As a society, we Americans are not particularly well-prepared to deal with grief. Some cultures don't even expect a grieving person to be ready to re-enter society in any meaningful way for up to a year or more. The person or family is given that much time to process and deal with all the numbing effects of grief. I went back to work three weeks to the day after my son's death. Mostly I did that because I was afraid that the longer I delayed the inevitable, the harder it would become to ever go back. I also wanted something besides grief to occupy my time and energy. I had been back only a couple of weeks when it was time on our school calendar to hold Parent-Teacher conferences. All of the parents with whom I met were sympathetic to a point, but one parent remarked that I must be over it all since I was back teaching. I was incredulous. It took all of my self-control to not scream at her. This was my son's death we were dealing with not a pet goldfish. How insensitive could she be? In hindsight, it was probably much too soon for me to have to deal with people in that kind of setting, but, again, our culture does not look favorably on grieving for too long, especially not for men. We are raised to be strong, physically and emotionally. We are the providers, the guardians, the protectors. We are taught from an early age that big boys don't cry, that we should get over it (whatever "it" is) and move on. We are supposed to "fix" whatever is wrong and move forward. These kinds of attitudes are especially not helpful when men are dealing with grief. They are among the reasons that many men seem to get "stuck" in one spot
many different times in their journey through grief. Often when I would be faced with a new obstacle
grief had set in my way, my first reaction was to avoid it somehow, to try and go around it or pretend it wasn't there. I tried to lose myself in work. I tried to pretend that I wasn't really feeling what I was feeling. I would try to push away what was making me feel so bad. That only made things worse. As I stated previously, grief demands to be dealt with, but much of the time, I didn't know how to do that. I was feeling guilty that I had failed to protect my son in the first place, and now I was constantly faced with a situation I could not fix, not for myself, not for my wife, not for my surviving children. I was frustrated and angry about the entire thing. How does a man learn to deal with grief?
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Sunday, August 10, 2014
08/10/2014
As I mentioned previously, for me the first step to surviving was the realization that I needed to allow the people around me to just love me. Many of the people closest to us felt an almost overwhelming need to do something, anything, for us in an attempt to somehow help us through this ordeal. However, often what these well-meaning people needed for themselves was not what was particularly helpful to me. Still, I slowly began to realize that we were surrounded by the love, concern, and prayers of many people, some of which we did not even directly know.
It also began to be apparent that even with all this support around us, in many ways, my journey through grief was going to be a lonely one. While grief demands to be dealt with, it is not on a set timeline. While many people are familiar with the various stages of grief (i.e. denial, anger, bargaining,
acceptance, etc.) such stages are extremely fluid. They do not conform to a neatly set pattern or timeline. What I was experiencing or feeling at a particular moment was not what my wife or children were experiencing. What I felt I needed at a certain moment in time did not often conform to their needs. In short, everyone's journey through grief is highly personal. It ebbs and flows from day to day and often from moment to moment. This aspect of grief makes it very difficult to stay on an even keel.
Many times I would feel like I was making good progress one day, only to feel like I had taken 10 steps backward the next.
I often became frustrated with myself because I too often felt like I had to keep dealing with the same things over and over again. Why didn't I get the message the first time? Why did I have to go through the same things again and again? Grief is like that. Make no mistake: grief must be dealt with. You can try to run away or hide from it, but it will track you down. It will slowly and methodically follow you like a stalker or a spy pursuing their quarry. Its presence will not always be overtly apparent, but you will always know it is there, lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently to strike until you least expect it, usually when you are the most vulnerable. Again, it is this relentlessly uncertain characteristic of grief that consistently serves to confound and confuse us in our journey. Yes, grief demands our attention. How we respond to that demand can make a world of difference in our journey.
It also began to be apparent that even with all this support around us, in many ways, my journey through grief was going to be a lonely one. While grief demands to be dealt with, it is not on a set timeline. While many people are familiar with the various stages of grief (i.e. denial, anger, bargaining,
acceptance, etc.) such stages are extremely fluid. They do not conform to a neatly set pattern or timeline. What I was experiencing or feeling at a particular moment was not what my wife or children were experiencing. What I felt I needed at a certain moment in time did not often conform to their needs. In short, everyone's journey through grief is highly personal. It ebbs and flows from day to day and often from moment to moment. This aspect of grief makes it very difficult to stay on an even keel.
