Come Alive

Baseball was a common thread between Kyle and I, which has been discussed ad nauseum on this blog. In fact, I still help coach the middle school team he made after he passed as a way to stay connected to not only Kyle's friends but him as well. This season I haven't been as present as last season as I have been traveling more for work and devoting myself to Leah's softball team as their head coach. Last week however, I was able to help coach our game against Gibbs. I ask Kyle for signs all the time and usually I get one per day, but this day was different. This day was special.

Like most people I love music. I have Spotify and as I pulled onto the interstate to head east I clicked on a random playlist the platform had generated for me. The first song was a slow folk song aptly titled, "Moondog". It's not my cup of tea but found the humor in the song as Kyle's nickname on his travel team was in fact, Moondog. I called Erica and we shared a laugh over it. But then while driving in rush hour traffic I was cut off by a Toyota SUV. This SUV was not just any SUV but an SUV with a vanity license plate, "1111". Most, if not everyone knows, that Kyle's baseball number was 11 and the significance of 1111 has been a constant sign from Kyle since his passing. I found myself taking a detour to the fields to follow this car not to retaliate for the cut off but as a way to somehow, someway be closer to my son. It's at that point that I said out loud, "Kyle, I see you. I know you're here. So if you're really here please give me a sign." As the song ended and I turned back onto my originally planned route the subsequent song was "Here in Sprit" by Jim James. Not only is the title a direct response from Kyle to me but it's also a song whose lyrics I quoted in an earlier post about the Memorial Wiffle Ball game last November. At this point I felt a heavy sensation around my back and shoulders. Imagine someone putting a 50lb weight across the top of your back. And then my hands started to shake. They started to shake so uncontrollably that I had to put both hands on the wheel to steady myself. I became emotional and for the first time since he died knew he was truly with me.

When I got to the field I told Kyle's buddy and former teammate Charlie that I'd tell him the details later, but that I knew Kyle was with us tonight. Charlie pitched two scoreless innings and helped lead us to an 11-4 victory over Gibbs. It wasn't lost on me that this same field where we played was the field where, on a hot August Sunday afternoon, we informed Kyle that he had been selected for that very same middle school team.

I drove home and put on that exact same playlist as before and the first song was a Foo Fighters song that lasted exactly 5:11 - Kyle's birthday. Now one sign can be chalked up serendipity but 5 signs in the span of 2 hours is closer to a visitation. A truly memorable and overwhelming experience to say the very least.

On Tuesday Leah started his first season of kid pitch softball. We lost 8-7 against a much older, more experienced team, but our girls really battled. It was a lot of fun. I've learned that until you are compensated for coaching the wins and losses are secondary. The teaching and community aspect of sport is what really matters. Leah played catcher and 3B (two of Kyle's 3 positions) and hit a huge double down the 3B line to tie the game. She reminds me so much of him out there - how she moves, how she communicates even how she looks in her uniform...it's eerie but it's another wink from Kyle that he's always there. 

I don't know if I'll coach middle school next year. I haven't craved it as much this year as I did last year where I depended on it for my sanity. But I know this - I will never forget that drive. Win or lose I will always cherish my rides to and from the ballpark with Kyle here in the flesh or here in spirit. 

 

Moving Out...

 

Hi everyone! I feel honored that Brennan asked me to be a guest writer here on the blog.  But also, I need to set some expectations…Brennan is an amazing writer and can truly articulate things in a special way.  I on the other hand am not as good, so just keep that in mind as you read.  However, as we started talking about the blogpost about our big move, he felt I was the one that should tell the story and I can tend to make long stories longer rather than shorter.  So here goes…

I feel I should start with a bit of history/back story.  Prior to Kyle’s death we had been talking for a few years about moving.  As most of you know I am a realtor and deal with folks moving every day…it’s truly my bread and butter. It’s not that we didn’t love our home on Night Cap Ln. we were just starting to need more space as Leah and Kyle were getting older.  Also, my dad lives alone and we really wanted to find a place where he could potentially have an in-law suite or basement of some sort and move in with us.  I joke that he is my 3rd child, so I just thought it would be easier for everyone if he was under the same roof.  But also I wasn’t willing to leave Rocky Hill and therefore our options were pretty limited and we just never found something that worked.

