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.