Many times I would feel like I was making good progress one day, only to feel like I had taken 10 steps backward the next.
I often became frustrated with myself because I too often felt like I had to keep dealing with the same things over and over again. Why didn't I get the message the first time? Why did I have to go through the same things again and again? Grief is like that. Make no mistake: grief must be dealt with. You can try to run away or hide from it, but it will track you down. It will slowly and methodically follow you like a stalker or a spy pursuing their quarry. Its presence will not always be overtly apparent, but you will always know it is there, lurking in the shadows, waiting patiently to strike until you least expect it, usually when you are the most vulnerable. Again, it is this relentlessly uncertain characteristic of grief that consistently serves to confound and confuse us in our journey. Yes, grief demands our attention. How we respond to that demand can make a world of difference in our journey.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
08/02/14
Sooner or later grief comes to us all in one way or another. It is no respecter of status or station in life. It comes to rich and poor alike. It cares not if a person is famous, powerful or well-connected. It cannot be bargained away, nor can you hire someone else to handle it for you. It strikes viciously, often without warning, with a ferocity unlike anything else we experience. It throws our lives into utter chaos, bringing into question the very principals by which we have been leading our lives. It completely disrupts our belief systems, especially when it involves the death of a young person such as a child, which seems to totally violate the natural order of things: parents are not supposed to outlive their children. Grief absolutely turns our lives upside down. Everything changes, often not for the better. We are forced to realize some very unpleasant things about our lives on this planet. We are left searching for answers to questions we never expected to have to face. We often feel lost, hopeless and alone. We want someone to explain to us why this had to happen to us. How can we survive this situation? When will our lives return to normal? When will we feel like ourselves again? We want someone to give us answers to questions which have no answers. We feel like everything in our lives has changed in the blink of an eye, and we are spinning helplessly out of control. How do we survive?
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
07/29/2014
At the risk of stating the obvious, there are few emotions we experience as humans that can be compared with grief. By its very nature it is devastating and overwhelming like nothing else. It cannot be planned for, it strikes without warning giving us no time to prepare. Even when the loss involves an older person or someone who has been very ill, we may feel prepared for grief. Intellectually, we may accept the death, but emotionally we are never ready to have to live without the person's physical presence in our lives. In my case, to have my healthy, talented, loving, beautiful son ripped away from me in a matter of seconds sent me spinning. I don't think men in general are particularly well-suited to deal with such an emotional cataclysm. Most men are raised to be strong, not just physically, but also emotionally. We are taught to keep a tight rein on our emotions, with the possible exception of anger. It's usually deemed acceptable for men to show anger, at least righteous anger, anyway, but most other emotions are kept in check. Many men believe that overt shows of emotions such as fear, sorrow, or doubt are unacceptable both to others and to themselves. Besides, when dealing with something as powerful as grief what good will it do anyone to fall apart? That's not going to solve the problem. That's not going to bring my son back. That's not going to help my wife and children.
I had experienced loss many times before in my life: my oldest brother died when I was 12, but he had been born with cerebral palsy and never had a so-called normal life , and two of my grandparents had died at about the same time. Over the years I lost my other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a cousin, as well, so I thought I was at least somewhat acquainted with grief. However, all of those losses rolled together did not prepare me for the loss of my son.
Those early days of grief reminded me of a time when I was young. We had gone to the beach for the day. It was not my first visit to the beach, and I felt I was prepared for the waves, but the surf was especially strong that day. A wave knocked me down and took me beneath the surface of the water. I struggled to get my head above the surface to breath. As soon as I did so another wave would again roll over my head, and I'd again find myself struggling to get my head above water. This went on for what to me seemed like forever, but was probably only a few seconds. I eventually was able to regain my feet and get out of the water.
Grief was making me feel like I was drowning. It struck with such sudden violence that my entire life went into a state of shock. I was feeling overwhelmed and whenever I did feel like I was regaining my footing another wave would smash over me, driving me beneath the surface. This went on for months. At times I felt helpless to do anything about it. The chaos and hopelessness that grief had brought into my life seemed impossible to deal with. Would I ever feel anything else?