When I walked in and found Kyle the morning of November 14, 2024, it was obviously the worst day of my life and I didn’t know if I would ever want to go back to that house.  I was literally joking with anyone that would listen that if they knew someone that could burn it down and make it look like an accident I would appreciate it.  We moved in with my mom for a few weeks, spent some time at my dad’s and then finally weeks later our amazing friends (my team of Jens and their people) decorated our house for Christmas and helped to welcome us back there.  Leah was so much happier being in her room/house but it was very strange and hard at first to be back there.  However, as we got settled back in it became weird to think of living anywhere that Kyle had never lived.  While I couldn’t step foot back into his room for months it still felt weird in some ways to think of leaving that house.  Also, everyone’s advice was “you need to wait a year before you make any drastic decisions”, so we decided to stay but also keep our options cracked open a bit.

As most of you know my best friend growing up (Jennifer) married Brennan’s childhood best friend (Oscar Hemmelgarn) and they are truly “our people”...we do most of life with them…vacations, celebrations, etc.  Kyle was super close with them as well and loves them all dearly.  They live in Lakeridge subdivision and we have spent lots of time at their house over the years and have always loved their neighborhood.  During covid we would go over and walk on opposite sides of the street (which seems so insane to say now)  just to get out and see familiar faces.  Not only do the Hemmelgarns live in Lakeridge but also our other best good friends The Stewarts do as well and we have grown very close with them as our girls dance and play softball together. Both Kate and Jen have given me unwavering support to make it daily and I wouldn’t be standing upright if not for them (as well as TONS of others, I truly have the best friends and I am so grateful for each and every one of you 🙂).  As Brennan and I started talking and praying about a potential move/relocation we just kept feeling very strongly that we wanted to move to Lakeridge and that we were willing to wait for something in there to come available. We had no specific timeline, no rush,  just when the right place came up we could hopefully jump on it.  

Ok…whew hopefully you are still with me.  This year we went over to Lakeridge to trick or treat on Halloween with all the friends.  If you know me I have little to no filter and pretty much will do/say whatever I want, especially now.  So as Leah was trick or treating I just kept asking folks if they wanted to sell me their house.  “Trick or Treat…are you wanting to move anytime soon?”.  The owners at one of the last houses we stopped by said “Well we aren’t but we are pretty sure our neighbor is…she lives up the street” and he gave me her address..  Well that is all the fuel I needed to look her up and write her a letter.  In my letter I just simply told her our whole story and how we were really wanting to move into this neighborhood and heard she might be wanting to sell soon.  I made it clear that I was a realtor but wasn’t in any way trying to go around her agent if she had one and I wasn’t trying to solicit her listing, AND that her house may not work for us, but we just wanted the opportunity to have the first right of refusal so to speak.  I mailed the letter the Tuesday after Halloween and went about my business.  Another quick side note is that my mom and I work in the Realty Executives Gettysvue office and it’s a small office of only about 15 agents.  We are a mother/daughter team obviously and there is another team in our office that is a father/son team, Wesley and Michael Shotwell.  On Saturday of that week I get a text from Wesley asking me to call him.  He said Michael and I have a listing coming up that we think you might be interested in, and he sends me the link and it was her house!  I immediately got cold chills and felt great knowing that of all the agents in this town, Wesley and Michael in my own office were representing her.  Wesley warned me that she was a widow and that they had shown her close to 50 properties and she hadn’t found anything at all that she liked.  She wasn’t going to put it on the market until she did find something, and that they were going to price it at $599,000.  We weren’t in a hurry anyway, so that was fine with us.  He also told me he was showing her a new condo that had just come on the market the next day (Sunday November 9th) and we could go over and look at the house while they were gone.  

