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. 

Shattered Glass

I’ve been holding it together for some time now. Yes, I have my brief moments of deep grief where I lose control of my emotions but, for all intents and purposes, I am managing. 

As I've mentioned previously, I've continued coaching. I have been tasked with being the dugout coach for the West Middle School baseball team - the team Kyle finally made this past Fall. Being out there brings me closer to him and allows me to continue to do something I love very much...coaching. And I don't spend the games being wistful about him. I am there to support and teach and am typically very "dialed in" so there's not much time for melancholy. Yesterday however, was different. We played a team that was outclassed by our more talented squad. A game that, by the middle of the first inning, was over. It was a boring game which led my mind to wander. Alas, I made it through and was happy for the boys.

Strike One.

Then last night Tennessee beat Alabama in a thrilling basketball game. A game that was an emotional roller coaster. A game that Kyle would have normally been right next to me watching and yelling and possibly curing at. When Tennessee hit a last second three to win, we all celebrated and I left the room to text Kyle the following, "Vols beat 'Bama on a (Jamai) Mashack three! Love you and wish you were here to watch."

Strike Two.

Then today, I packed my bags for two nights in Memphis. My first out of town, overnight trip for work since the week before he died. As the anxiety filled me for a 6-hour drive across the state, I began to get very emotional. I fell to my knees begging for Kyle's protection then I found myself hysterical on the floor crying. Filled with anger I found the sounds coming out of me almost guttural - like from a wild animal in severe anguish before being put out of its misery.

                                                (View from my hotel in downtown Memphis)

Strike Three. Game over.

As I stopped crying and rose to my feet, I felt like a 500 lb. anvil rested on top of me. I slumped around the room dragging myself like a man crossing a baren desert, desperate for water while I packed the last of my things before jumping in the shower. Hoping to cleanse myself of the ugliest of thoughts that had entered my head.

"Why did this happen to you?"

"Why am I not dead and you are here instead."

"What do I have to do to get you back."

I haven't felt so emotionally vulnerable since we saw Kyle in the funeral home three days after his death. There he was, laid out in an orange TN jersey, wearing his West Middle baseball hat and surrounded by pictures, books and sports memorabilia that was quintessentially Kyle. There was my son, but not Kyle - his soul gone forever and (hopefully) in a better place and free from pain.

And then it dawned on me as I drove across the state today - I mourned his death, but now I have to also mourn all these landmark things he and I will never get to experience again as father and son.

Driving to and from baseball discussing his game, his team and strategy. Enjoying the highs and lows of any sport and in particular, Tennessee athletics, Kyle's favorite. And the seemingly banal and endless business trips where he was always there to see me off and greet me with a bear hug when I returned.

Grief has multiple stages, but those stages are not fluid - the zig and zag and are filled with wrong turns and a seemingly endless amounts of roundabouts. I remember that scene from European Vacation - "Hey kids, Big Ben, Parliament" as Chevy Chase, lost in London, drives around the same circle for an hour.

"Hey Brennan, there's a kid playing baseball. There's a kid going to school." Only it's not funny, it just sucks.

I skipped Church today. I was down on myself and anxious to get on the road and sent Erica and Leah on their way. And I haven't been sleeping well lately so I decided to take a quick nap before driving to Memphis. I set my alarm for 25 minutes, which, as a nap aficionado, I have determined is the perfect length for a quick nap. You get a quick boost without being drowsy. But I tossed and turned and cut my nap short at 14 minutes. And when I picked up my phone to silence my alarm the clock read, 11:11, Kyle's birthday and number in baseball. I see 11:11 on clocks all the time now. Just last week, at 5:30 AM, I made a cup of coffee and our coffee pot, which has never been set properly read, "11:11." You may ask why our Keurig clock is always off and my answer is, because no one since the discovery of the sundial ever asked for the time and received the response, "I don't know. Go look at the coffee pot."

It's subtle reminders like this that allow me to receive messages from my son and keep going, knowing that he's looking over and communicating with me.

I'll be back in town Tuesday night in plenty of time for West Middle's game. And I'll be wearing the hat he wore the day we saw him at Rose's Funeral Home. And instead of a 500 lb. anvil wearing me down it will be a 4-ounce blue and red hat. And it will be really good to have that on my mind instead.