of motivation that I need to keep going - to pursue what I ultimately want more than anything. I want to hear my son's voice and play a game of "catch". 

Passion Pit

Passion is defined as "intense, driving, or overmastering feeling or conviction." Passion is an intoxicating emotion that oftentimes can cloud your judgement or push you to exhausting limits to gain something you so desperately crave.

But what do you do when you are no longer passionate about something you cared about so deeply? In this instance, passion for sports, and specific teams, was such a large part of my relationship with Kyle that now I find myself devoid of passion...indifferent to scores, news and the performance of teams I once cared so deeply for. 

For example, Kyle was a huge Boston Celtics fan. I became a Celtics fan when my parents were living in the Boston area during the 80's Celtics dynasty and specifically, Larry Bird. When Larry retired following the 1991-92 season I cried so hard my mom thought Larry had died. Rest assured, Larry is alive and well on his farm in French Lick, IN some 30-plus years later.

Rooting for the Celtics was a tradition I was happy to pass along to Kyle. And for most of Kyle's life they were very good. I mentioned this, specifically, during my eulogy. We'd spend hours watching games and analyzing Celtics greats like Jayson Tatum and Jaylen Brown. Kyle even got to meet a number of Celtics players and once went courtside before a Celtics / Memphis Grizzlies game. It was a tight game heading into the 4th until Tatum took over and hit this off balance fadeaway from the elbow to put the Celtics in front for good. It was the exact shot he practiced right in front of us for warmups just three hours earlier. I remember telling Kyle, "Watch him. Watch his footwork and his high arching release. He's doing this for a reason." That reason was the game altering bucket. 

Every year my mom buys my NBA League Pass so I can watch obscure Celtics games throughout the season. And oftentimes Kyle would join me on the couch to stay up and watch the Celtics throttle some bottom feeder pushing the limits of his bedtime on a school night. He would literally sit on top of me on the couch and cheer (or jeer) as they played. And on the night the Celtics won their NBA record 18th World Championship, he was right there with me "puffing" on an unlit victory cigar. I commemorated a bet by getting a Celtics tattoo, a bet he didn't think I'd take. This has all been mentioned previously, but now my feeling about certain things have been drastically altered since his death. Of all my tattoos the Celtics tattoo is the only one I don't like. 

Even with League Pass I find I haven't watched much of the Celtics this year. Maybe they're just so good I expect them to win and don't find myself as committed as before. But that doesn't track because I am super passionate about Tennessee baseball and find myself gripped by every pitch. When the Celtics kicked off their playoff title defense on Sunday, I watched about 5 minutes, checked the score from my phone periodically and wasn't even moved when they found themselves down by a point at the half. They ended up winning, but it was a very, "Ho-Hum" feeling. Which begs the question, "Where did the passion go?"

I have so many childhood memories of the Celtics. From the last days of Larry Bird to the Rick Pitino debacle. I even have a place of the old Boston Garden which was razed in the early 90's. I used to shoot hoops in my driveway for hours as a kid until my fingers bled pretending to hit a game winning bucket for the Celtics. And to this day my dream job is starting point guard for the Boston Celtics. 

So, when Kyle died, not only did my attention turn to other places but I believe a part of my inner child died too. I lost a part of my youth, my innocence and a dream that will never return. Which is all a metaphor for a child dying. The death of a child signifies the end of youth, of innocence and of impossible dreams. 

I had so many dreams tied up in Kyle, some of them around sports, that his death was a stark reminder that dreams are just that...dreams. They're not real, but rather figments of imaginations and hopes that are just out of our grasp. Kids look up to athletes because they chased and lived their dreams an impossible scenario for 99.99999999% of people around the world. 

My dreams for Kyle were much different. I hoped that he'd one day play high school baseball. I dreamt that he'd get into a good school and find a career he could use to maximize his high intellect and charming wit. I dreamt that regardless of my dreams, that Kyle would simply be happy. My hope is that Kyle died suffering no pain. When I went into his room the morning of his death he was situated in a position that he often slept in, convincing me that he went to sleep and was peaceful in his transition to heaven. Hopefully dreaming of what brought him happiness - sports, friends, his faith and listening to and commenting on adult conversations, often irritating his mother and me. 

I'm working with my boss this week and he commented that he's excited to watch Game 2 of the Celtics playoff run with me tomorrow night. What a treat for him! I didn't have the heart to tell him that I don't care to watch the game. I don't care if they lose, and I'd rather find something else he and I can bond over. 