So,  we went over to check it out that Sunday and met my mom and H there and Jen and Oscar came up from their house.  When we got out of the car Jen said “the girls counted and there are 11 houses between our house and this one.”  Another cold chill moment as 11 was Kyle’s number and one of the many ways he shows us signs is through that number. (**side note Jen said the girls counted wrong and after she counted it is actually 12 houses between ours and theirs but it still makes the story cool, ha).  When we walked in the front door we immediately had a good feeling in the house.  A peaceful feeling really…it was so warm.  Its beautiful vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, stackstone fireplace and natural light were stunning.  AND it had a 3 car garage and perfect basement for Pap.  We were pretty excited after viewing it and talking about it we decided to call our lender to just see what our options were.  She said we could do it without selling our current house, so no contingency needed (but we of course wanted to sell our house) and we could feel free to make an offer.  I no more got off the phone with her and Wesley called me to tell me that the condo he had shown her the day before was perfect and she loved it and was making an offer on it.  AND after she crunched the numbers she wanted to offer her house to us for $555,000 (5.5 is half of 11 and so our down payment was literally $111,000).  All the chills.  We wrote our contract that night and by the time it was signed and bound it was Tuesday.  If you haven’t already figured this out by now, our binding agreement date on our contract was 11/11.  November 11th. More chills and also helped really confirm that Kyle was helping make this happen for us.  Not to mention, we were dreading that Friday as it was the 1 year anniversary of his death and the anticipation was awful, but this gave us something positive to focus on during the hardest week.

After we came down from our excitement we had to get busy and put our house on the market.  We rented a dumpster, cleaned it, staged it and officially put it on the market on a Wednesday (12/3). We had 2 showings Wednesday and 3 on Thursday and received an offer on that Friday.  A precious couple and their 4 year old (also pregnant with their 2nd girl) were relocating from Johnson City for a job and wanted our house.  It made me happy knowing another sweet family was going to move in and make memories there. Some of our best memories were made in that house but also the absolute worst memory.  We scheduled the closings to happen back to back on January 16th.  Then came the fun part of packing, packing and more packing.  One Sunday after Christmas Leah went to hang out with one of her friends and Brennan and I went into Kyle’s room together, just the two of us and packed up all of his stuff.  I’m not going to lie, it sucked.  We cried a lot, but we also laughed and talked a lot about him and what an amazing kid we were lucky enough to get to raise for 12.5 years.  His clothes still smelled like him even after a year. God we miss him.

Moving isn’t ever easy, but for us the emotions were all over the place. I was lucky enough to get some time in the house all by myself after everything was out and I was able to sit in the floor of Kyle’s room and talk to him and tell him how much I loved spending time with him in that room reading Harry Potter and Wings of Fire and giggling before bed.  It was good for me.   I truly think he helped make it all happen for us (also The Lord of course) and I can almost hear him saying “Mom, can you believe we live between the Hemmelgarns and the Stewarts.  LET”S GOOOOOO”   We love our new house a lot, have been here for almost 3 weeks and are “mostly” settled in.  Bubba is getting used to it and loves the walks in the new hood.  Leah got to pick a new paint color and get a bunch of new stuff for her room, plus she is within walking distance of her besties!  She has to get up about 15 minutes earlier than she used to to get to Rocky Hill on time, so that is her only beef so far, lol.  In 2 weeks my dad will officially be living here and we are super pumped to have him around.  He and Kyle were truly best friends (and extremely similar people) and he has been utterly devastated (as we all have). It will be good for him to not live alone anymore and he and Leah can get closer as well.  We feel Kyle all around, while he doesn’t have a room in our new house, he’s literally in every room.  OH and Brennan is super happy because he bought a new golf cart to get around the neighborhood and he takes all the kids on rides.  I think he likes the house as well.

We will be sending out postcards soon with our new address but thank you all so so very much for all the love and support through this move.  We want to have everyone over soon and fellowship.  Thanks for loving us all so well, and thanks for loving our Kyle. 

Times Like These

A year ago, on the evening of Thursday November 13th (my 43rd birthday) Kyle Mooney laid down to go to sleep around 10 o'clock at night. At approximately 6:40 the next morning, his mother discovered him cold and lifeless in his bed. Dead, 6 months before his 13th birthday of a previously undiscovered and still unknown heart ailment. 

