Lossiness

A few days after Aidan’s funeral, we still couldn’t manage to go back and stay in our house. Instead we headed out to Cape Cod, where a friend offered up his family’s house to us. Once we arrived, we heard some dreadful news from town. Another boy, named Dylan, was also killed suddenly. It was a horrible accident where he was riding a bicycle and struck by a commuter train. We were only distantly acquainted with the family, and their kids were in different grades than ours. Struggling to understand what happened, I found myself idly mouthing much the same phrase we had recently heard repeated dozens of times. Oh my god, I can’t even imagine what that family is going through. I stopped myself, and did a quick double-take. I felt stupid for saying it, out loud no less. But then I began thinking about it and stepping through it word by word. I realized I was right. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through, because I couldn’t imagine what it was we were going through. I was in the

One of the most useful tidbits I picked up from grief counseling was a simple insight from evolutionary psychology. Througout history, it was perfectly ordinary to lose half your children. We are built to endure this. It’s not exactly a pleasant thought, but a necessary one. Being reminded of it helped. I recall turning on the TV and being repelled by some loud, violent show. I turned the channel to a PBS station where they were showing what appeared to be a comfortably bland documentary about Goethe. And then I got blindsided. Just like that, he lost four out of his five children. Time to turn the channel again.

I took a long 55-mile bike ride today, and stopped a bit for a water break near the end. As I sat on the bench, I noticed an inspirational healing stone that someone had left there. Perhaps I was a bit light-headed from the ride, but I immediately interpreted it as a communication from my son: That is exactly the sort of thing he would say, and exactly the odd, out-of-context way he would say it.