Last week, Kyle's middle school team gutted and fought their way to the finals of the Knox County Middle School baseball championship. And in the semifinals, we won in a thrilling walk off in the bottom of the 7th by Kyle's dear friend, Charlie. While Charlie was up to bat, I was in the dugout praying to Kyle. But I wasn't praying for victory. I was praying for Kyle to give Charlie the strength to perform and live might well have been one if his dreams - to hit a walk off hit in an important game.

I find that I am still very passionate about coaching and baseball in general. So, when they asked me to return next season I didn't hesitate for a second. Being with the team keeps me close to Kyle and allows me to compartmentalize my emotions and focus on the well-being of those around me. In a time in my life where selfishness is often encouraged in order to protect oneself, I find that I enjoy being selfless to a large degree, too. 

Which brings me back to the loss of my childhood dream and the reason why maybe I don't feel as passionate about Celtics basketball as I once did. Even though I lost a part of my childhood dream, and more importantly a child, I have gained the maturity and wisdom of an adult. Maybe I need to look at the Celtics not as a reminder of my pain and innocence lost, but as a vessel to remain close to my son in another capacity. I have suffered the worst and lived to talk about my emotional state, to be vulnerable in front of strangers and confident about the direction in which my life is headed. So maybe I need to learn to live with another sliver of pain. Or maybe I simply need to grow up.

Comfortably Numb

What is your very first childhood memory?

I was around the age of three. My parents had just moved to Cincinnati, and we were living in a house in a suburb north of the city, I was in my room, it was dark. There was a piece of artwork in my room in the shape of balloons. I was standing in my crib.

When you think back to your childhood, I bet a lot of things bring you comfort. I had a very good childhood. I lived and played in a neighborhood with a lot of other kids my age.  We spent most of our time outside regardless of the weather. And most of our days revolved around playing whichever sport was in that particular season. As we grew older, we spent our nights playing flashlight tag. I remember coming home well past dark, dressed head to toe in black and always being really, really sweaty. 

When you reminisce you seem to block out some of the negative memories - the fist fights, the bad grades, the backtalking to adults (although, maybe that was just a "me" problem) - and focus on the more cherished moments. Childhood trauma and grief are foreign to most and live in the perpetual shadows of human existence. But why? Is it a human condition where we block out negative memoires in order to progress forward. Is our brain protecting us from ourselves? Or have we been conditioned to bury those painful memories so deep; we lose them forever?

In coaching, you teach your players to, "get comfortable, being uncomfortable." It's a tricky way of convincing a child to accept failure and learn to try new things. 

When Kyle was 9 or 10, we were invited by a major league scout and family friend to take batting practice at a local high school. The scout asked Kyle to make some slight changes in his swing to give himself extra power. It the first of many times a coach would ask him to make adjustments in order to be more successful. 

And it's no different when a teacher asks you to interpret a text a differently or a boss asks you to adjust a habit you've developed at work. The delivery may differ, but the message is always the same, "We need you to be better." And in order to be better sometimes you need to take a position that seems undesirable. That's oftentimes called growth.

We are bombarded with messaging constantly that affects our subconscious thought in ways we cannot possibly comprehend. Every conscious decision is driven by millions of unconscious thoughts we cannot identify. In fact, some philosophers would argue that conscious thought is an illusion and that every thought or action we have comes from a source we are unaware of. So, is what we tend to remember and forget even under our own control? 

Grief is uncontrollable. The grief journey, as I've mentioned before, is not linear but rather circuitous. One minute you're happy and the next a song comes on the radio and you're in tears, which happened to me this week. I went to get our puppy some food and the song "Teardrop" by Massive Attack came on Spotify. It's not a song I remember Kyle enjoying, but it reminded me of him being in my truck alongside me. I'm controlling the vehicle on the road. I'm controlling the station I listen to on the radio. But I am not controlling my emotions. I am at the behest of something I cannot comprehend. I do not, in this moment, exercise free will as I have been taught is my right as an American. 

We tend to dull these seemingly negative emotions through a variety of measure. Some eat. Some drink. Some drug and some manifest their grief in violent and disturbing manners. But they are there. The grief and the pain are all there, lying in our subconscious waiting to attack like a snake in the grass.