For a moment, I'm going to describe Kyle physically to someone who never met him. Kyle was a big kid - not fat, but big, tall and strong. He had huge hands, huge feet and a posterior so big and wide you could have set a dinner platter flat on it. His back and shoulders were wide and thick and his legs long. Kyle was built and carried himself like an athlete - baseball and basketball - and had dreams of playing sports up to and possibly through high school. And his face - round and bright with a deep dark set of brown eyes, Kyle mostly resembled his mother, Erica, had begun to thin and take structure - a boy on the precipice of his teenage years. We called Kyle, "Mooney", and he was our Man on the Moon - guiding us with his bight, indominable and perpetual spirit.

So when 8-1/2 hours after out last, "I love you" as father and son to have him left us like weak smoke smoldering over an extinguished fire was... I don't think there's even a word.

Poof. Gone.

Last Thursday I had lunch with my friend Clay who has become more like a brother me me than a friend. Clay is a smart and introspective man who loves and takes care of his family. He's also the father of two young men that both remind of Kyle - smart, ambitious, kind. And during lunch we had this discussion about life, death and what comes next. We discussed how, like quantum physics argues, we are all just a combination of cells and matter. What distinguishes us from say a building or a car is inconsequential. Underlying our various exteriors is exactly the same. And that energy is never truly gone it just takes on a different forms of matter and moves on to its next intended purpose. Clay went a step further arguing that when you die, your body weight decreases 27 grams, which many believe represents the soul. So, why Kyle left his physical body and was converted to ash was his soul converted with him? Or has he left this world to inhabit something beyond our realm of comprehension? 

Last night, friends of ours organized a memorial wiffle ball game in Kyle's memory. Over 350 friends, family and classmates stopped by to pay respects, play some ball and share stories of Kyle. It concluded with a prayer, candlelight vigil and a song. The song, "Times Like These (Acoustic)" by the Foo Fighters is a song of hope, redemption and fortitude. It was written by lead singer Dave Grohl during a time where the band was splintering. The bands drummer was nearly lost to an OD from heroin and Dave, himself, was recording and touring with other bands. Long story short, it all worked out for the Foo's and we were gifted this powerful song from the mind of Dave Grohl. Before the song played Erica and I spoke and our message was simple - Kyle loved you, we love you and are grateful for your support. And we have to move forward. And we're going to do it together. I was informed that during the playing of the song, a shooting star flew across the sky over our vigil. Remember, we never leave we just change - our Man in the Moon(ey) is now a shooting star. He's still there it's just a little harder to catch him.

While "Times Like These" is the theme of this post, there's another song I wanted to share that has come back into my rotation lately - "Here in Spirit" - by Jim James of the band My Morning Jacket. There's a few lines right before the chorus that I feel sum up my emotions immediately Kyle's passing and what we've done as individuals and families to navigate our grief:

The stone is thrown, it's coming fast
The next thing you know
It's crashing thru the glass
Now we're down on our knees picking up the scraps
Whatever it takes we're gonna build it back

They say the second year of loss is harder than the first. The shock wears off and acceptance becomes your default stage of grief. And maybe that is true - only time will tell - but we are building it back. The building is damaged, but not gone. The light around it has dimmed but if we squint, we can see. A million hands propping us up in the memory of a young man that impacted so many. It's times like these you learn to live again. 

Do You Know What Today Is?

 On October 14th Erica and I celebrated 19 years of marriage. 19 years of marriage, while significant, is one of those anniversaries that can easily get lost. The 1st, 25th, 40th and 50th anniversary are touchpoints in the life of a married couple and are typically marked by lavish gifts and trips to exotic places. On Tuesday I told Erica, "I didn't get you a card and I don't expect one in return." She replied similarly and we agreed to have dinner* that night while Leah attended her first acting class.

*By the way - we had dinner at Sunspot on the Cumberland Avenue Strip. The 'Strip, as its affectionately known to UT students, alumni and Knoxville residents is a mile long drag of bars and restaurants. Excuse me, the Strip "was" a mile long road of dive bars and restaurants that have been replaced with high rise condos, banks and more condos and holds the charm of a root canal. And I'm pretty sure the entire wait staff was on drugs. I'm getting old. But I digress.

