12/19/2013

     My first reaction was to run-just run away and keep running. Run as far and as fast as I could for as long as I could. Run until I found a place where what I just heard would not be true. Run myself into oblivion. I didn't care about anything or anyone else. I had to find a place where children don't die before their parents. A place where parents get to finish the job they were given-get to finish raising their children to adulthood. These feelings only lasted until the police dropped us off at our neighbor's house after we'd been told the terrible news. When I looked into the stricken faces of my son and daughter, and saw how my wife had seemed to age years in the last few minutes, I realized that I was not the only one impacted by what had just happened. Even the looks on our neighbor's faces hinted at how far-reaching our son's death would become. On that first night I wasn't sure how it would happen, but I knew I needed to find a way through this breaking storm. Fortunately, the body has a way of going into a state of functioning shock-a kind of auto-pilot system when confronted with something as unthinkable as the death of a child. In this state I was able to adequately function and help my wife take care of business and make decisions I never expected to have to make, but decisions that now were so vitally important. The problem was that such a state, which helps us function at a time when normally we would be unable to do so, doesn't last forever. I thought I was doing quite well handling this new situation, but when the shock began to wear off, to be replaced by a gradual dawning of true realization, I knew as a man, a father  and a husband I was ill-equipped to deal with the truth.

12/17/2013

     Even during those first few shocking, mind-numbing moments as we were given the news of our son's death I already started thinking that if this were true everything would be changing-my relationship with my wife and children, how I perceived and related to the world, how I viewed myself-everything! A darker thought also was already taking root during those first horrible minutes: is it even possible to survive something like this, and if so, how? As I mentioned previously, this eventuality is not something one can prepare for. Indeed, it's not something one even wants to consider could ever actually occur. It's just too horrible to even think about, as if thinking about it would somehow be  tempting the fates into making it a reality. Ready or not, like it or not this most terrible of possibilities had now become our new reality. Our lives had been suddenly thrown into absolute and total chaos, spiraling and spinning wildly beyond our control. Our darkest fear became real in the blink of an eye. All that was left to be determined now was how would we respond, as individuals and as a family. It was a very frightening and unsettling thought that what we chose to do in the coming days, both singly and together, would greatly determine the rest of our lives for good or for ill.

12/16/2013

     During these last thirteen tumultuous years I have learned a few things about grief that I never expected to have to learn, at least not regarding the death of one of my children. That was something I never, ever expected to have to deal with. In and of itself that seems to violate every common sense precept of how life is supposed to go. The older are supposed to die first. That is somewhat expected, even almost acceptable. It's the normal order of nature. When a child dies it throws everything we thought we knew about life into chaos. Suddenly, nothing in life makes any sense. Everything we thought was true was now thrown into question. If my son could die what else about life was no longer true? Was there anything I could count on? That's one of the crueler aspects of grief-it will find everyone sooner or later. It is no respecter of person or place or station in life. It cares not about fame or wealth. It treats all the same. It strikes so suddenly, often with no warning at all, and with such ferocity that it invariably catches us unaware and sorely unprepared, especially when it involves the death of a child. That was the way I felt on that long-ago night when I first heard those horrible, life-changing words: "Your son died at the scene". Grief had found me. How was I to respond? Could I respond?

12/15/2013

     And make no mistake, it has been a horrible journey. Anyone who says otherwise is either still in the midst of major denial issues, is mentally ill or lying. There are positive ways to try to deal with such a horrendous loss just as there are negative ways, but it must be dealt with one way or another. We did the best we could at the time to deal with each aspect as it arose. Sometimes our efforts were successful, other times less so. Now, almost thirteen years after our loss, we are survivors. Did we always do everything right? No. Did we sometimes veer offtrack? Yes. Are there things we could or should have done differently? Of course. Are we always 100 percent well now? Absolutely not. But we have survived and are continuing to do so, some days more successfully than others. The basketball tournament that is held annually in our son's memory at his middle school has grown bigger and better every year. The tournament enables us to continue to award a scholarship in his name every year at his high school. We still are in contact with many of his friends, classmates and teammates and are constantly amazed at what a positive and enduring impact Curtis has had on the lives of so many people in his short 14 years of life. But with all the positives we've found to hold on to through the years, the fact remains that they only exist because we lost our son. And we lost our son due to the negligence of one unthinking, uncaring person at one very horrible moment in time. We never got to see our son graduate from high school or college, never got to see him marry the woman of his dreams and raise his own family, never got to spoil his children as grandparents, never got to finish raising him and share his grown-up life. The children of our surviving son and daughter will never have the joy of getting to know their Uncle Curtis and what an amazing person he truly was.  Every time there's a family gathering there's always someone missing-and he will always be missing, at least in a physical sense. All those things, and so much more, were stolen from us on that terrible night. Over these many years I've made a kind of peace with it all. I had to, but it hasn't been easy. I wish with all my heart that it was a journey I never had to go on, but I'm grateful to be where I am now.

11/30/2013

   As time went by in our journey and milestones were reached and surpassed, life began to settle into our new "normal". Of course, our lives would never really be what they were before. How could they be? There was a constant, massive, unfillable space in our lives where Curtis had once been. In the early days, I had doubted that I could survive what we were being forced to endure. That feeling persisted off and on for the first several months. There was no great single moment of  enlightenment that changed that feeling. It was more a gradual realization that I was surviving day by day, moment by moment, milestone by milestone. I realize now that with every day that passed and every new challenge that we faced and overcame I got just a little bit stronger.  Enduring Curtis's first birthday, my first days back at work, all the first holidays without him, the court business, the counseling sessions, the day to day aspects of life without him, all served to strengthen my resolve to make Curtis proud. I couldn't let the man who had taken Curtis from us do any more damage to me or my family. It certainly helped when all the legal issues were done. I felt a huge weight lifted off my shoulders that day. The counseling sessions definitely helped, although at the time I didn't always feel that way. All the support we received from family, friends, colleagues, and even strangers served to remind us how many lives Curtis had impacted in his short life. Our sessions with the medium also brought me great comfort. The most important factor, however, in my survival comes down to one thing-love. Without the love of my amazing wife I'm pretty sure I would not be in the place I am today. She's an absolutely incredible woman. I realized that as horrible as life felt without Curtis, I could survive it because my wife loved me, and I loved her. We also had the love we felt for our surviving children and how important they were to us. They were suffering, too. How could I possibly do anything to make their lives even worse? There were many times that we actually just cocooned ourselves within that love and held on to each other for dear life as the storms raged around us. I don't mean to minimize all the support and love we received from the outside, but as we grieved we were constantly aware that as much as people tried to be there for us, they could not possibly truly understand what we were enduring as a family and as individuals. Only we knew that. It became very clear to me that only as long as we held onto that love and held on to each other could we survive this horrible journey.

11/29/2013

   I wasn't sure about all of this communicating with the dead business, but I was sure that I wanted to know our son was all right. We met the medium and settled in for our session. I was prepared to be very skeptical about the whole thing, which I'm sure colored how I received her first few comments. I won't go into the details of what we were told, but I heard enough things from the medium to begin to change my mind about the validity of this whole process. She was telling us things that she could not possibly have known from any other source except if she was talking directly to our son-details about our family, what kind of person Curtis was, what our house was like, what our family was like. I know many people say that with the internet people can find out just about anything they want to know about people nowadays, but this was information that no one else outside our immediate family could have possibly known. I thought later that maybe I heard things the way I wanted to hear them, since I was so desperate to hear positive information about my son, but since the session was recorded for us by the medium I have been able to listen to the tape several times over the years. I'm still amazed by what she was able to tell us, and I'm still convinced that she was communicating directly with our son. Once upon a time in my life I would never have been able to say that I believed in such things, but now it brings me comfort to know that my son is OK on the other side. If that makes me feeble-minded or a poor Christian, then so be it. The Bible itself is full of such kinds of stories. I don't know what has made modern society so arrogant as to think that  God could not or would not still choose to communicate with His people in this way and give this special ability to some of His children.

11/28/2013

   Happy Thanksgiving to all! This is our 13th Thanksgiving without Curtis's physical presence. The first one back in 2001 was the most difficult. Everything about that first year was difficult. As time has gone by, things have gotten easier, including the holidays. I have much for which to be thankful this year. We are all doing well in all the areas of our lives. I wasn't sure back then that I would ever be able to say such a thing. I still cannot say I am thankful that Curtis was taken from us, but I have made a certain peace with it and have reached a certain level of acceptance that has enabled me to go on with my life as Curtis would have wanted me to do. Blessings to you all.

