I am the father of four beautiful boys: one who is going to college, 11-month-old twins, and my darling son Diego, who is currently being babysat by God. As a father of four, I am pulled in several directions at any given time. For instance: my oldest asks for advice, the twins require endless entertainment, and my sweet Diego often receives the most attention—at least in my head.
Why? Because I am constantly reminded I will not see him when I get home in the evening. His absence enters my mind at the most inappropriate times; for instance, at a stoplight, mingling with friends, or showing houses to a client—the list goes on and on. Of course, this reminder often accompanies a multitude of emotions, which may or may not make me get choked up. If this happens, then I have the daunting decision of whether or not I need to explain what I am feeling or just try to cover it up. If I do share, it often turns awkward, and the other person often does not realize silence is okay. They feel the need to say something, like the nails on a chalkboard phrase, “At least he’s in a better place.” Of course, I want to lash out at them, screaming, “There is no better place for a baby but in his parent’s arms.” But I smile and just remember they haven’t experienced such a tragic loss as I, and for that I am grateful. No matter what the dialogue turns into, I feel the pain of a dagger in my heart for a short time.
Grief has changed me at my core without permission. Since Diego’s passing, I see the world much differently. I find I drive more conservatively, spend more time with family, and just appreciate life more. I have also noticed that when I talk to those I love, I do it with more compassion. I try to notice the small things, like the clouds in the sky, or the birds flying around. Although in the end, these gifts do not stop the overwhelming questions, like, Why did this have to happen to me, my wife, and my beautiful son? Why did it happen to all these seemingly good people who also attend grief meetings? Did we do something wrong in the eyes of our Creator? Did we in some way create this karma that frowns upon us? Why? Why? Why? There can be never-ending questions. After the “Why me?” questions retreat, the “Now what?” questions develop. Since I have lost a child, now what? How am I supposed to act? What do I tell others who ask uncomfortable questions? Is my main responsibility to support my wife in her grief? I understand I must grieve, but can I put a time frame on it? When should I be over this?
With all this running through my head, the chaotic emotions demand to be released. After all, my heart was pulled from my body with the force of a jackhammer. At first, I was convinced I couldn’t go on, that life had ended. The sun would rise another day, but my head would not. People who smiled at me were silently damned. All I really wanted to do was die.
I had been beaten so severely to a state of submission that I allowed my higher power to carry me; I couldn’t walk, talk, or even think without support. The days would come and go, but they all meant nothing. I needed help and fast.
But I am a man, you know, a manly man; one who likes power tools and working outside. One who grew up on a farm working the fields and baling hay. Men don’t cry, so I was told. I remember my older cousin telling me, “If you want something to cry about, I’ll give you something to cry about.” In spite of my manliness, I was forced to confront myself and realize that under this skin I am only human. After all, I did lose my son, whom I love very much. As with any father, I had untamed expectations of raising him: his first smile, first step, playing T-ball, starting kindergarten, pimples, first girlfriend, and the list goes on ceaselessly. After all, it’s the progression of life, isn’t it? A constant reminder every time I see children who are the age Diego would be.
In my own grief walk, I have found there isn’t a magic pill to determine a timeline of raw pain. As a father who longs for his missing son, I have been robbed of the only thing a parent wants for his child: to protect him at all costs. Consequently, my heart has been stolen and my mind turned to mush. I don’t want to feel this way! Then again, I don’t want to feel most of the time now. Although I know I will always miss my son, I have learned a form of acceptance I didn’t know was possible. Others who have walked before me have often said, “If you don’t face your grief, it will wait for you until you are ready.” These words sank in quickly, I knew one fact: I didn’t want to feel this way forever. Therefore, I gave myself permission to grieve. Things I lived for before have lost meaning. People I thought were my closest friends have grown distant. My wife and I don’t get along like before. Countless others who have walked a path of grief tell of similar pain and experiences that burn in their souls, too. I learned something else as well: men who don’t cry suffer much longer than those who do.
My wife and I started going to support meetings. Afterward, I drank plenty of water to replenish my body from crying so much. And after a while, I realized that these support meetings were helping, but they weren’t enough. I needed to keep my son’s name alive and honor his memory. Subsequently, I created a large memorial website. This allowed me to sit in front of my computer for hours reliving the short 24 hours we had together. The grief website forums were a lifeline as well. I could read others’ grief stories until my eyes hurt too much to continue. I also reached out to others who desired the same support as I.
I had to come to terms with the fact that the world still turns after Diego’s death. I have found that acceptance is the answer to all my problems. There is no amount of anger that will bring Diego back. That being said, for me, I try to live more in the now and less in the past or the future. I once heard, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a present.” Daily, I unwrap my present and reflect on the past 24 hours before bed. Instead of anger and resentment, I have turned my focus more on helping others. Through the help of others, Diego’s memory remains alive and well.
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