Before dinner Erica and I toasted with the simple, "What a year.." we both shrugged and sipped our drinks in silence for a moment. When you take your vows you hear the spiel about sickness and health, richer or poorer, but you don't get the "In the event you lose a child". I assume that's covered under the "for better or worse" portion of the vows and if ever replaced with "in the event you lose a child" would likely cast a pall over what's typically a happy occasion.

We were married really young, too young actually. I was 24 and  Erica was just barely 23. We had no money, no idea how to plan and execute a wedding and no idea the work it took to build a successful life together. And we certainly had no idea what lay ahead for us. We spent the first 7 years of our marriage in Nashville but moved back to Knoxville in March of 2012 mere weeks before Kyle arrived. Once again - we had little money, a ton of debt and no idea on how to raise a baby.

But much like the first few years of our marriage, we figured out how to raise Kyle and eventually decided to try for another. Homes were purchased, credit cards got paid (and closed) and we settled into what we assumed would be a normal suburban life.

I'm not going to rehash the events surrounding Kyles death, but I will say this. Those first few days were very dark. And at times, moments of doubt creep in and you find your mind wandering into a deep pool of grief. But when you share a life with someone who knows exactly what you feel, you no longer feel isolated in your pain. 

Like two great athletes on the field of play who can just read each others eyes and know exactly what to do, such is the connection Erica and I now share. If cohabitating for over 20 years, multiple moves and raising kids doesn't form an unbreakable bond then imagine what grieving the loss of a child can do. It can go one of two ways and one of them is filled with even more pain and more ugliness. When you see someone suffering your first reaction is to console them using words. Platitudes such as, "I'm so sorry for your loss" or "He's in a better place" get thrown around grieving loved ones like frisbees, but it's more to break the uncomfortable tension in a room. Those that know true suffering just want to emote and it's best to sit in the room next to them in silence then offer up any advice. Sometimes one of us will walk into a room and the other will be crying or finishing crying. And the other will simply walk up, hug the other and say nothing. I urge you to try substituting physical touch for words to someone grieving next time and see if it doesn't make a difference. 

We miss Kyle so much. Charles Dickens couldn't articulate what Kyle meant to us and he got paid by the word. A few weeks ago I saw a picture of Kyle in Leah's room and it broke me. I sat on the stairs crying. Erica walked up and I said to her, "What is the point of all this? What is the meaning behind his death? I do not understand." To which erica replied, "Maybe he died to teach us a lesson." But what would that lesson be? That we can take a punch? 

Here's what I do know, of all the people in my life there is no one that understands me more than Erica. There is no one that has impacted my life more greatly than her and there is no one stronger than her. She'd shrug off that last comment and give credit to advancements in modern pharmacology, but you can't build anything without a strong foundation. And Erica's constitution is solid.

When we were first married she used to say, "I don't think I'd be a good mother." I took that comment with a grain of salt knowing that she was put on this planet to raise Kyle and Leah. She did everything she could for him and then it was his time to go be with someone else in another dimension. And as desperately as we miss him, we choose to allow his death to not be in vain but rather as a deep emotional bond to carry us for another 19 years and beyond.

 

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. 

 

 

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.

I Don't Feel as if I Know You

I posted on Facebook last week about a message I interpreted from Kyle. Last Friday I went to the home opener for Tennessee baseball. Their starting first baseman wore #11, Kyle's number and position. Normally, this information Kyle would have been relayed to me preseason, but since he died, I've paid little attention to the Hot Stove League which is SEC baseball. So, when a starting 1B comes out wearing #11, I was pleasantly surprised. Then on Tuesday night, during a non-conference midweek game, the same #11 came out playing 3B, Kyle's secondary position. When the player, Andrew Fischer, came to bat in the bottom of the first I yelled from out seats, "Come on, Fisch'! Put one out for Kyle Mooney." 

He promptly hit a double to the right center gap.

I've written about messages and signs before, but not my motivation as to why I share these thoughts and feelings.