11/27/2013

   Our journey through this valley of grief sometimes led us in directions I never would have anticipated. One such experience came when we were guided to consult with a medium. I realize many people are skeptical of such things and some even feel they are downright evil and spiritually dangerous. For myself, I had never really put much stock in the clairvoyant abilities some people claimed to have, but enough unexplainable things had happened around us since Curtis's death that I was at least becoming more open to the idea of being able to communicate with people on the other side. We had experienced what I came to learn was some pretty common phenomena: lights going on and off, a feeling of Curtis's spirit being present in our house, the sound of footsteps upstairs when we knew no one (including our dog) was up there, the story from one of our neighbors that she had seen Curtis standing behind us when she was visiting us, other people telling us they had seen him, flashes of light showing up in photos of us that the photographers could not explain, my wife feeling Curtis put his arms around her like he had always done. I know to some of you this all probably sounds crazy, but I was really missing my son. If someone could communicate with him for us that was OK with me. Besides, the way this all came about was pretty mysterious in its own right. Carly was playing on a softball team at this time. Her coaches, of course, were aware of our situation, and one day one of them approached us. She explained to us that she had felt compelled to talk to us about something that was on her mind and heart, but hadn't known what to say or how we would receive her message. It seems that a friend of hers was a fairly well-known medium here in Southern California. The coach said that she had never talked with her friend about us-there was no reason to-her friend did not know us, and the coach didn't really know us, either, except through coaching Carly. One day, out of the blue, the coach's friend asked her if there was someone she knew who had recently experienced a grievous loss and was really struggling to cope. She said that the death involved a young man who had been killed in an auto accident. The coach thought of us immediately. She said that if we would be interested, she could put us in touch with her friend. We got the information and thought about this for a few days, and eventually decided to make an appointment for a reading. I still wasn't sure about all of this, but I  deeply wanted to know that my son was all right on the other side. I realize to some people this would indicate a lack of faith in God's promises, but at the time I was very angry with God. I really didn't much care whether God approved or not. In my mind, God had allowed something to happen in my life  of which I greatly disapproved- he had allowed my son to die. I didn't need His approval. If someone could bring me comfort through something like this that was OK with me.

11/26/2013

   Another source of almost unbelievable comfort was very unexpected, at least by me. Some good friends of ours from the high school band boosters group were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Just days after the accident two of their missionaries showed up at our front door offering to help us in any way they could. We made it clear that while we appreciated their offer, we had no interest in converting to their faith, that we had our own beliefs and had no intention of changing. They, in turn, made it clear that that was not the intent of their presence. They only wanted to help ease our burden by helping out in whatever way we needed them to. They offered to mow our lawn, wash our cars, go to the market, clean up after our dog, listen to our grief, pray for us, etc. They came back to our house many times over those first few weeks when our pain threatened to overwhelm us. I really don't remember exactly what they actually did for us, but I do remember how comforting I found their presence. I came to believe that they had been sent to us by God to help us through those first horrible days. One thing in particular that they said to us during one of those visits has stuck with us through the years. My wife was saying how unfair it was that we would not get the chance to finish raising Curtis, how much it hurt to lose him before we saw him grow to manhood. One of the Mormon missionaries explained to us that it's part of their belief system that families are reunited in the afterlife and that we would indeed have the chance to finish raising our son. I'm not sure how that would work exactly, but the thought brought us a great deal of comfort and hope that maybe in heaven we would still be able to finish our job as parents. I know some people would scoff at such a notion, but for me it was the promise of a future where I would not just be reunited with my son, but I would be given the gift of being able to finish the job I felt had been cruelly cut short-the job of being Curtis's father.

11/16/2013

     All during our difficult, and at times excruciating, walk through grief there were people who would lovingly and generously (often repeatedly) offer us solace in whatever form they could. There were the friends and family members who regularly called to check on us, the neighbors who continued to call on us and ask what we needed, the strangers who upon learning of our situation, offered God's blessings over us, our co-workers who continually tried to make our work lives easier in whatever way they could. There were also some things that we experienced only because of Curtis's death. For example, some dear friends of ours who happened to be of Native American ancestry offered to hold a sage-burning ceremony for us to cleanse our lives of any lingering negative energy. I can't honestly recall if I felt any different after the ceremony other than to say I did feel the love and concern that surrounded us that night. In a similar vein, I knew that there were countless people of faith praying for us on a continuing basis. Some Jewish friends of ours told us that they had placed a stone on Curtis's grave. One of the other families who had also lost a son in the accident told us that they believed Curtis had accepted the Lord shortly before the accident. One of our neighbors, who we hadn't known very well prior to all of this, assisted us by setting up a fund at a local bank where people could donate to the families to help with expenses. They also set up a website where people could gather information about our legal case and comment on the situation and helped us navigate through our dealings with the media. There were countless other people who came to our rescue, many of whom, I'm sure, I'm unaware of to this day. Whether I can recall the details or not, I do know how incredibly grateful I was then, and still am now, for what people did for us during those dark, dark days. For anyone who has never been in a situation like ours, I don't think they could possibly understand how much those loving acts of kindness meant to us, and how the memory of those acts continues to resonate with us today. It awes me still to realize how very loving and kind people can be toward each other.

11/11/2013

   When the judge asked the defendant to rise while he was pronouncing the agreed upon sentence, I wasn't sure what I would feel. As the judge was speaking, I felt mostly relief that this part of our journey was about to end. The man was remanded immediately to be taken to the local jail to begin serving the rest of his sentence. He was granted credit for time already served, but he still would have nearly two years left in custody. At least, that's what we thought. As things turned out, due to some of his chronic health issues being more than the authorities at the jail were able (or willing) to deal with,  the man's sentence was converted to house arrest with an ankle monitor. Again, I felt those by now familiar feelings of disbelief and outrage. Monitored or not, he would be at home with his family. If we wanted to spend time with our son we had to go to the cemetery. It just didn't seem fair. I knew, however, that this was testing my newfound sense of closure and freedom from this man's influence in my life. I fired off an e-mail to the DA's office to express my outrage and anger at this turn of events, but that was the extent of my response. Again, I did not want this man to have any kind of power over me anymore.
     With a couple of notable exceptions, we didn't really have to think of this man again. One of those exceptions actually mostly involved our daughter. Carly had been 10 years old when her brother was killed. Shortly after starting high school, she discovered that there was a student at the school with the same name as the man's son. At first we hoped it was just a horrible coincidence, but we soon found it was not. The man's son was a student ay my daughter's high school. To make things even worse, he was on the school football team and Carly was playing in the school band. This meant that Carly would have to see him playing football and hear his name announced over the PA system. She would have to see him occasionally in the halls laughing and joking with his friends, all the while trying to deal with the fact that she would never again be able to do those things with her brother. We realized, of course, that nothing about our situation was the son's fault, but it was just another thing that didn't seem fair. Hadn't our children been through enough already?  Why did our daughter have to have this flaunted in our face? It was an extremely uncomfortable situation for all of us, especially Carly.
    The only other time we heard anything about this man was on a Thanksgiving Day shortly after he had been granted house arrest. Apparently, he got into some kind of altercation with a brother-in-law and the police were called to the house. He was found to be in violation of the terms of his plea agreement and was sent back to jail to finish serving his remaining time. We did not hear anything more about that. I have no idea if he actually ever finished serving his time or not. It really no longer mattered to me what happened to him. His fate was not worth my wasting anymore time on him. I was done with him.
     It did feel good not to have to go to the courthouse anymore, although, as I mentioned earlier, I was summoned for jury duty just a few months after the conclusion of our case. As fate would have it, I actually got further along in the jury selection process than I ever had before (or ever have since). I made it into the jury box to be questioned by the judge and lawyers to determine my fitness to serve on the jury. When they got to the question about my ability and willingness to be impartial to both sides in the case, I paused and thought carefully about my response. For the first time in my life, I had to say that I could not be impartial at all. I was still too angry about how I felt we had been treated by the police and the courts-actually how we had been treated by the entire legal system. I told this to the judge and the lawyers. They seemed to be a little taken aback. The next thing I know, the judge calls for the lawyers to meet with him in his chambers. They were gone for about 20 minutes while we all sat in the courtroom and waited for them to return. I'm not sure what happened in the judge's chambers, but when they returned the judge told me that it was too soon for me to have to be back in court and that I was excused. Perhaps they had looked up our case in the court records. Whatever the reason, I was grateful to be excused. It had been extremely difficult for me to even drive to that building that morning, let alone have to be back in a courtroom. I've been summoned for jury duty a number of times since, but so far I've never again gotten that closing to actually serving on a case. If I never I have to enter that courthouse again, it will be fine with me.