I had experienced loss many times before in my life: my oldest brother died when I was 12, but he had been born with cerebral palsy and never had a so-called normal life , and two of my grandparents had died at about the same time. Over the years I lost my other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a cousin, as well, so I thought I was at least somewhat acquainted with grief. However, all of those losses rolled together did not prepare me for the loss of my son.
Those early days of grief reminded me of a time when I was young. We had gone to the beach for the day. It was not my first visit to the beach, and I felt I was prepared for the waves, but the surf was especially strong that day. A wave knocked me down and took me beneath the surface of the water. I struggled to get my head above the surface to breath. As soon as I did so another wave would again roll over my head, and I'd again find myself struggling to get my head above water. This went on for what to me seemed like forever, but was probably only a few seconds. I eventually was able to regain my feet and get out of the water.
Grief was making me feel like I was drowning. It struck with such sudden violence that my entire life went into a state of shock. I was feeling overwhelmed and whenever I did feel like I was regaining my footing another wave would smash over me, driving me beneath the surface. This went on for months. At times I felt helpless to do anything about it. The chaos and hopelessness that grief had brought into my life seemed impossible to deal with. Would I ever feel anything else?
Thursday, July 24, 2014
07/24/2014
I realize now that in addition to learning how to take things one step at a time, in the early days literally sometimes taking things one breath at a time, there were other things that helped me overcome the various fears that threatened to engulf me.
I learned that much of the time my feelings and emotions were transitory and that what I might be experiencing at a certain moment would soon be changing. I realized that what I often needed to do was actually the exact opposite of what my emotions were tempting me to do. For example, there were many times when what I really wanted to do was to curl up into a little ball, find an isolated corner in which to hide myself, and wait for the storm to pass. What I discovered I needed to do was to lean more heavily than ever on the people closest to me, especially my wife and children. In this case, I don't mean leaning on them in a sense of dragging them down at such a horrible time, but rather to mean keeping myself available to them, leaning on each other, supporting each other as much as we possibly could to survive together. If we could not stick together and find ways to help each other through something so absolutely horrible, who else was going to help us?
Unfortunately, we did discover during those early days that some people we thought would always be there for us, could not find it within themselves to do so. We came to realize that many people just felt so uncomfortable around us that they fell by the wayside, some early on in our journey, and others as time went by. Whether it was because they felt helpless not knowing what to say or do or how to comfort us, or because our situation brought the fear and anxiety that if something this awful could happen to a family like ours it could also happen to them, the fact remained that these people were not able to be there for us.
Conversely, there were other people who actually surprised us with the level of on-going, consistent support they gave to us. In many cases, these people are still with us today. Of course, there is another group of people who we believed would always be there for us, and indeed they have been, every moment of every day and every step of the way. Besides holding on to my wife and children for support, I learned to let these other people who were so concerned about us all, help us in whatever ways they could. Their timing wasn't always perfectly corresponding to what I might have been feeling at a given moment, but I learned to accept that everything they were doing was done out of true love and concern for us. I discovered again that the moments when I most felt like isolating myself from the entire world were often actually the moments when I most needed to allow people to simply love me.
I learned that much of the time my feelings and emotions were transitory and that what I might be experiencing at a certain moment would soon be changing. I realized that what I often needed to do was actually the exact opposite of what my emotions were tempting me to do. For example, there were many times when what I really wanted to do was to curl up into a little ball, find an isolated corner in which to hide myself, and wait for the storm to pass. What I discovered I needed to do was to lean more heavily than ever on the people closest to me, especially my wife and children. In this case, I don't mean leaning on them in a sense of dragging them down at such a horrible time, but rather to mean keeping myself available to them, leaning on each other, supporting each other as much as we possibly could to survive together. If we could not stick together and find ways to help each other through something so absolutely horrible, who else was going to help us?
Unfortunately, we did discover during those early days that some people we thought would always be there for us, could not find it within themselves to do so. We came to realize that many people just felt so uncomfortable around us that they fell by the wayside, some early on in our journey, and others as time went by. Whether it was because they felt helpless not knowing what to say or do or how to comfort us, or because our situation brought the fear and anxiety that if something this awful could happen to a family like ours it could also happen to them, the fact remained that these people were not able to be there for us.