I am a victim. I am the victim of a horribly senseless and tragic event for which I'll never understand. Before Kyle died, my image of "victims" was of pissed off grifters looking for a handout. Those are fugazi victims...they exist in their imagination only. But as a real victim, I want my compensation. But I don't want it in the form of money or goods, but rather in terms of understanding. After Kyle died and the dust settled following his memorial service, I went to the local hardware store for various items. In our small community it's very common to run into a neighbor or acquaintance at a grocery, convenience or hardware store. One engages in the necessary small talk and pleasantries then it's back in line to pay for your greeting cards and Ben Gay. On this day I saw a woman that I know, but not well enough to step out of line and greet. Admittedly, I turned my head so she wouldn't see me. I didn't want to exchange platitudes and answer banal questions about how we were doing or hear the customary, "I can't even imagine..." And maybe this person didn't want to see or speak to me either. It works both ways. When people see us out in public maybe they assume we’re a hysterical mess and to steer clear like we're were a pack of lepers. It's hard to strike up a conversation with someone on the periphery of your life when your common ground is the death of a child.

But I digress.

I've spent the last three months searching for symbols for Kyle and wondering if they are direct messages or simply happy coincidences. Then, with the help of my grief counselor, it occurred to me... it doesn't matter. It can be whatever I choose for it to be as long as it makes me happy. I've mentioned before the freedom grief gives you. You longer care about trivial matters, which includes what a stranger in a checkout line thinks about you. 

However, being a victim, can become what defines you.

"That's Brennan and Erica. They're the ones whose son died in his sleep a few years ago."

"That's Leah, Erica's little girl. You know she had a son..."

When I first began venturing out into the real world, I told Erica that I felt like I had a sign around my neck that ready, "My son died" and that this pall rested over me like some sad tapestry of depression. That I would forever be known as, Brennan Mooney: Father to a Dead Son. We have a family member that lost her mother in an auto accident when she was 16. During her wedding reception someone remarked that she ran for Student Council President in the wake of her mother's death because, "she didn't to be known as the girl whose mother died."

Yeah, I get that.

I will also tell you, and her if she's reading this, that I've never looked at her / you this way. Not once. In fact, although I know what happened to her mother it's an afterthought on how I view her personally, like how you recognize the color of someone hair or their smile. You process it, but it doesn't define that person. What defines them for you is what your experiences have been with them, personally. 

Which brings me back to why I share my messages, maybe I'm concerned about what you think of me. Or maybe I just think the symbolism is cool. Either way, it shouldn't matter. I appreciate the sympathy, I'll take you compassion for my family, but I am not defined by death or the fallout which follows it. 

So, if you see me don't be afraid to say, "Hi." And don't be afraid to discuss any topic, including Kyle, which is someone and something I'll always like to talk about. I may be a victim, but I do not want to spend my life victimized by my grief or your feelings over what happened to my family. 

Or don't. I won't judge you. The same way I hope you won't judge me. 

Letter from the Wasteland

 Dear Kyle,

I'm writing to update you on what life has been like since you left us. It has been almost three months and while certain things are getting easier, your presence continues to loom large; your life a constant reminder of the joy and happiness you brought and your death a continual reminder of what could of and should of have been.

The pain and memory of your death, while fresh, feels like a lifetime ago. maybe it's because so much has purposefully changed that we forget just last Halloween you were dressed up as Beetlejuice. 

Your namesake, Bubba, is doing well. As I type this, he's sitting at my feet working on the "Down" command. He just graduated from puppy training classes and we're happy to have him home after 2-1/2 weeks. It's odd to compare a 12-year-old boy to a dog, but he reminds us so much of you. He's friendly, loving and has a thick coat of wavy hair. And with long legs and a big head we laugh at how many physical traits you share. But don't worry, I promise I will never take him inside a Home Depot or on a plane. He is just a dog.