11/10/2013

   Thank goodness we had a core group of family and friends who supported us all through the court proceedings, many of whom were actually in the courtroom with us every time we had to attend. Finally, after many months of raised hopes and dashed expectations we were told that the DA's office had reached a plea agreement with the suspect and his lawyer. He was to plead guilty to three counts of misdemeanor vehicular manslaughter and serve one year in jail for each count. Was I satisfied with this arrangement? Not really, but I had long ago realized that no punishment was going to satisfy me because no punishment could do what I needed the most, which was to restore my son to me. At the very least we would no longer have to make those agonizing trips to court and see the man sitting there showing no emotion and seemingly unconcerned about what he had done to us. It meant that this particular chapter of our journey could be closed, hopefully for good. It also meant that on the day of sentencing we would have a chance to make victim impact statements which would be read into the official court records. Anyone who wanted to speak to the court could do so and the accused would have to hear how his actions that night had impacted all of us. Well, he would have to hear our words, whether he would really listen to us or not who knew? But, at least, well over a year since the accident, we would get the opportunity to finally speak directly to this person who had caused us so much anguish and changed our lives forever. I immediately began thinking about what I wanted to say to him and how I wanted to say it. I didn't want my message to get lost in the emotions of the moment, but I certainly wanted to try to make him understand what he had done to us. Where to begin? What do you say to someone who has done you such grievous harm? How do you make somehow like that understand what you have lost? I won't relate here what I actually said when the day finally came, except to say that I wrote a multi-page message that took several minutes to read to the court. I tried to explain what kind of person our son had been and why we felt such a keen sense of loss. At first, I didn't want to look at him, but by the time I finished I realized that I had to look him in the eye if he would allow me to. Throughout most of the time people were making their statements (and many people took this chance to speak, either directly themselves or have their messages read by others) his head was down, as if he was too ashamed to look at us. I suddenly realized that for far too long now, I had given this man far too much power over how I was living my life. Yes, what he had done had horribly changed my life forever, but I could not change that part now. Nothing would bring my son back to me. But I knew that Curtis would not want me to allow this man to continue to cripple my life. That would not honor my son's memory. I had to let him know by words and actions and attitudes that I was taking back control of my life from him. I no longer would let him have any place of importance in my life. He would not look up at me, however, but I knew that really didn't matter. I'd let him know, whether he listened or not, that I was done with him. After we had all had a chance to speak to the court, the judge asked him if he had anything to say before sentencing was pronounced. I remember he rose slowly to his feet, turned toward where we were sitting, and softly said, for the first time to our knowledge, that he was sorry and hadn't meant to harm us, it had been a horrible accident that he wished he could go back and change. I didn't know then, and still don't know now, if he meant he was sorry for what he had done to us, or just sorry he had made such a mess of his own life and those of his own family, but I remember feeling a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders. I didn't really care anymore whether he felt contrition or not, whether he was being honest or not. All of a sudden, those words I thought I had to hear come out of his mouth, those words I'd waited months to hear, no longer mattered. He no longer mattered. It was as if he didn't even exist anymore. When I left the courtroom that day I felt emotionally drained by the experience, but also triumphant-I had taken back at least a part of my life that had been under his control for too long.

11/09/2013

   It became important to us that people know what we most wanted from the courts regarding our case, and it wasn't money. Several people had been asking us for information about what was happening in the case. Some had wondered if we would be suing the man who had caused the accident, especially since it was becoming less and less likely, in our opinion, that the criminal courts would grant us any kind of justice or satisfaction. Again, we tried to emphasize to people that money was not what we were after. We wanted the courts to punish the man as a way to validate that our precious son's life (and the lives of his friends) was valuable.  We wanted to send a message to the rest of the world that a person should not have the right to so cavalierly and carelessly drive a vehicle in a manner that results in the deaths of three innocent children without expecting severe consequences. This meant that we would have to experience some other situations we never thought we would have to face. In the immediate aftermath of the accident, we had been interviewed by TV and newspaper reporters. We saw ourselves on local news programs and in front page stories in our local newspaper. Now, we were part of a press conference, organized by a friend well-versed in the field of public relations, on the steps of the courthouse. The mothers of our lost children wanted the public, and the court officials, to know what we were enduring and what we really wanted. We also spent time contacting local and state political officials to gain information about what (if anything) could be done to change the laws which basically mandated that in an accident such as this where no drugs or alcohol had been involved the maximum penalty for the driver was one year in jail for each death. That was, of course, no certainty. It would ultimately be up to the judge or jury, depending on how the case would ultimately be adjudicated. As the months crawled by, we found it necessary to repeatedly show up at the courthouse.
Oftentimes, the Deputy District Attorney would tell us that we didn't have to attend if we were not up to it, but even if he felt nothing much of any importance was likely to happen, we still knew that we had to be there just in case. We had to represent our son who could no longer represent himself. It was difficult, extremely difficult, to have to walk into that courtroom time after time and see the man who had caused the accident, the man who had, accidentally or not, taken our son from us. When we knew that a court date was upcoming, I found myself becoming more and more agitated and stressed for several days leading up to the court day. (Some months after all of this court business was finally
resolved I returned to the courthouse for jury duty. All those old feelings bubbled back to the surface. It was all I could do to even enter the building. I wanted to run away screaming.) It also became unbelievably frustrating to have to put up with all the delays and legal maneuvers by the man's attorney. What kind of men were these? What kind of human beings were these? Hadn't they caused us enough heartache already? Why couldn't they just stand up like real men and face the consequences? Why did they have to drag us through all this crap? I found myself wanting to hurt them somehow. I began to feel some very ugly feelings and think some very dark thoughts. More than that, although I suppose we've all had such feelings and thoughts at some point over some situation in our lives,  for the first time in my life I actually feared that, if given the opportunity, I would actually be capable of bringing these frightful sensations to reality. That frightened me.

10/27/2013

As time went by, it became more difficult to keep things that were happening in any kind of chronological order. The demands of daily living began to crowd out the things that I felt were of much greater importance, like the case against the person who had caused the accident. I was beginning to understand, however, that we definitely had no control over any of that. We were in contact with the Assistant District Attorney in charge of the case, but I realize now that he was in a difficult position himself. From his point of view, he was trying to use his years of experience to deal with all of us novices in a realistic way, but we didn't want realism. At least, I didn't. I'm somewhat ashamed to admit that I wanted the man who had so carelessly and thoughtlessly caused all of my grief to be punished. I didn't really care what the law said was possible or probable in such a case. I wanted justice. I wanted the man to feel some kind of remorse. I wanted to know that his life was ruined in the same way my life  was now in tatters. We were told that the man had quickly secured a lawyer and had put any kind of financial assets into his wife's name so as to head off any claim to them any of us might try to pursue in the future. At one point, we were approached by his lawyer to gauge our interest in joining them in a possible lawsuit against the man's healthcare providers, who we were told might be negligent in providing him with some medication he may or may not have been taking at the time of the accident, and which may or may not have contributed to the accident taking place. But the tests done on him at the hospital the night of the accident showed no such substance was present in his system. Apparently, that was more to the point. His lawyer seemed to intimate that he was off his medication because he hadn't been properly instructed on how to take it. We were outraged that anyone, even a low-life attorney, would think for one single second that we would in any way want to profit from our son's death. I'm not sure what we would have done to the man if he had made such an unthinkable, insulting proposal to us in person, but I believe he would have had trouble getting out of the room in one piece.

I suppose he might have found takers in a situation like this in previous cases, but it wouldn't be us. We were not interested in his blood money proposal. That wouldn't bring our son home to us. Even if it did, how do you put a monetary value on a person's life? No, I wanted simple justice. I knew, of course, that even that would not restore my son to me. Nothing could do that, but I wanted justice for my son. I wanted this man to know that my son was a valuable, loved human being who had had a bright future stretching out before him until it was horribly cut short due to one man's negligence. I wanted justice. I really wasn't sure at the time exactly what I meant by that, nor did I realize how hard we would have to fight to get it. I just knew I wanted justice for my son-whatever that ended up being.

10/18/2013

   Once I got back to work, some aspects of what we were facing did become a little easier with which to deal, but nothing could really be described as easy. We were still trying to find our way through this dark wilderness that had become our daily existence, as individuals and as a family. I still felt a tremendous sense of failure and guilt that I had not been able to protect my son from harm. Wasn't that supposed to be one of the main functions of a father? If I couldn't protect Curtis, how was I supposed to believe that my other two children could be safe from harm? I had prayed every day with what I had believed was a faithful heart for God to bless and protect my children from anything or anyone that would even attempt to cause them harm. Where had my prayers gone? I wrestled with ancient questions with no real answers. If God is all-loving, and supposedly desires only what is truly best for us, how could any of what we were experiencing be the best in any way for any of us? If God is truly all-knowing and all-powerful, how could He have allowed something so horrible to happen? Are we all just victims of destiny?  Are we all just pawns in some great celestial game of chance? Was it just time for Curtis and his friends to leave this world for some unknown reason? Was it part of their destiny to all leave this earth together? Was the accident that night set in motion years before when we moved to our city? Could anything have prevented our son's death, and those of his friends, or was what we were enduring part of some unknowable, unalterable plan? Going back to work filled some of the time that I had been using to consider such questions, but it didn't make them go away, it only pushed them to the back of my consciousness, where they laid in wait until such time as they could rise again to torment me more directly. Logically, I knew, as many people tried to remind me, that many of these questions would have no acceptable answers, at least not in this world. That was a truth that only the passage of time would help me to accept. In the beginning I was too busy trying to accept the obvious reality that my son was gone forever, and deal with all that that meant in my life and the lives of my family. We were still going to counseling to deal with these more immediate issues. I was learning to survive one day at a time, one moment at a time, one breath at a time. I was trying to understand what my wife and surviving children were feeling and how they were dealing with their emotions and grief. No, things were not in any way easy, and some days were harder than others, but as the days crawled by I did begin to realize that I was surviving-not thriving-but at least surviving. Was there really any other choice?

