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?