Four Years

My middle son Jeffrey died four years ago today. This is him holding his baby brother August the prior fall. Among the numerous cruelties of Jeff's death is that August (now 5) will never have the chance to get to know him.

Then there are the little ironies. This afternoon Nazareth played Cortland in lacrosse (a thorough thrashing, it must be said, by Cortland). At half-time we learned - via loudspeaker - that my oldest son Douglas's hard work has paid off. He was named the Nazareth Scholar-Athlete of the year from his team; the award goes to a player who is integral to the team and puts in strong academic performance as well. There is no one who would be prouder of Doug's accomplishment than Jeffrey.

"Closure is Bullshit"

My son Jeffrey died nearly four years ago. I work pretty hard at not being the 'dead boy's father.' Instead, I am a man who's son has died. In that role there are lots of parts of my life - some extremely good, others less so, still others indifferent, a handful of active irritants. You can count Doug and (my own) August and Susan among the very, very best parts. Writing here regularly ranks up there, but in a different category. Lots of things have happened to me or are going on in my life. And, by the way, my son died nearly four years ago. Please don't forget that last thing, while I try to sort out and enjoy the rest too. Hence the title to this post, which I've lifted from An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination.*

Elizabeth McCracken has written the single best book - a very frank and sorrowful and cynical and funny all at once memoir - I have read on this struggle. Now, you may think that faint praise, given that what little I have written here about the literature of grief is ambivalent at best. O.K., so there is no real competition. This is a wonderful book nevertheless. It made me sob and laugh out loud repeatedly, more than once almost simultaneously.

McCracken and I occupy different branches of the family tree of grieving, an image she plants in the book. But our branches are adjacent. And while we never have met, I understand completely the inappropriate, irresistible urge she describes to treat people, in this instance herself, as close. So far I've resisted the urge to send McCracken a thank you note. But I could not resist writing about her book here. Go ahead and read it.
__________
* Elizabeth McCracken. 2008. An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. New York: Little Brown.

Jeff's Birthday

Jeffrey would've been 18 years old today. There is really not much to say. I filled up the day with meetings and appointments. The distraction didn't really help. I miss Jeff every single day. On this day all I could think about - again and again - is how many of these 'special' occasions he never got to experience. Happy birthday Jeff.

Three Years

Three years ago today I was due to fly to Chicago for a conference. My flight was delayed by several hours. I planned to surprise my sons and go to see their lacrosse game, having told them I'd miss it because of travel. As I was leaving my office the phone rang; my ex-wife had called to tell me Jeff had been injured during the pre-game warm ups and that he was en route to the emergency room in an ambulance. Jeff never regained consciousness. He died of a ruptured aneurysm in his brain. He was 14 and so would now be nearly 18 and enjoying his final term of high school. This is a picture of Jeff - grinning as usual - taken the fall before he died. I miss Jeffrey desperately every single day. I love his brothers Doug and August even more and more often. Do me a favor, hug your loved ones an extra time today and find some way to show them how much you love them.