10/05/2013

   I knew my colleagues would continue to be supportive of me as they had been since the beginning. I also knew I had the support of my principal. I wasn't as sure about how the students would take all of this, but they were great. My friend who had taken on most of the responsibility for my class as the substitute teacher during my absence told me that most of them had been on their best behavior the entire time. I appreciated that so much. Many of my colleagues told me that if I ever needed to take a break during the day, if things got to be too much for me, to just let them know. I got through those first two days, somehow, and felt OK. I felt a few pangs of guilt about it. How could I even think about such mundane matters as work when my son was gone forever? Wasn't that in some way devaluing Curtis's life? We'd already started hearing about other people who had lost their child in the past who had gone into shells, some never coming out. Was I a bad father to be able to go back to work so soon?
I wasn't sure myself, but I knew Curtis had loved his life and would not want me to wallow in my loss forever. He would want me to find ways to go on. I knew that had to be what happened now. I could not leave my wife and surviving children to endure this horror alone. My life as a teacher had always been a large part of my identity, and now it would play a large role in my finding my way out of this situation I never dreamed I would be in. I did wonder, though, if I would ever again be the kind of teacher I had been before. Everything else in my life had been turned upside down. How could this part of my life be any different? It was, however, somewhat comforting to get back to some kind of "normal" schedule. With the ongoing visits to the courtroom, counseling sessions, moment by moment issues that continued to come up virtually everyday, life continued to be a challenge. There were good days and bad days. One of my most frustrating moments came when I was conferencing with a parent a few weeks after going back to work. It turned out to be what led to the introductory title to my first blog entry. By this time I had begun to be more forgiving of people when they made insensitive, ignorant comments. I realized that most people meant well, but they simply could not understand what we were going through, nor is it something parents even want to try to comprehend. It's just too horrible to even think about. I get that. People had sometimes made us feel like we had some kind of contagious disease; that if they stayed too close to us what had happened to us could happen to them. I realized that we were a constant affirmation to people of just that fact: if such a terrible tragedy could happen to a family like ours, it could happen to anyone. We'd already noticed some people we thought had been our friends had dropped by the wayside, either through their wishes or ours. We simply did not have enough energy to deal with people who could not be fully supportive of us during this difficult time, be they family, friend, neighbor, acquaintance, etc. I knew that this parent meant well, and was trying to be   compassionate, but it didn't come off that way. She said that her family had all been praying for us (which I appreciated), but went on to say that I must be doing well and had gotten over everything by now since I was back at school. I, gave her a weak smile, thanked her for her concern, and went on to finish the conference. I had already learned that it usually wasn't worth my time or energy to try to correct someone's misperception about our situation. Most people simply could not, or would not, be able to understand. However, I wanted to scream at this woman! What was she talking about? This was not my goldfish that had died! This was my, precious, beloved, one and only, uniquely talented son. A son who I would never again be able to hug, kiss, talk to, go to ballgames with, watch play sports, take fishing, hear laugh, argue with, or give guidance to. A son who would never go to a high school dance, never graduate, never go to college, never get married or have a family of his own. How could anyone possibly think that I would ever get over something like that, let alone in only a few weeks? I was already beginning to understand that I would be spending the rest of my life learning how to live through, not get over, this horrible truth: I would never see my son again in this world.

09/29/2013

   Getting out of bed on my first morning going back to work was not easy. I still didn't know if I was really ready or not to do this, but I was becoming fearful that the longer I stayed off work the more likely it might become that I would never want to go back. That was not an option. Life had to go on whether I was ready for it or not. I also felt a growing need to try to regain some kind of normalcy in my life. Missing three weeks of work in the middle of the school year was certainly not normal. I wasn't sure what I would feel once I got to school, but it was time to face this part of my new reality, ready or not. It was also all too apparent to me that I was returning to my classroom exactly three weeks to the day since Curtis was killed. Was three weeks of grieving enough? Would three years have been enough? I didn't think so, but I knew it was time to try to regain a foothold in what had been an important part of my old life. The key would be finding a way to blend something old with all the new things that now defined my life. Was that even possible? I was about to find out.

09/21/2013

   I had made the decision that I would go back to work the day after what would have been Curtis's 15th birthday. That would be three weeks to the day since the accident. I would only have to teach for two days that week. That would allow me to ease back into my classroom routine. Would anything ever seem routine again?  Before I had to face that day, we had decided that we wanted to mark our son's birthday by sharing two of his favorite foods, pizza and cheesecake, with the students in the high school band who had been so supportive of us. We got permission from the band director and showed up at the school during the band students' lunch period. It felt so good to be able to share this time with all of those young people who had shown strength and compassion beyond their years. It felt good, that is, while we were with the students, but afterwards, as we cleaned up to head back home, that now all too familiar feeling of emptiness came back. This was all well and good, to try to find ways to honor and remember our son, but what I really still wished was that none of it was necessary. I still wanted my son back. In the coming days, we would find many ways to memorialize Curtis, most of which are still ongoing today, but there's always that nagging thought in the back of my mind, "Why did this have to happen?"

09/15/2013

   As I said before, the days during this second week without my son all blurred together. All the terrible things we'd endured during that turbulent first week are indelibly burned into my memory, but once we got through all that, things become hazy in my mind. As I search my memory of those days now to try to make some kind of coherent chronology for this blog, I find it impossible to do. At the time, several people had suggested that I journal about what was happening to us so there would be some kind of record of all that we were going through in case we needed to recall things later. There was absolutely no way I was in any shape emotionally to do such a thing, nor did I have any interest in doing so. I was having enough trouble trying to breathe in and out and put one foot in front of the other to take care of all the things that had to be done. There was no energy left to write about something I was pretty sure I was going to try very hard to forget had ever happened at all. I do know that some things were already in motion to help us deal with the legal issues we would be facing in trying to ensure that the man responsible received some kind of punishment. We had dozens of thank you notes to get out to all the people who had been so wonderfully supportive of us since that night of February 15, 2001. We needed to seek out counseling services for ourselves and our surviving children to help us begin to somehow deal with this new reality we were suddenly facing in the present and the now uncertain and frightening future. I had to begin thinking about when, if, or how I would ever be able to go back to teaching at my school where Curtis had once been a student and where I would see memories of his days there all around me. I had to begin the process of learning how or if I would be able to adapt to the most horrible change in my life I'd ever faced. Mostly, though, we had already begun thinking about ways that we could turn this tragedy into something positive-ways to bring forth some kind of good out of all this heartbreak. Curtis had always loved life and lived his to the fullest. He was a positive, joyful, loving person who always tried to see the good in other people and situations. He would want us to somehow find ways to turn the anger, grief, and loss we were feeling into something that would help others and honor his memory. That would bring a smile to his face. Curtis's 15th birthday would have been just short of three weeks to the day after his death. We decided that, although it would not be a huge, breaking news story, we would use that day to start down the path of finding ways to honor our son's memory.

09/07/2013

   Based on what had happened to us on the night of the accident, when our local police had treated my wife and I to quite a run-around regarding what had actually happened to our son, and the difficulty we'd had getting a response from the same department when we inquired about getting a copy of the police report of the accident, we had no illusions about what we might expect to happen to the man who had caused the accident. Our neighbor, the police officer I spoke of previously, had tried to prepare us for the realities of our situation. I really don't remember very many details about all the months of legal issues, but I do remember that early-on in the process, the deputy district attorney assigned to the case arranged a meeting so all the families could meet with him and the police officers in charge of the case. All I remember from that meeting was when the lead officer from our local police department stated early in the meeting that according to the law we should not expect the man to get much in the way of penalties and besides, everyone runs red lights at some point in their life. I was incensed! How dare he minimize the losses of our three children? I fully understand police officers, by necessity, sometimes become desensitized to what an ordinary family in the midst of suffering is going through, but I felt then, and I still feel now, that he had no right to expect us to accept those words from his mouth. After hearing those comments I don't even remember what else happened at that meeting. Later, the deputy district attorney tried to soothe our anger and hurt feelings, but it was too late. From that day forward, I still hoped that justice would be served, but I no longer expected that to be the case.
Apparently, a man can drive carelessly through a red light intersection, traveling in excess of 60 miles per hour, be the direct cause of an accident that kills three teenagers and puts two adults into the hospital, changing the lives of their families and friends forever, and because he was not drunk or under the influence of drugs it's really not that big of a deal in the eyes of the law. We were told that under the circumstances, the best we could hope for would be one year of jail time for each of the deaths of our three children (that was the maximum penalty allowed under the law in these situations.) As things turned out, we would have to fight tooth and nail for the man to get that much. I couldn't help wondering if we would be in the same situation if we (or our children) were more rich, powerful, or famous.

