Go...

I haven't posted in nearly a month, which is not a coincidence. As we approach 9 months without Kyle I've had many discussions with my therapist about two specific aspects associated with my emotional well-being:

1. I'm tired of being sad.

2. I feel guilty that I don't feel worse.

Before I unpack these two points, let me make something painfully clear - I miss Kyle every second of every single day. I think about him constantly and miss simply hearing his voice. I played golf with a friend and his son yesterday who was a teammate of Kyle's. While it wasn't hard being around Kyle's friend it just made me think about Kyle and I playing golf or simply bonding together. As a man with a son so much of your identity is tied to teaching this young boy how to be a man. So, when the boy dies before his 13th birthday you struggle to find your purpose. But I have run into my grief head first, unafraid of the obvious pain that awaits. Someone told me that I am like a buffalo. Buffalos run to storms and not away from in order to get through the violence and disruption a meteorological event can bring.

Which bring me back to my two points. The moments of sadness are inevitable. Grief is a permanent scar and comes against our will. Now, when I get emotional I know that the sadness does not last forever. It, too, like a storm, will pass. And the sooner I lean into it, the sooner I can get to safe passage. 

As for the guilt, my therapist tells me that the initial pain and shock of losing a loved one is so acute that we assume it's a burden we carry forever. That we don't feel depressed or incapacitated emotionally  months after a significant loss isn't stocking, it's an inevitable part of the grief journey.

As a family we always did a themed Halloween costume. Last year we did the cast of 'Beetlejuice'. Kyle was Beetlejuice and kept walking up to random people on the streets going, "Do you know who I am?" One year, we dressed as characters from the 'Wizard of Oz' and Kyle was the Tin Man. One year, however, we did the cast of 'Inside Out' with Leah dressed as Joy (Erica was Sadness). Most kids movies bore me to tears, but I loved 'Inside Out'. It has such a powerful message that in order to experience joy and happiness we must experience pain. I read an interview where Amy Pohler said she took the role as Joy to teach her kids about how to manage their emotions in the wake of their parents divorce. 

Divorce, like death, deserves a grieving process and a time to feel deeply that pain that comes with loss. I've mentioned before, there is no hierarchy of grief - it all simply sucks regardless of what or whom you've lost in your life.

A building gets torn down and another one is built in it's place. Men die in battle and down the road babies are being born at a hospital. Life goes on and progress is made. You mark the razed building with a plaque. You build a monument with the names of the departed in your town square. You remember. You grieve. But you move forward. It's human nature.

But what do I know? I am 9 months into a lifelong journey that has no roadmap. Recently, I've begun thinking about my birthday in November and the one year anniversary of Kyle's death and dreading those two days. But I know I will get through it, because I have to. There are other children's to raise, marriages to nurture and friendships to cultivate. I guess the best monument I could build Kyle would be to simply keep going, to put my head down and run into the storm. And I know, for an absolute fact, that the wind will be at my back and Kyle will be pushing me forward. 

 

Live Forever

Last night, British rock and roll band Oasis embarked on a reunion tour after almost 20 years apart. Originally, I was going to buy tickets to their performance in Chicago at Soldier Field later this year and take Kyle. Kyle loved Oasis. He loved the music but secretly I think he loved the stories about how the Gallagher Brothers, Liam and Noel, used to fight and curse each other on stage during shows. In fact, the last song Kyle and I ever listened together in my truck was an Oasis song, "Don't Look Back in Anger". Below is that video, which also happens to be a wonderful message for someone experiencing deep grief. 

I said during Kyle's eulogy that their is o value in grief. And after nearly 8 months of reflection, I disagree. Anger is a natural emotion, but I think it's important to identify why one is angry and attack that particular issue, not allowing the raw emotion to fester.

Here's to the Gallagher Brothers, our dearly departed Kyle, sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. 

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.