Your sister is doing quite well. She just tried out for two parts in the school play and found out she's going to be on the Pirates for softball this season. Her dance recital is a few months away and she was given a special part in one of her numbers. Last night we attended our third Daddy / Daughter Valentines Day Dance at Cokesbury. It reminded me a lot of dates I went on in high school: I paid for dinner, my date paid little or no attention to me and spent the evening talking with her girlfriends. But, instead of trying to buy beer at the end of the night she settled for a Ring Pop and a balloon and spent the remainder of her evening watching 'Dance Moms'. But while her life is seemingly business as usual, know that she misses and talks about you all the time. My assumption is that her grief will hit her as she gets older. I ask that when this time comes you allow both her and us the strength to support her journey.

Your mother is soldiering on as best as she can. While grief is a journey unique to each individual, it must be even more so for a mother. Your unbreakable, intrinsic bond is foreign to me, but I try my best to be empathetic. She's been sick this week, like everyone in Knoxville, but of course gets out of bed to get your sister ready for school, HIGH Fitness and lunch with her friends. She talks about and to you constantly about a variety of topics. She bought a new car (finally!) and is reading a lot of about grief, signs and the afterlife. She's looking for any lasting connection to...hoping for a vessel where she can give and receive messages to you. Prayer and faith in your eternal happiness are guiding her. She's also currently wearing a heart monitor at the direction of her cardiologist. It's a routine, precautionary measure as we search for answers to what may silently afflicted you. My guess is that we'll never get a definitive answer but we're seeking one, nonetheless. Please continue to visit her through dreams and signs, like the fact that she continually finds herself looking at her phone at "11:11" most days or having missed 11 text messages.

I went back to work on Monday. The timing was appropriate, and it has been a welcome respite from my grief. One the whole, my days are good, but certain moments - a song on the radio or a sports highlight trigger a visceral reaction without warning. I'm helping with the West baseball team this Spring as a dugout coach. Your teams first scrimmage was Tuesday night, and they played well against West Valley. The dugout just didn't have the same "juice" without you there, but it's a good group of ballplayers and even better kids. After the game they announced that they were retiring your #11 jersey. No one will ever wear that number again for West Middle School Baseball. Your jersey will hang in the dugout each game as a reminder to the love and passion you showed for the sport. I got our Tennessee baseball season tickets in the mail this week. I'm taking your sister to Opening Day next Friday. She'll get bored and want to leave by the top of the third inning, but it's better than not going at all. I contemplated selling my tickets for about 2 minutes before I realized that's not what you would have wanted. If you were still here, we'd be talking about this moment constantly and I couldn't stand to renounce something that brought us so much joy, even though it will be painful.

But things that matter are rarely easy. The discomfort I feel in doing certain activities like coaching your friends in baseball or writing this blog are a reminder that I am growing. I used to tell you, "The world doesn't revolve around your feelings. You are entitled to nothing." It's a direct, almost brutal thing to say to a child, but I think an important lesson on where you stand as a human being. I find it hard to heed my own advice at times, thinking that at some point I have to feel better in accepting your death. But like you, I am not entitled to happiness. I have to earn my happiness and do that by reminding myself of all the good you did in your short time here.

Almost $20K has been donated to Fellowship Church in your memory. It's an awesome testament to you and the triumph of the human spirit. Money has poured in from all over the country from friends, family and complete strangers. Many of the names I don't recognize, but I'm sure you do. You knew everyone.

The phrase, "It just sucks" gets thrown around quite a bit these days. Your mother and I will be talking and one of us will start to cry and the other will say, "I know, it just sucks." It's a crass way to describe grief, but also very befitting and very on brand for our household. Words were never minced; hearts were worn on sleeves and volumes could reach deafening volumes at times. But we always knew where we stood and always on the bedrock of love. That foundation still stands, yet it is hardened. 

I told you mom just last week, "I miss his voice. I even miss arguing with him." To which she replied, "I know. It just sucks."

I write this post as a way to update you, but my hope is that you already know as you watch over and protect us. That my hands and thoughts are being guided by you. The irony in your death is that it opened my mind to the possibility of life after death, for which i am eternally grateful. And my wish is that someday we can be together and read it and you could tell me, "If you had really known what came after death, would you have been upset for me?"

Now that would definitely not suck.

I love you. I miss you. Come see me soon, Mooney.

Love, Dad