09/02/13

   Unlike the first week of our grief journey with its daily milestones and all the things that demanded out time and attention, the days of the second full week without our Curtis all sort of blended together.
I was still off work, with no real thought of when or how or even if I would be able to go back. Casey  went back to school, although I wasn't sure how he managed to do that. I think it was easier for him to get back to a routine of sorts, back to some sense of normalcy, where he could be with his friends and get away from us and our house which was filled with so much sadness. I never really appreciated how difficult that must have been for him until much later, when some of my own anger, pain, and sorrow had somewhat diminished. I developed a new level of respect for my surviving son, especially at his being able to go back to the same school, classes, and activities of which Curtis had been a part. That must have been extremely difficult for him. Since my daughter went to school with my wife, and they were both still offtrack, it was just the three of us at home now. After we somehow survived those horrible first 10 days or so following the accident, it became much more difficult for me to pinpoint exactly when and in what order events unfolded. I can remember a lot of different things that happened to us over the next several months, but they seemed to blur together with no clearly defined edges to them. I think my mind, my emotions, and my soul had all been so overloaded during those first unthinkable days that they were in shut-down mode. It was quickly becoming apparent that all of this was beyond our ability to deal with using standard methods of coping. We would need to get help-help for myself and my wife as individuals, as a couple and as parents, and help for our children to get through this terrible ordeal. Nothing any of us had ever experienced before had prepared us for what we were now facing. For parents, the fear of losing a child is so overpowering that until it actually happens no parent wants to even consider such a thing is possible. When the unthinkable does happen, parents are completely blindsided as their orderly world comes crashing down around them. For our surviving son and daughter, finding ways to deal with all that had happened would take time and energy. Casey was older than Curtis by only 13 and one-half months, so he never remembered a time in his life without his brother. Carly, being the youngest, had always had two older brothers. For several years now, my wife and I had been the parents of three children. All those facts had now changed. Two  things would come to dominate our lives over the next several months: seeking professional help for all of us, and dealing with the American legal system. Fortunately for our family, the former would prove to be many times more successful, and ultimately, much less frustrating than the latter.

08/30/2013

   In some respects, the second Sunday of our new life without Curtis would prove to be one of the most challenging days yet. My mom and stepdad were up early. They would be going back home, so they could attend church that morning. For my mom, she needed to be back in worship surrounded by her longtime friends, many of whom were our friends as well from our years at the same church. For me, however, I was just beginning to sense a growing awareness of something very negative deep within me. This would be the first day since the accident that I would have time to ponder such things.

After my mom and stepdad left, I found myself alone downstairs in our house. There hadn't been many of these moments of isolation in recent days. In truth, I had been afraid to be alone, forced to ponder the unthinkable.  Everyone had gone home. I don't remember where my wife, son, or daughter were, but I distinctly remember an overwhelming feeling of utter aloneness enveloping me. I had never before felt such a complete sense of loneliness in my life. What now? All the hustle and bustle was over. All the things that had seemed so absolutely necessary were done. The people had all gone home, the flowers were beginning to wilt, the food beginning to spoil, the plants, cards, notes, letters, tributes, posters, stuffed animals, candles only serving as reminders of the horrible truth. The services all done, the children all buried side by side in the cemetery, together forever.  None of that had been able to return my son to me. I felt more lost and alone than ever before. How was I supposed to go on from all this?

What was the point? I suddenly had to acknowledge that the negative feeling that seemed to be growing stronger by the second was an overwhelming sense of betrayal. I felt forsaken by a God I'd prayed to on the very morning of the accident for divine protection over my family. Had He not heard or didn't He even care? These first moments of despair and doubt would linger to one degree or another

for several years before I would be able to come to grips with them. On this Sunday, however, what shook me out of my depression was gazing at photographs on our living room wall. They were photos of our children over the years. There wasn't much different about them from the types of pictures many families proudly display in their homes, and I'd certainly seen all of these photos before, but this time I seemed to be seeing them for the first time. As I stared at them, I looked into my children's beautiful, trusting eyes, and I realized that somehow, someway, I needed to find the strength to go on. I had to find ways to not just survive for myself, but for my wife, for my surviving son and daughter, and, yes, for Curtis himself. How could I let them down by falling apart? How could I let down all of our family, friends, neighbors, and even strangers who had been so supportive? On that afternoon, I felt like I was in the center of a black hole of grief where no light would ever again penetrate. What I had failed to realize was that it was only my perception of reality that was cloaked in darkness. I was so deeply grieving and in such tremendous pain that I hadn't acknowledged that the true reality was that we were bathed in the love and light of all those supportive people, and had been since the very moment of the accident. In time, we had to find ways to get through this ordeal (you don't get over it, as some people seem to think you should do after enough time goes by, however long that may be, but you do learn to live with a new reality) as a family. If we could not get through it together, how could we possibly hope to do so as isolated individuals? I didn't fully comprehend it at the time, but  that rainy, gloomy Sunday afternoon would mark a turning point in my journey. 

08/26/2013

   This second Saturday of our life without our son seemed to be something of a transition day. It was one of the first days since Curtis's death where we had no business to attend to. More of our house guests would be leaving. I had certainly appreciated all the love and support we had received in the last several days, the memories of which would help sustain me in the long, bleak days ahead, but by this day, I was definitely feeling in need of some space to begin dealing with all we had endured. At the same time, I was also fearful of what I might feel when I slowed down long enough to really think about what the future now held for us. One of our neighbors who was a police officer (not with our local police department) apparently felt it was important to meet with us all. He wanted to try to tell us from his experiences as a police officer what we might be facing when it came time to try to get justice for our children regarding the man who had caused the accident. We believed (naively, as we discovered) that when a man kills three children, intentionally or not, that there would be some kind of suitable penalty involved. Our neighbor tried to explain to us that this might not be the case. I had to give our neighbor credit. He knew that what he was saying would not sit well with any of us, but out of concern for all we'd already gone through, he wanted us to be prepared as we began our journey through the legal system. After all, he had years more experience in this area than any of the rest of us. Up to this point, I hadn't had much time or energy to even think about the man who had caused the accident. The only thing I'd done at one point during that terrible first week was get in my car, drive to his house, park in front and wait for him to appear. To this day, I don't really know what I was thinking except to say that I just wanted to see what someone who killed three children looked like. After a few minutes of waiting,  a car pulled into the driveway, and the man I assumed was responsible for Curtis's death got out of the passenger side of the car. In spite of my fragile emotional state, or perhaps even because of it, I just sat frozen in my seat. I didn't even have the energy to confront him. I would get a chance to do that many months later in the courtroom. Common sense prevailed even at this emotionally precarious moment in my life. I really didn't want to do anything that would add further trauma to my wife and children. (I would not even tell my wife about this incident until much later.) Besides, at that time I had yet to hear the my neighbor's discouraging words. I still thought then that
surely the legal system would provide us with justice. Wrong again.

08/24/2013

   I know I keep saying that I don't remember much about certain aspects of that most horrible week of my life, but in this case I really don't remember much about the final funeral. That's not to imply that it wasn't important to me or that I'm downplaying the significance of the young girl's life and death. It was just that we had been through so much. Three funerals on three consecutive days at three different churches. Trips to the same cemetery on three consecutive days to bury our children.Viewing services. All the business arrangements that had been necessary. The emotional roller coaster ride we'd been on for days. Out of town guests, visitors, calls, mail, flowers. Could all this have really taken place across a span of only eight days? Could it really have been only a little over a week since the accident that stole our son away from us? With everything we'd had to deal with, I felt at least a hundred years older. I know I was physically present at the last of the funeral services. I remember at the time feeling that it was a beautiful way to celebrate and say goodbye to Curtis's friend, but if I was forced to try to recall any specific details, I would be hard-pressed to do so. I don't think I had any more room in my heart, mind or soul for any more emotions. I had spent so much energy in trying to cope with my son's death and all that that meant, I had nothing left at that time for anyone or anything else. I do remember feeling a little guilty that I wasn't fully present during the service. I felt like I was on automatic pilot. With the completion of this final funeral, and the last burial service at the cemetery, I'm sure many people probably thought that our hellish week was over. In fact, several people made comments to us to that effect. It was true that the week of funerals and burials was indeed now complete, but I don't think even we fully yet realized at the time a very horrible truth-our real hell was just beginning.

08/20/2013

   Before leaving the cemetery to go to the reception at the high school, we said goodbye to my brother and his wife. They needed to head back home. When we got to the high school we were again amazed at what people had been doing for us behind the scenes. The food and drinks were all set up on the tables and several of the band booster parents were already helping serve the guests. We had yet more people to greet and thank for their support. I really don't remember much about that time, except that the reception served its purpose in that it allowed some people to pay their respects who hadn't been able to be at either the visitation or the funeral services. Eventually, it became time to head home, but we had another problem-the limo driver had dropped us off at the school-we had no way to get home. Of course, there was no shortage of people willing to help us. We loaded cars with the leftover pizza and sodas. Our local supermarket (the one I'd gone to just a couple of days after the accident when I felt I was about to lose my mind) had donated all the bottles of soda. A local pizza restaurant had donated all of the pizza, as well. We hadn't even had time or energy to realize just how much we had been enveloped by love and support from so many different segments of the community, but we had been lifted up by it all, nonetheless. Several people accompanied us to our home to make sure we were all ok. As they left us to go to their own homes, they all left carrying pizza and sodas. I felt a gaping emptiness deep inside as I pondered the reality of our new lives. Curtis was really gone and never coming home. I felt a horrible stab of panic as it suddenly dawned on me that by this time Curtis would have been lowered into the ground. He definitely was once and for all forever beyond my reach. My precious, beloved, beautiful son, whom I'd tried my best to guide and protect, was gone for good. I didn't know if I could bear to go on living if it meant facing that knowledge every moment of the rest of my life. I wasn't sure if I could live with the intense pain that had become part of every breath I took. The horror of our week was mostly complete now, but we did have one more funeral to attend. The last service for the three friends would take place the next morning. I needed to somehow find the strength to get through one more funeral.

