Can You Mend a Broken Heart?

When I was a junior in high school, I took a took a Morality and Justice class for my religious elective. My teacher, Mark Wilkins, was my favorite teacher a St. X. He was intelligent, self-deprecating and open minded. During this class we were tasked with writing a paper about what God meant to us. And I remarked that I didn't believe in God per se - the long white beard, the throne - passing judgement on everyday people, but that my belief was more of a conceptual belief in a higher power. For a 17-year-old kid to write this took a lot of courage. 

St. Xavier is a Jesuit high school in Cincinnati, OH with strict academic standards and traditions. Scores of X alumni have walked the halls of Congress, played in the Super Bowl and won Academy Awards.  However, my personal academic standards didn't match with X's. I was an insignificant part of the St. X legacy or as they refer to it, "The Long Blue Line".  But that paper was one of the few positive memories I carry from my time there. I remember getting an 'A' on the paper which only encouraged me to write openly and honestly and is one of the reasons I am able to write my memories of my son on the blog.

Now, let's return to a little over five weeks ago. When Kyle died there was no definitive answer on cause of death. The night before he passed, he mentioned that his heart was racing. I believe I mentioned this in a previous post, so we assumed the cause would have been cardiac related. Two weeks ago, an assistant from the Knox County Medical Examiner's office called me with more information. Kyle's heart was "slightly" enlarged, and could they proceed with genetic testing to probe for a more exact cause? Why, "Of course!", I told the medical examiner. And with a 7-year daughter who appears perfectly healthy and happy, could you put a rush on that, please???

Philosophers have posed the following question - "How can you believe in a God that kills small children?" And even with my abstract beliefs in God I never understood that question because I've never seen God as controlling. But I've asked God and Kyle for answers in my prayers. Every morning, I go into Kyle's room, get on my knees and pray. And every time I finish with, "Kyle, please protect your sister." 

But protect her from what?

Last week there was a school shooting in Wisconsin. And I can't imagine knowing what the parents of the deceased children are feeling. Yes, I can relate to a life snatched away far too soon, but I don't know what killed my son. People die in car wrecks, of cancer, of a peanut allergy...all tragic. But at least they have answers. We have nothing other than an educated guess and some more testing.

I've said this a thousand times over the last 5 weeks, "I wouldn't wish this pain on anyone" and I truly mean that. No one should have to grieve and memorialize their own child. But you know what else I wouldn't wish on anyone? I wouldn't wish having to speak with a medical examiner about your dead child. To pour over two dozen pages of medical terminology and reports, which contain every single detail of your life; the condition of our home, the prescription drugs in our medicine cabinet, the pajamas Kyle was wearing, the length of his nails and the shape of his teeth, his body / mass index and height and weight percentiles. And the size of his heart.

Most 12-year-old children have a heart size between 124 and 150g. Kyle's was 300g. Genetic testing showed his heart was afflicted by one of two factors: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy and a long QT. Now, I'm not going to turn this blog into the New England Journal of Medicine, but from my layman's research yesterday these two ailments appear to be similar. If they were family members, they would be first cousins. The irony is both are treatable with medication and lifestyle changes but would likely only be diagnosed though an extended EKG, which a pediatrician wouldn't perform for an outwardly healthy child. 

So where do we go from here? Yes, we all three have appointments with cardiologists the first of next year. And yes, we will proceed with further genetic testing, if necessary, no matter the cost. Health and protection of this family is paramount. However, will these answers provide the solace my family so desperately craves?

The night before Kyle died, we celebrated my birthday. Kyle ate a filet (medium rare, of course), a baked potato and some cake. He was Kyle that night - laughing, loving on his grandparents and sister and holding court the way only Kyle could. And Erica has poured over pictures from that night driving herself crazy thinking, "Did I miss something?" Was there a sign he was sick, and we ignored it? I asked the medical examiner these same questions and she simply told me, "No". When I called Erica to share the official findings from the report, we were both crying and I asked her to do me favor. I asked her if she could forgive herself for his passing. It was no one's fault, it just...happened. 

I haven't been able to look at pictures or videos of Kyle on my phone since he died. Today I finally went back and looked at a video from August 31st, 2024. It's him and Leah making a video for Erica for whatever reason. And behind him there's a balloon that says "Congrats" on it. I mentioned to Erica this video and asked about the significance of the balloon. She reminded me friends of ours bought Kyle the ballon and a gift to congratulate him for making the West / Bearden Middle School baseball team.

It's the first time I've listened to his voice since the night before he died. I missed hearing his sweet, inquisitive nature - a voice that vacillated between young boy and pre-teen on the precipice of a new stage of development in his life. Why have I been so reluctant to watch videos and hear his voice? I pray to him; I ask for a sign that he's near me and watching over us. All the while I have access to thousands of pictures and videos which recorded so many happy memories yet I'm afraid to watch them. I'm glad I finally dove into the cache of recorded memories. It was emotional and I felt extremely vulnerable afterwards, but I crossed another barrier in my grief journey. Much like the balloon, I could feel Kyle hovering above me and saying, "Congrats, Dad. You did it."

Thank you, Mr. Wilkins.