On my recent travels, I began taking Kyle's favorite stuffed animal with me. Wolfie, was a stuffed wolf Kyle received on his 5th birthday. Kyle wasn't a particularly big stuffed animal kid (unlike his sister who holds court with her's daily), but Wolfie was always there including next to him on the morning he died. And now, Wolfie comes with me. Wolfie has now officially been through Terminal A at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. Wolfie has stayed in a Paducah, KY Comfort Inn and Wolfie has been crushed by the weight of my fat ass in my martial bed in Knoxville. I haven't slept with a stuffed animal since my Flash Light Tag days so why do I have him now? I use him was a way to comfort myself during the evenings when I'm reminded of Kyle's last night. Holding Wolfie is a way for me to keep the negative thoughts at bay and feel a closeness with my son.

Last week I went to bed crying, which hasn't happened since the day after he died. I could have gone back downstairs and numbed myself with food or drink, but I didn't. I gripped Wolfie tight, and I cried. And instead of burying my emotions deep somewhere where they would eventually strike, I leaned into those feelings and came out the other side...happy. I got comfortable being uncomfortable and think I learned a new way to grieve. I've now inventoried that emotion subconsciously for a later date. I am stronger that I was a moment before I cried in bed*.

When we grieve openly, we allow ourselves to be vulnerable. Vulnerability is a powerful emotion, and it helps develop trust between people. The day Kyle died his friends from school and church gathered to talk about him. When I found out, I wanted to go see them. However, someone from our church convinced me to stay home. Was it to protect me or them from the hard conversation we were bound to have? Or was it a fear of allowing someone to be vulnerable in front of others? And during Kyle's service - there was never of question of whether or not I would speak. No one knew Kyle better than me and I wasn't going to allow him to be eulogized by someone that couldn't accurately describe who he was or what he meant to so many. His death gave me strengths I didn't know I had, which is ironic given the circumstances.

Your memories are there to serve as a reminder as well as to caution and protect you from pain. But when pain becomes your primary emotion, you can either choose to run towards or away. In this instance, choosing to run headfirst into my pain isn't a sign of weakness, but of strength. I am growing comfortable being uncomfortable and it may just save my life. 

* An oddly funny footnote to this story is that while this was happening Erica was brushing her teeth. She heard me crying and hollered out from the bathroom (mimics speaking with a mouth full of toothpaste and a toothbrush, "Are you okay?"). It's funny because at any moment in our house someone can be crying and it's no longer alarming... it's just accepted like hearing someone fart, "Was that you?" and you simply move on. 

 

 

Little Sister

The transition from having two children to just having one is a delicate and difficult process. One minute you're in "Divide and Conquer" mode and the next you're worrying about the health (mental and physical) of one child while trying your best not to overwhelm them with not only your grief, but your attention. 

Children are resilient. They are curious. They are clever. They are aware. Children suffer no fools and it's best to treat them as such and try not to act condescending.

Ask anyone who's ever met my children - they converse and carry themselves like adults. We never baby talked our children. We allowed both of our children a voice in family matters...to a certain point. For example, "Where should we go to eat?" and not, "Do you think we should change financial advisors?" But nonetheless, we cultivated and created an environment where children could be heard as well as seen. 

I remember one time going to a family party at a friend's house. The friend, a Georgia grad, made mention of how Kyle came up and gave him a hard time about the Georgia football program. He wasn't necessarily amused by their interaction, but rather perplexed that a 6-year-old would try and pick on a middle-aged man. After he told me what Kyle said I remarked, "Sure but did any other child here think to speak to you (our host)?" Fair point. 

So, when you treat your children as mini adults you expect them to try and act like one, which isn't necessarily fair. You see, Kyle and I had a very direct, honest relationship. I tried my best to counsel him and motivate him to take accountability for his actions and stand up for himself. Kyle carried himself like an old soul. The face of a child but the mind of someone mature beyond his years. A fondness for sports, culture and conversation befitting someone twice his age.

 

Leah, on the other hand, has always seemed much younger to me. Maybe it's because she is 4-1/2 years younger than Kyle or a girl or maybe I don't interact with her as often as Kyle, but I've always viewed her as a child rather than a mini adult. 

Shame on me.

Leah, even before Kyle's death, possess an emotional maturity and vocabulary of someone much older. She excels at written and verbal communication at school and is most comfortable in front of a crowd. She and Kyle are more similar than dissimilar.

But in the weeks following his death I tried really hard not to burden her with the same responsibilities I lauded on him. She needed, and stills needs, time to grieve her beloved brother and we, as parents, need to support her as best as we can. But when you lose a child, the extra attention inevitably has to go somewhere. Leah is essentially an only child now and as an only child married to an only child, we have this unique dynamic that adds another layer to our grief journey.