Conversely, there were other people who actually surprised us with the level of on-going, consistent support they gave to us. In many cases, these people are still with us today. Of course, there is another group of people who we believed would always be there for us, and indeed they have been, every moment of every day and every step of the way. Besides holding on to my wife and children for support, I learned to let these other people who were so concerned about us all, help us in whatever ways they could. Their timing wasn't always perfectly corresponding to what I might have been feeling at a given moment, but I learned to accept that everything they were doing was done out of true love and concern for us. I discovered again that the moments when I most felt like isolating myself from the entire world were often actually the moments when I most needed to allow people to simply love me.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
07/09/2014
After we were given the horrific news that our precious son was gone forever, another emotion that soon came to the forefront, along with anger, was fear. Fear about what such a drastic change would mean to my life and the lives of my wife and surviving children. Fear about what would happen to us, as individuals and as a family. Fear about how, or even if, we could possibly navigate through something so horrible. Fear for the survival of our marriage. Fear of failing to help our surviving children get through such a loss when we were struggling so much ourselves. Fear that this terrible, all-encompassing fog would never lift. Fear that I would never again be able to laugh, smile, feel joy, happiness or peace. Fear that I would never feel normal again. Fearful of a future stretching years ahead of me-a future that would never include my beloved son. Fearful that I had, for some reason been forsaken by God.
All of these various fears, and probably others, as well, that I've neglected to mention, if taken as a package, would have been impossible to conquer. They would have been just too overwhelming. We realized early on that the only way we could deal with all that was happening to us was to simply take things one step at a time as each day came. Yes, my life had changed-it had been shaken to its core-and much would never be the same again. However, in spite of the absolutely mind-numbing loss of Curtis, and all the myriad ways that loss has affected my life, there have been many positive aspects that have developed, as well. I will never, ever be able to say that my life is better without my son, perish the thought! I am, however, grateful that I have learned how to better appreciate the positives and dwell less on the negatives. That is not always easy to do, even after all these years. I think that of all the fears I felt in those early days of my journey, that fear was the most pervasive-that I would never again in my life be free of grief, and all that results from that emotion. I feared that I would not be able to find the strength to help my wife or children because of the grief; that I would not be able to function as a person with any degree of consistency because of my grief; that everything I had been and everything I had done would be lost forever because of my grief; that the way I was feeling because of my grief was the way I would feel every single second for the rest of my life; that I would let Curtis, who had loved life so much, down, by not living my life in a positive way because of my grief; that in some perverse way the man who had taken my son from me would win if I gave up because of my grief. I couldn't let those things happen. I had to find a way out of this debilitating fog that swirled all around me. As I tried to deal with only one thing at a time, putting one foot in front of the other, taking in one breath at a time, I slowly began to find my way, sometimes very slowly.
Monday, July 7, 2014
07/07/2014
I don't mean to imply that I have completely figured out why my son had to leave us at such a young age, nor do I want people to think that I have entirely accepted this reality. I only relate what I have come to believe, specifically that my son had a mission on this Earth and once it was accomplished he was called home where his spirit continues to exist in a place of ultimate peace and joy. It may be a fraudulent rationalization to some, but it brings me great comfort because I believe it to be true with all my heart. It would drive me insane to think that this life is all there is, that our existence is purely random, and that there is no possibility that I will ever see my son again. How utterly pointless and desperately hopeless life would be. In spite of all the agonizing pain and moments of deep anger and depression my son's death has brought into my life, I totally believe that there is some greater purpose in all of this, and while I don't understand it all, I do believe that ultimately love must win out.
A few months from now we will be facing the fact that Curtis has been gone from us as long as he was here with us-14 years. There are still moments where I find it hard to believe he's really gone, and harder still to believe I've survived this long without him. When I think back to those first horrible days after his death, it's amazing to me that we have not just survived, but have been able to actually thrive in many ways. I never would have thought that was possible. It was only when I opened myself up again to receiving love that I was able to let go of the darkness that had enveloped my life. Once I realized that my son still loved me, that he hadn't left me because he didn't love me anymore, I could begin to love myself again. Once I realized that my son was OK where he was, I could love others, and allow them to love me. What a burden was lifted off my shoulders! What an amazing thing-my 14-year old son was still teaching me life lessons about the importance of love!