08/18/2013

   The traffic escort officers whom we had spoken to earlier assured us that they now had enough escorts to handle the number of cars in the procession. (We were informed later that the procession line stretched for more than a mile behind the hearse carrying our son's casket.)  As we started down the street, I remember thinking that we didn't seem to be taking a very direct line to the cemetery. As I looked out the window of the limo, I suddenly realized that the route we were taking would take us by the high school. I wondered why they were going that way. When we approached the school, I saw that the marquee in front of the campus had a message of condolence for us, and that the flag in front of the office was at half-staff. It was another sign of how much our son, and we, as well, were loved and respected. The procession arrived at the cemetery where we had been just the day before for the first of the burial services, and where we would be again the next day for the third and final burial service for the three children. I don't remember much about the cemetery service except when it came time for the final song. A friend of ours had arranged for someone she knew to bring a sound system to the cemetery so we could play the music. The song we had selected had already been a part of the funeral service music, but we wanted it to also be the last song we would ever play for Curtis. The song was "Forever Young" by Rod Stewart. As the music rose in the air, I remember sitting there in front of Curtis's casket, tears running down my cheeks, trying to sing along with Rod Stewart, as were many of the other people gathered around us. Over the years since that day, many people have told us that they think of Curtis whenever they hear that song. In my mind, that's a fitting, lasting tribute to our son.
When the song ended, the minister gave a last prayer, then spoke the words I'd been dreading to hear all day, "This concludes the services for Curtis here at the cemetery. The family invites you all to join them at the high school cafeteria for a time of fellowship. Thank you." That was it. Done. Concluded. Finished. Ended. Over. My son's time on this earth was now, once and for all, at an end. From now on he would exist only in people's memories, pictures and videos. People still wanted to greet and console us. My wife had already taken refuge back in the limo. I was torn between wanting to never leave my son (how could I let them put him into the ground forever?) and wanting to run away as fast as I could while screaming my lungs out in anguish. I knew I did not want to be present when Curtis's casket was
lowered into the ground. That part I could not bear to see. By now, I was convinced that my son was truly gone. I didn't need to wait for his casket to be lowered for me to believe that at last. The limo headed back to the high school where the reception awaited. I was still amazed that the administration at the high school had approved all of this for us: letting the band students out of class to perform at the funeral,  providing a bus for them, allowing any students and staff out of class who wanted to attend the funeral, putting the message on the marquee, flying the flag at half-staff, opening up the cafeteria to us so that other students and staff who had not been able to attend the services could still have a chance to pay their respects. It was all so overwhelming to us and so very much appreciated. Our son had certainly had a profound impact on the lives of so many people. I would take a large measure of comfort from that truth in the days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

08/16/2013

   As odd as it may sound to say, I felt that Curtis's funeral was what he would have liked. The sanctuary was full to overflowing with mourners (latecomers had to stand outside), all the people we had chosen to give eulogies for our son did remarkable jobs with wonderfully touching and humorous anecdotes, the comments of the ministers were heartfelt and honest, the music was perfect. None of us were able to speak ourselves, although the ministers read messages from my wife and I as well as those from Casey and Carly. One highlight of the service (if a funeral can be said to have highlights) was the performance by Curtis's friends from the band. It may have been due to the setting and situation, but to me those kids played their hearts out in honor of their fallen bandmate. I remember thinking that I didn't think I'd ever heard them play that music better, even through their field tournament season the previous fall, even though that was several months before. I was so proud of them and amazed at their strength. I doubt any of them had ever before performed at a funeral, and I doubt many of them, if any, have ever had to do such a thing since. When they were done playing, I did what my first instinct demanded me to do. My wife and I rose to our feet and applauded. We wanted to make sure that these special young people knew how much their presence and participation in our son's service meant to us. It said about as well as anything could what an impact our son had had on the lives of others. No one in the band that day had been forced in any way to attend. They were there to honor Curtis and support all of us in the best way they knew how. What a fantastic group of young people! (Many of these students are still in contact with us to this day.) I suppose that there were some in attendance that day who thought our reaction might have been inappropriate for a funeral service, but I didn't care. I was beyond caring what other people thought about how I was handling any part of my son's death. What I've always appreciated about our son's service was how free I felt to respond any way I felt I needed to. There was laughter and humor. There were crying and tears. There was solemn, spiritual music as well as more modern rock-influenced songs. There was a sense of celebration regarding what a wonderful legacy and lasting memories this 14-year old boy was leaving behind, but there was also the acknowledgment of the magnitude of our loss. As the service ended, some of the people who had not made it to the visitation service the evening before began to file past our seats. We had informed the funeral director that we didn't think we could stand a repeat of the previous evening's greeting line, so he was prepared and quickly stepped in and ushered us out a side door of the church and into a small room where we would be out of sight of the other mourners. He then returned to the sanctuary and informed the crowd that those who wished to be in the processional to the cemetery should go to their cars. When most of the sanctuary was clear we returned to view our son's body for the last time. Standing beside Curtis's casket and gazing down at his face, I realized with bitter finality that I would never again be able to see him in the flesh. I wanted so much for this not to be true. I would have gladly given up anything in this life if it would restore my son to me.  If I'd been given the choice, I would have traded places with him in a second. But all I could do was stand there helplessly, tears dimming my vision, my wife crying beside me. How could I leave him this way? I was supposed to protect him. I don't really remember how long we stood there, but at some point we moved away and headed for the door. Behind us, I heard them closing the lid of the casket for the last time. My son's body was now forever out of my  reach. I'd never be able to touch him again. There was only one thing left to do. We got in the car and began processing to the cemetery.

08/15/2013

   It had been almost a full week since our son's death. I was finally faced with his funeral service. This was to be the last celebration of his life. Everything we had gone through in the past days had been pointing to this event. The accident, standing in the middle of the street wondering what had happened, the unnecessary trip to the hospital, learning the awful truth, the phone calls, visitors, flowers, food, cards, the mortuary, the cemetery, people coming in from out of town, the church, the memorial service, the visitation service, well-intentioned comments, the  unfathomable anger, the unbearable aching in my soul, the bitterness, the guilt all had been present because of the necessity of this event. I once again found myself emotionally conflicted between wanting the service to be done and over, so I would know I'd survived it, but at the same time realizing that when the funeral was over there would only be one thing left to do-the burial.
   When we  arrived at the church, there were again already many people present. Both ministers from the Methodist Church and our home church greeted us, assuring us that everything was prepared and the service should run smoothly. The bus carrying the band students was already parked alongside the sanctuary, and the students were busy getting ready for their part of the service. I remember thinking how wonderfully amazing it was that virtually all of the students in the band wanted to honor Curtis in the best way they knew how-by playing the same music of which he had been a part. One of the parents in the band booster group almost always videotaped all of the band's performances, and I noticed him setting up his gear at the back of the church. I wondered if he would be filming the entire service or just the band's performance, but before I could ask him my attention was diverted elsewhere.
Everything seemed to be ready as the time for the funeral service to begin drew nearer. Before I took my seat at the front of the sanctuary, I scanned the growing crowd of mourners. Of course, there were all of our family members, neighbors, friends, work colleagues, church friends, but there were also people we didn't really know who had heard of our tragedy and wanted to offer their support. There were the band students and many of their parents. There were many of Curtis's friends from his elementary and middle school years. There were his friends and teammates from his few months as a high school student. There were Casey's and Carly's friends there to support them. There were people from Curtis's doctors' offices. In fact, there were so many people, that just before the service began we were told by the funeral director that one of the traffic escort officers needed to speak to us. It seems that as people entered the church parking lot the officers asked if they would be going to the cemetery. There were so many people who wanted to attend the burial service that the officer said they were going to need more escorts. We had only planned on four. They estimated that they would need at least  twice that number. We were amazed and gratified that so many people wanted to support us on this most difficult day. The officer told us that they could get more help ready while the service was going on, but they needed our approval since we would have to pay extra for the additional officers. We gave our OK, and as I turned to go back into the church I thought to myself, "Curtis, you're going out like a rock star!"

08/13/2013

   I was surprised at myself the next morning when I awoke from a sound sleep. I was also a little upset.
What kind of dad sleeps through the night right before his son's funeral? I guess I felt as if I should have been up all night keeping a sort of vigil, but the emotional and physical burden of the week had finally caught up with me. I had felt such a powerful sense of relief when I first saw Curtis's body, and such a profound sense of gratitude for all the people who had come to support us at the visitation service that when I finally fell into bed that night I was totally exhausted. It also didn't help that I was still only able to eat enough to keep myself from collapsing into a puddle. As I sat up in bed and pondered just how I was supposed to survive what I firmly expected to be one of the worst days of my life, I was overcome by a wave of despair and hopelessness. Today was to be the last day I would ever see my son in his earthly body; the last day he would ever physically be a part of my life. There had to be some mistake! Things like this only happen to other families, not to us. There had to be a way to keep this funeral from happening. Maybe if I just refused to go to the service, that would mean it wasn't true after all. As I sat on the edge of my bed, wallowing in my misery, I heard my daughter's voice. Again, it was one of my surviving children that pulled me back from the cliff. I had forgotten for a moment what my wife and son and daughter were also facing today. I had to pull myself together for all of them, if not for myself.
   I got out of bed and began doing all of the things necessary to prepare myself for the coming ordeal. We were all bustling about. If this terrible event had to take place, I had to be there on time for my son.
We were just about ready to leave when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw the parent who had been driving the car on the night of the accident, along with his minister, standing on our front doorstep. We greeted each other warmly, but I was anxious about just exactly what they wanted at such a critical time for us. The parent expressed his sorrow, and said that they meant no disrespect to us or to Curtis, but that he and his wife didn't feel like they would be emotionally or physically able to attend Curtis's funeral. (They were still dealing with a lot more issues through all of this than even the rest of us since they'd actually been involved and injured in the accident itself. Besides, their daughter's service was to be the next day.) I assured them both that we would not take offense if they did not attend, but that we understood. I told them that we a had always appreciated how they had looked out for our son while he was alive as if he had been one of their own children. (That's how we had all operated in our neighborhood.)  By this time, everyone was ready to leave for the church. I again faced a drive during which I had very conflicting emotions. I was torn between wanting to get there as soon as possible so as to get all of this over with, and the nagging belief that if I never got to the church at all then the service would not occur and everything would go back to normal. Once more I was about to be slammed in the face with the harsh reality of our new normal. The church was all prepared for a funeral-the service for our beloved son.

08/12/2013

   Of course, Curtis would not be going home with us that night. He would never again see his home. He would never be in his room again, never race down the stairs, leap over the railing at the bottom and dash out the door. He would never again argue with or tease his brother or sister. We would never again hear his voice and laughter bouncing off the walls or feel his arms around us or kiss his beautiful face. Those things and a million more besides were forever taken from him and from us. Going into the future, all we had were the memories and videos of our years together as a complete family. We would never be that family again. The family we now had become would never be whole.
   These were some of the thoughts racing through my mind as we prepared to leave the chapel following Curtis's visitation. I felt emotionally drained and physically exhausted after the last mourners had finally made it through the line. One of the last people I remember greeting was a teaching colleague from my school. I had noticed him standing against the wall at the back of the chapel throughout most of the evening. I even wondered at one point why he wasn't coming forward so he could greet us and then be on his way. As we greeted each other now, he explained that he had waited because he had a box of food for us from the staff at school, and hadn't wanted to interrupt us while the service was going on. Up to that point, he and I just had a casual work relationship since we taught different grade levels, but it meant so much to me that he had been there that evening and had waited all that time out of respect for what we were going through. He said that he and his wife had been praying for all of us since they'd heard the news and would continue to do so. Even though I was already at odds with God myself, I appreciated all the people who were holding us up in prayer, especially since I didn't feel capable of praying for myself.
   Now that all the people had left the chapel except for family members, the full realization of what had happened to us began to dawn on me. I pushed it down again to a spot deep inside myself. I couldn't deal with all of that right now. As one family member reminded me that they would see us in the morning, I thought, "Why will they see us in the morning?" Oh, of course. Curtis's funeral would be the next day.

08/08/2013

   Even with all the positive love and energy being radiated to us, I'm still not sure how I got through that evening. My wife and I stood near our son's casket as people began to file past to pay their respects and leave us a bit of the love they were carrying. After several minutes someone brought us chairs, but I found it harder to keep getting up and down than to just stay standing. I didn't feel it would be appropriate to stand and greet some people and not others. This was a Wednesday evening in the middle of February. I'm sure it had not been easy for some people to make it out to the visitation service, and I didn't want anyone to feel that we didn't appreciate their presence. As the evening wore on, we were told that the line of mourners stretched out the door of the chapel, down the sidewalk and around the corner. All I knew was that we ended up greeting people for about three hours.
   I don't remember very many details from that evening. Over the years, several times I've met people who tell me that they were there that night and talk about what they experienced from their point of view. They often comment on how strong we seemed and that they didn't think they'd be able to handle a situation like that. Again, I didn't feel strong. I almost felt like an actor on a stage just playing a role. In the midst of greeting so many people for so long, this all still did not seem real to me. In my mind I certainly knew the horrible truth that had brought all these people to us, but emotionally, I still had not had time to grasp the brutal reality. It still seemed to me that when this evening was over Curtis would be going back home with us where he belonged-the only place where he belonged.

08/07/2013

   One of the most gut-wrenching moments of this entire experience came when Carly, our 10-year old daughter, approached her brother's casket. She had been a little rock through this whole ordeal. She had insisted on being a part of everything no matter what it was or how she was feeling at the moment. My wife and I were so caught up in our own emotions and all the details that had to be handled, that I'm afraid we sometimes momentarily lost sight of what our surviving children, Casey and Carly, were also experiencing-the loss of their brother. Carly, in particular, again insisted on being part of everything. She didn't want to miss anything about saying goodbye to her precious Curtis. She leaned over Curtis's casket, bent down and kissed his forehead. I was astonished that she had been able to do that. So many people shy away from any kind of physical contact with the deceased person as if death was contagious or a touch would somehow bring the person back to life or somehow desecrate their body. To Carly, this was just her beloved brother. She was not going to let him leave her without a kiss goodbye. I felt toward Carly what people had been saying about my wife and I, and would continue to say for many days and weeks to come-how strong we were. In fact, I would hear those words repeated many times over the next few hours as people filed by Curtis's casket to pay their respects. Strange, I didn't feel particularly strong at all, but if my 10-year daughter could behave that way during this most horrible time of her young life, how could I do any less? More people were beginning to arrive. I still had no idea how many people would be coming to support us and pay their respects to our dear son, but as the evening wore on, I found myself gaining strength from each person I greeted. I was not standing by the power of my own strength. It was as if the positive energy and love they all carried with them was being transferred to me. I don't think I could have endured the evening otherwise.

08/06/2013

   Nothing I'd experienced in my life up to that point had prepared me for what I felt as I drew closer to my son's casket and finally gazed down upon his beautiful face. All my fears and apprehensions which I 'd been harboring for almost a week since Curtis's death seemed to just evaporate instantaneously. I'd expected to feel either absolutely nothing or feel the complete weight of his death bearing down on me at last, crushing me into a puddle of mush. Instead, what I actually felt was a tremendous sense of relief. Here at last was my beloved son. Here at last I could again see his face, touch his body, run my hands through his hair. Here at last I could speak to him face to face and tell him all the things I'd wanted to say since that terrible night. My son looked like my son. I know, I know. People always say something like, "He looks so good," or "Doesn't he look so natural?" or "He sure looks like himself," at times like this. So much of what made Curtis the amazing person he was, was in his eyes and his personality. Of course, these things were gone, but I had spent so much of the last six days fearing that the accident had left my son's body mangled and deformed, that to see him in what looked to be an almost pristine, peaceful state was a colossal relief to me. I now felt capable of enduring whatever the rest of the evening would bring. I never expected to have to stand near my son's casket for nearly the next three hours greeting all the many people who had come to pay their respects to my son and to us.

08/01/2013

   It was getting closer to the time for us to go to the mortuary. The visitation was scheduled from 6-8, but they had told us we could come a little earlier if we wanted some time to ourselves with Curtis before they allowed anyone else in. I was getting more and more agitated as the time drew near. I was feeling very conflicted about the whole thing. I was fearful and anxious about seeing my son in that state, but at the same time, I felt like I needed to see him. I needed to know what he looked like. As crazy as it sounds, I needed to know he was "all right." The clock was ticking and people were still not all ready to go. I felt like I was going to lose my mind right then and there before we even got to the mortuary. Finally, everyone was ready to go. As we parked in the parking lot, I could see there were already other cars parked. I thought, "Oh, no. We're already too late." Sure enough as we walked inside the chapel, some of my wife's relatives came to greet us. and told us how "good" Curtis looked. I could suddenly feel the anger rising. I loved these people, but how dare they be the first ones to see my son? I'd just endured the worst six days of my life.
I wanted to see Curtis first. Didn't I deserve that much? Now, even that had been taken away. I couldn't speak out of fear that anything I said during those moments would be completely inappropriate and would take away from the real reason we were all there in the first place-to remember and honor my precious son. My wife and I held onto each other as we walked down the aisle to the front of the chapel where Curtis's casket awaited. I don't know that I'd ever before felt what I was feeling at that moment: dread, anticipation, fear, anxiety, despair, hope-all rolled into one package. Could I do this? After all this time, would I be able to look upon my son's body without losing what was left of my mind? I was about to find out.

07/31/2013

   One piece of information from our meeting with the minister that I forgot to mention in yesterday's entry was that the band director at the high school had, at one time, been the choir director at the Methodist church. This meant he was very familiar with the church sanctuary and knew exactly how he would have the band set-up for their part of the service. It seemed to be another sign that everything was coming together properly for Curtis's service. If this was to truly be the last thing we could ever do for our son (no graduations, no wedding, no more birthday parties) then we wanted everything to be done with class and grace and in a manner befitting our son's life and memory.
   The first of the three funerals was to be held on this day at a nearby church that we had never before been to, and have not been back to since. I don't remember many details about the service for Curtis's friend except that the church was full of mourners, there were lots of flowers, lots of music, a message from a minister, lots of tears and some laughter as well. We went to the service to be supportive of another family who was experiencing the same loss as were we, but I did not find comfort. I was just too focused on my own pain and anxiety. Mostly, I could only think about our own loss and what it was going to mean for my family. We had lost our son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin, friend, classmate, teammate, neighbor. How were we supposed to survive that? So far, the shock of this loss, and the sheer amount of things we had been busy taking care of had insulated me from the reality of our  situation. Now that the services had begun, it was becoming impossible to deny the truth any longer.
After this first funeral was over, again someone from the family came up behind where we were sitting, put his arms around me and said, "Wasn't that a wonderfully uplifting service?" All I could do was mumble an affirmation of some kind. I understand that funerals can be inspiring and celebratory depending on your beliefs about what happens in the afterlife, but I was not yet ready to celebrate my son being ripped away from me without my permission. As far as I was concerned, God had given me the blessed responsibility of raising Curtis as my son. I was angry that I was not being allowed to finish that job, and the truth of that situation was about to become appallingly apparent for all to see. The viewing service for Curtis was to be that evening at the mortuary chapel. At last, I would be able to see my son for the first time in almost a week. I had never gone this long without seeing Curtis since the second he was born. Would I even be able to handle seeing him lying like that in a casket? I would soon find out.

07/30/2013

   Our meeting with the minister of the United Methodist Church went even better than I had hoped . He was very kind and sensitive to our situation. Even though the service was to be in just two days, he took the time to get to know us, counsel us, and find out what kind of person Curtis had been before we got down to discussing the actual service. I thought this was pretty amazing considering that only once had we ever been to a service at his church, and we obviously were not members of his congregation. He was even accepting of the idea to share the officiating duties at the funeral with the minister of our home church. Everything seemed to fall into place including allowing the high school band to perform the music from their fall field show of which Curtis had been a part. It was called "A Day at Disneyland," which was a  perfect way, we felt, to honor our son, since he had actually performed this music with the band and Disneyland was one of his favorite places on earth. I left our meeting with the minister feeling much better about things. It seemed as though everything was now taken care of: the viewing, the funeral, the burial, all the music, the pallbearers, the eulogists, etc. We hoped there wasn't anyone we had neglected to notify. Still, with everything that had been going on, it all seemed so unreal to me. As things had turned out, we would not be able to actually see our son's body until the viewing service the following evening, I was extremely fearful that when that happened I would no longer be able to emotionally deny what was real, and it would all come crashing down on me at once. I did not want to fall apart in front of everyone. I very much felt that I needed to be strong for myself, for my wife, for my surviving children, for the rest of my family, for everyone. It's a guy thing. However, before I would have to face that challenge, we had another obstacle to stand up to the next day-the first of the three funerals for our lost children.

07/29/2013

   The visitation service for Curtis's friend (the other boy killed in the accident) was held at a local mortuary different from the one handling the arrangements for Curtis. As we entered the chapel, the first thing I noticed was the overwhelming scent of all the flower arrangements. The aroma took me back to those long-ago funeral services of my youth, when we lost so many family members within about a two year span, including my oldest brother. My wife was intercepted by some people she knew, so I went to find us some seats. I knew it was probably a completely unrealistic notion, but I really hoped that somehow I would not have to talk to anyone at the service. I just wanted to pay my respects to the family and get on to our appointment with the minister at the Methodist church. I was just about to be seated when a person from the boy's family came and greeted me with a big smile at her face. I remember thinking that her smile seemed to be very much out of place in the given situation. What she said to me, a grieving parent, seemed even less appropriate than her large grin.  "I just have so much joy and peace over this situation. I just know he's safe in the arms of the Lord!" I wanted to slug her. I had perceived myself to be a faithful child of the living God most of my life, but I was struggling to see anything joyous or peaceful in our current situation. Even if that was the way she honestly felt, I didn't feel it was appropriate of her to say that to me. (In the coming days and weeks, this person would prove on other occasions to be extremely insensitive and unthinking about what we were experiencing.)  I hoped there might someday come a time when I could look at our loss with something besides this incredible pain I was feeling, but if that were to happen I knew it was a long way down the road. I was ready to leave before we even sat down! I had to force myself to stay a respectful amount of time. After all, we were really there to pay our respects to one of our beloved son's dearest friends who had left this life at the same time as our son. It wasn't his fault that one of his relatives was talking like a fool. After a few minutes, we made our exit. That was the only time I felt a tiny bit grateful that we had promised the minister we would do our best to get to the appointment on time. We had yet more business to take care of.

07/28/2013

   Tuesday morning dawned-no miracle in sight. I had a long-scheduled appointment with my cardiologist for my six-month check-up. Emotionally I didn't feel like doing anything that would seem like part of a regular routine. To me, that was almost like admitting that my son was really gone, if I started doing things unrelated to his death. The only other time since his death I'd tried doing something normal was when I practically had a meltdown in the supermarket. My brother said he would go with me if I wanted some company. He would even drive if I needed him to. I figured I had better go see what kind of physical condition I was in, since I felt as if I was in danger of falling apart at any second. Besides, I told myself, at least it would use up some time before we had to go to the first visitation service tonight, then to our appointment at the United Methodist church to meet with their minister to discuss more details about Curtis's funeral service. Today was also the day that the coroner's office would be releasing our son's body to the mortuary. Finally! We wouldn't be able to see Curtis's body until the next day at his visitation service, but at least he would no longer be in that horrible coroner's office. It also meant that we needed to take the clothes in which he would be buried to the mortuary. We had decided, and received permission from the staff at the high school, to bury our son in the sweatsuit he wore as a part of the school basketball program. 

   I don't remember much about our drive to the doctor's. My brother was wise enough to realize that it wasn't necessary to say much of anything. What was there actually to be said? There were no words that could comfort me, and when people had tried over the last few days they usually only succeeded in making me angry with their useless, unwanted platitudes. I was enraged at first by how insensitive people could be and by the mindless words that came out of their mouths. On more than one occasion I had to get up and go outside to keep from exploding. How could they say such things: he's in a better place? God must have needed him in heaven? he's happy now in heaven? at least you don't have to worry about him anymore? his time on earth was done? God never gives us more to bear than we're able to handle? Really! Over time, I realized that such things were spoken out of ignorance and not malice. People simply don't know what to say in this situation, but feel they have to somehow try to justify to us (but mostly to themselves) how a tragedy of this magnitude could happen to people like us.

There's a fear that if something this horrible happened in our lives, it could happen in their lives, too.

That's a deeply unsettling realization for most people to even have to contemplate, let alone actually have to try to live through. Anyway, my brother seemed to grasp the fact that his presence with me at this time was what was most important and helpful to me. People would do well to remember this. I know we talked more about the details of the accident itself since my brother had not yet heard all that we knew. It actually seemed to bring me some small measure of comfort to share these things with him.

   At the doctor's office, my doctor was concerned about my elevated blood pressure and wanted to know if I thought their might be any particular reason for this. I told him what had happened.  He expressed his condolences. His first question was, "Why are you here?"  He then asked if I thought I might need a light medication to help  me through this time. I'm not one to take medications without a good reason, but I thought it might be a good idea to have something available if I found myself unable to function at some point. (There were still so many things we needed to do.) All of the doctor's office staff hugged me before I left and said to please let them know if they could help us in any way. That kind of support was always appreciated. When we got back to the house I found out that there were still plants and flower arrangements arriving, more food, more phone calls, more people stopping by, and a mailbox full of notes and cards. My wife and I found a few minutes to ourselves so we could discuss the last details of what we wanted for Curtis's funeral. We wanted to be able to speak plainly when we met with the minister that evening. We also needed to check-in with each other on how we were both coping with all that was swirling around us. I felt like I was in the center of a bombed-out building in some war zone with destruction all around us. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Soon, we would have to begin searching through the rubble of our lives for what could be salvaged and what had to be left behind. That would take time and energy that we did not possess right now. Right now we had to steel ourselves to try to continue walking through this terrible week, starting with the first visitation service for Curtis's friend.