It's hard not to compare Leah and Kyle; they share a lot of similar personality traits while still having their own personal identity. We find ourselves telling Leah stories about Kyle, some of which she likely doesn't remember, to keep his memory alive and well in her little mind.

"Your brother loved to watch you play softball."

"You know who loved Chik Fil A? Your brother."

"You have spaghetti sauce all over your clean t-shirt. We're going to start calling you Kyle."

But how does Leah interpret this? Does she appreciate the small anecdotes, or does she feel like we're comparing the two of them?

Last Friday we were leaving for softball and Leah was running late. I made her water bottle in a cup she didn't approve of. She threw a mini temper tantrum and tossed the cup in the backseat of my truck...water went everywhere, and I was livid. I used some language not suitable for a public forum and we rode in silence for the next 10 minutes. After I cooled off, I told Leah, "You know, I did a lot for you today. I packed your lunch, came to your school event at recess, organized your softball bag, made you a snack before practice. And because I didn't use the correct Stanley straw you pitched a fit and disrespect my property. I wish you would occasionally be grateful and exercise some kindness." To which she mockingly replied, "Yeah, be more like Kyle. Why are you always comparing me to him?"

To go back to my original point of this point - we have always treated our children like adults, but at the end of the day they are still emotionally developing children. We may wish their emotional maturity into existence, but it's a long and arduous road to arrive there. Leah mistakenly interpreted by discipline as comparing her to her bother. It's obvious she wants to be her own person and not grow up under the shadow of her bother. She didn't understand that I wasn't comparing her and Kyle but rather explaining the need to exercise appreciativeness and patience.

When I get upset with my children, I state my case and move on. Life is too short to hold a grudge, especially with a child and no one knows that better than I do now. But maybe I should practice what I preach. Maybe I need to exercise more patience, compassion and emotional maturity and not succumb to my initial emotional reaction when something doesn't go my way.

Leah is going to grow up and have a wonderful life. And hopefully her life is filled with promise and memories of all the good times she had with Kyle. She will forge her own path different from his and we have to accept that is okay. Just because she's different doesn't mean she'll ever forget him, and I need to understand that and try not to brow beat her with constant comparisons to Kyle. 

Because while Leah masquerades as a fully formed adult she is just a child and it's okay to allow her to act as one. And giving her the grace to navigate her emotions and reactions to situations may be part of her grief process and not an overreaction to not getting her way.

Hey, Jealousy!

This past Sunday we met with our monthly group grief counseling session, The Compassionate Friends. In short, The Compassionate Friends (The Compassionate Friends Non-Profit Organization for Grief) is an organization that helps parents and grandparents grieve the loss of a child. It's an opportunity to gather with a group of people in all stages of their grief journey. We sit in a circle, share stories about our lost children and console one another. There's a lot of tears and heartache, but also a lot of laughter. 

This past Sunday a senior member of the group shared a story of his son that was tragically murdered over 30 years ago. It's inspirational to see someone who has learned to live and, in many ways, thrive after experiencing such an incalculable loss. Quite frankly, it gives me hope. The theme this past week was to share things about our children that we enjoyed. And this man, who happens to be an accomplished physician and humanitarian, shared that he was jealous of his son. His son was an outgoing, charismatic, smart and loveable young man that he, as his father looked up to. So, when it got to my turn to speak, I echoed similar sentiments. I loved Kyle more than anything, but I also liked him tremendously. 

As a parent, part of your responsibility is to provide your child with an upbringing better than your own and give them every opportunity to make something of their lives. l. I used to look at Kyle and think, "I wish I could be more like him." Kyle had a genuine curiosity about others and used his quick sense of humor and charisma to charm people into liking him. It was not a hard sell. And once, when Kyle was about 10 or 11 months old, he was playing building blocks on the floor with my father-in-law. And my father-in-law remarked to me, "Do you have any idea how smart he is? Just the way he looks at things. You can see him mind working."

Sure, he knows his right from his left. Call the folks at MENSA and schedule an evaluation.

But as he grew and matured it became obvious...Kyle was very smart. He used to finish his work early in school and run around the classroom shooting a fake basketball and swinging an invisible bat. And his teachers didn't seem to mind. And when we questioned holding him back a year in kindergarten because of a mid-May birthday they scoffed. He was ahead of the curve and would be bored repeating a grade.