A few months from now we will be facing the fact that Curtis has been gone from us as long as he was here with us-14 years. There are still moments where I find it hard to believe he's really gone, and harder still to believe I've survived this long without him. When I think back to those first horrible days after his death, it's amazing to me that we have not just survived, but have been able to actually thrive in many ways. I never would have thought that was possible. It was only when I opened myself up again to receiving love that I was able to let go of the darkness that had enveloped my life. Once I realized that my son still loved me, that he hadn't left me because he didn't love me anymore, I could begin to love myself again. Once I realized that my son was OK where he was, I could love others, and allow them to love me. What a burden was lifted off my shoulders! What an amazing thing-my 14-year old son was still teaching me life lessons about the importance of love!
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
06/25/2014
During my "spiritual eclipse" period, I would catch glimpses of light from time to time trying to shine through my darkness, but I wasn't ready to latch onto them. The only consistent point of light I saw was coming from behind me, a tiny pinpoint that I came to believe was the light left from my old life. But if I took a few steps toward it, it would shimmer and then disappear just as my son had disappeared. I was left to keep going forward toward what appeared to be only darkness. The occasional flashes of light I would see ahead of me I eventually came to realize were people's attempts to love me and draw me out of the darkness, specifically the love of my wife and children, and the love Curtis had left with us. But I wasn't ready to give up my anger and grief. I felt entirely justified in my anger and sorrow. I felt it was all I had to help me survive.
As my journey continued, however, the flashes of love-light became more frequent and forceful. As I slowly began to accept the idea that Curtis's mission on Earth was completed and he had gone home, I also began to see the lights begin to stop flashing and to, instead, glow with a soft, steady radiance. The lights then began to join together to form one light glowing steadily in the distance ahead of me. I believed that this was the love-light left behind by my son. It was his way of telling me that he was OK-that I would be OK. At his young age my son had found what many people, sadly, never find-he had found how to love and be loved. Curtis lived his life with love. He was able to let other people love him; more importantly, he was able to love and accept other people just the way they were. He never put conditions on people. He never asked them to change so they would be easier to love. He just accepted them as he found them. He always looked for ways to include people into his life, rather than trying to find ways to exclude them from his life. To this day, it still amazes me that such a young man could have such a profound affect on the lives of the people he met. People still tell us what a lasting positive impact Curtis had on their lives.
It was that kind of love that brought me out of the darkness: the love of my wife and my surviving children, the love Curtis had left behind, the love I remembered that God has for us even in the darkness. Just as turning on a light in a darkened room scatters the darkness, so did that love scatter the darkness I was feeling. The light was real. It was the darkness that was the illusion. I know now that even though Curtis is physically gone from us, the love he feels for us and we feel for him endures. I feel it everyday whenever I think of him. I will always feel it no matter how much time goes by. Curtis will always be my son, and I will forever be his dad, and the love goes on.
As my journey continued, however, the flashes of love-light became more frequent and forceful. As I slowly began to accept the idea that Curtis's mission on Earth was completed and he had gone home, I also began to see the lights begin to stop flashing and to, instead, glow with a soft, steady radiance. The lights then began to join together to form one light glowing steadily in the distance ahead of me. I believed that this was the love-light left behind by my son. It was his way of telling me that he was OK-that I would be OK. At his young age my son had found what many people, sadly, never find-he had found how to love and be loved. Curtis lived his life with love. He was able to let other people love him; more importantly, he was able to love and accept other people just the way they were. He never put conditions on people. He never asked them to change so they would be easier to love. He just accepted them as he found them. He always looked for ways to include people into his life, rather than trying to find ways to exclude them from his life. To this day, it still amazes me that such a young man could have such a profound affect on the lives of the people he met. People still tell us what a lasting positive impact Curtis had on their lives.
It was that kind of love that brought me out of the darkness: the love of my wife and my surviving children, the love Curtis had left behind, the love I remembered that God has for us even in the darkness. Just as turning on a light in a darkened room scatters the darkness, so did that love scatter the darkness I was feeling. The light was real. It was the darkness that was the illusion. I know now that even though Curtis is physically gone from us, the love he feels for us and we feel for him endures. I feel it everyday whenever I think of him. I will always feel it no matter how much time goes by. Curtis will always be my son, and I will forever be his dad, and the love goes on.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
06/24/2014
What was this great secret that was to finally move me to give up my anger? After all, it was an anger that I had carried for so long that it felt to me like I had always been angry. It seemed like it was the only true emotion I knew-that it was all that was allowing me to keep putting one foot in front of the other, as if it had become the driving energy of my life. I was afraid that if I stopped feeling anger, I would instead feel nothing at all. That worried me more than being angry. At least anger seemed to keep me going. It prompted me to keep fighting for justice for my son and his friends in court, and to keep looking for ways to honor my son's life and memory.
Alongside the anger, there was another thought always at the forefront of my mind: why had my son had to die so young? Gradually, as I pondered this question and my mind went back over some of the conversations we'd had with other people, I remembered the words of one of the young Mormon missionaries who had ministered to us in those early days of our journey, "Your son's mission on this earth was done. It was his time to go home." When I first heard those words, I didn't want to accept them. That was not a good enough reason for my son to leave us! But as time has gone by and my wife and I have discussed this concept many times, and I've learned about other people's experiences, I've come to believe with all my heart that every person has a mission on this planet and a time given to accomplish that mission. I know that to some people that must sound like the rationalization of a grieving father desperately trying to make some sense out of a senseless situation, and perhaps it is, but to me it's the only explanation that makes any sense at all. My son had a mission. He had fulfilled that mission even though he was only 14 years old. His time on Earth was done. It was time for him to go home. Am I totally at peace with this notion? No, of course not. I would still much rather have my son here with us, but I am enough at peace with it that I've been able to release the anger that was poisoning my life and replace it with what I believe Curtis had learned as part of his mission here. I believe that, while I still don't understand everything about why my son died so young, God has chosen to give me a small glimpse into the secret that Curtis discovered-that what we are here to learn is love-how to love ourselves, how to love others, how to allow others to love us, and how to love our God. In short, that life is love, and love is life. How did he learn that in only 14 years?
Friday, June 20, 2014
06/20/2014
Many times when I sit down to write I have no idea what I will say at that moment. Perhaps that's another reason I didn't write for so long-I feared I was running out of things to say or was becoming redundant. But virtually each time I write, the words begin to flow, often giving me the sense that I'm not really the one doing the thinking and writing.
In the days, months, weeks, and years following Curtis's death I experienced a great many emotions, most of which I was unaccustomed to feeling and didn't know what to do with. Perhaps the most intense of these emotions, and the one I was most reluctant to give up, was anger. I felt an overwhelming, intense, violent anger unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I was angry at everyone and everything. Why couldn't my son had just stayed home that night? Why hadn't they left a little earlier or a little later? Why hadn't I or my wife driven them? Were the neighbors really being careful with their driving? Why couldn't the other driver had left his house a little earlier or a little later? Why couldn't the neighbors or the other driver taken a different route? Why couldn't the man just follow the traffic rules and not speed through a red light? Where was God anyway while all this was taking place? IF He's so all-knowing, all-loving, and all-powerful, why had He allowed this to happen? I prayed every morning for God to protect my family. Why hadn't He? Why were we being punished like this? Why had my son left us so soon? I was angry at the world, but especially I was angry at God. I felt betrayed. I had never been so angry about anything in my life. For the next several years I experienced what Richard Paul Evans described in his book, The Four Doors, as a "spiritual eclipse." I felt as if the entire world had become a place of complete and utter darkness. I felt incredibly isolated from life. There was no light left anywhere in the world, except a small point of light that I could only see when I looked back to where my life used to be. When I looked ahead I could see nothing because there was no light before me. Fortunately for me, this state of life was not to be permanent. There was a way out, but it took me awhile to discover the secret, which was really not a secret at all.
In the days, months, weeks, and years following Curtis's death I experienced a great many emotions, most of which I was unaccustomed to feeling and didn't know what to do with. Perhaps the most intense of these emotions, and the one I was most reluctant to give up, was anger. I felt an overwhelming, intense, violent anger unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I was angry at everyone and everything. Why couldn't my son had just stayed home that night? Why hadn't they left a little earlier or a little later? Why hadn't I or my wife driven them? Were the neighbors really being careful with their driving? