A dear friend from grade school got in touch with me recently while passing through the area. We went out for coffee, then walked around town on a beautiful spring day. We had a very nice conversation, free and easy, even as I related some of my feelings of grief since the last time I got to speak with her, which was very soon after we lost Aidan.
At one point we chatted about college. I had dropped out, and I suppose she wondered how things would have turned out for me if I had stayed. She asked: “If you knew then what you know now, what would you have changed?” I kind of whiffed. I told her I didn’t really have much of a choice, which was true enough. My family and its finances were simply too unstable at the time, and I couldn’t manage the chaos. There was grief and trauma to deal with back then, too, unfortunately. So chalk it up to fate.
But her question unnerved me, surprisingly so. I felt myself starting to come a bit unglued. It later made me flinch to remember it. Why? It’s because as soon as you start to consider counterfactual scenarios of any sort, you start to think of all the things you could have done to prevent this, this horrible thing that’s front and center. If I didn’t have to go and pick up something at the supermarket, my son might still be alive. It’s that fickle and random. Every interaction I ever had with Aidan might have subtly guided him towards some other idle pursuit. Once you start asking what if, your mind goes everywhere, all the way to what if he had never been born in the first place? What if I had never been born? Yes, your mind goes to all those crazy places. You question everything you ever did. It’s exhausting to even think about.
It’s easier to believe in fate. It’s easier to believe it was all God’s Plan. You would think it’s the other way around, that fate is unattractively severe and unresponsive. But it helps you keep going down the road, and to stay on that road.
And of course, I was so distracted by these thoughts that I forgot to ask my friend where she wound up at college.
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