But it's also hard not to project your own insecurities on your children in hopes that they will make it in areas you didn't. 

I was not a good student. And I don't remember being particularly well liked, especially in high school. I was constantly mixed up in drama with other kids, especially girls, and was likely one of the most selfish children on the planet.  It wasn't until college that I realized I could hit the reset button on my life and try and be the type of person I wanted to be. I tried my best to make friends with and talk to everyone. I began to take interest in school and even made Dean's List two out of my final four semesters. During a Communications 499 project, the culmination of the Communiations program, we had a semester long group project that required a lot of organization, planning and time management outside of the classroom. At the end of the project, we had to evaluate each other's performance as a group. One member of our group, a lady that was "older" (think early 40's), returned to school to finish her degree wrote on my evaluation something to the effect of, "Natural leader, will go far in life, etc. etc."

We got an A.

It's been 20 years, but I still remember that group project and those womans kind words.

So, when we had Kyle, I remember sentiments like that and others, my experiences leading up to college and determined that I was going to ensure he treated himself and other better than I did. And occasionally, my past experiences would bleed into and influence how I parented him, and not in a positive light. I really pushed him at sports. I realized early that he had some ability and wanted him to excel at sports. But my motivation was not what you may think. I wanted him to excel because I wanted him to have friends. Friends with influence and goals and shared successes. I was never under the impression that Kyle would be a D1 athlete, I just wanted him to stay off drugs. But my tactics were not always positive. I yelled, I pushed, he cried and rebelled at times. It took me until he was about 10 where I finally realized, "He's playing a game. Praise today then wait to critique the following day." And it seemed to work. He remarked to me how much he loved playing. Kyle never missed a game and never missed a practice. One because, I wouldn't allow it (I despise tardiness and am passionate about honoring commitments) and two because Kyle loved his friends and baseball very much. So, combining them into one event would be the social gathering of the season in his mind. As he grew and matured, I backed off. Once he made the middle school program, I believe he understood how much committing to extra work really impacted the final result. He'd make a mistake, and I'd just look at him, and he'd go, "You're mad." and I'd go, "I'm not mad, but what could you have done differently?" and, right as rain, he'd respond with what the right play was and fix it...immediately. 

And the same with school. He was a straight A student in all honors classes at school, which required a lot of time management. The night before he died, he found out that he earned a 100% on a math quiz he really, really studied hard for. His teacher laminated it for us, and it will hang on our fridge for an eternity.  

It was validation that our parenting of him was working and that he was, once again, ahead of me in terms of maturity and commitment. 

I still read his iPad from the messages he receives from his friends and family. He's been gone 4 months, and they still roll in daily. Last night I looked, and he has 89(!) unread messages. Some of them are difficult to read, but many of them say, "I love you" and "You were my best friend. Fly high." Some of these kids, I don't even know. He had such an impact. In fact, I'm finding his impact in death is greater than the one he made in life, but that is a post for another day. 

When Kyle died, I believe I had 3-4 people from high school reach out. And some of them were unexpected, although appreciated. It's 25 years since I graduated and young people communicate much differently now, but let's be really blunt here - Kyle was a better person than me and deserves(d) all the kind words and sentiments.

One of the unspoken themes during The Compassionate Friends, in my opinion, is theft. That the deaths of our children - all far ahead of their expected time - has robbed us of watching our children fulfill life's expectations. And the murkiness of what follows death only adds to the theme of theft. Because death didn't borrow your children from you, but rather violently ripped them from your grasp, never to return. 

But I try not to spend my days thinking of what if but rather thinking of what was. Yes, it's a human tragedy that we'll never get to see Kyle get married or have his own family. But guess what, I did those things, and I don't think for one second, I am special. But my son didn't and never will. But yet, maybe he weas special. He was somebody I looked up and somebody that inspired others in a way that I cannot comprehend. 

And maybe that's the lesson here - to not wait until it's too late to have compassion for respect for not only yourself, but for other people. Sure, we made and raised Kyle, but he made the choices to work hard and love his friends and family unconditionally. I was I hadn't waited so long in my life to make that change. I wish I wasn't such a pain in the ass to my parents growing up. And I wish I got to have another minute with my son on this Earth. But to believe in God is to believe in Heaven. So, I choose to believe that my son is free from pain and chatting it up in the next life with complete strangers, the way he did on Earth. 

And eternal happiness is something we can all be proudly jealous of.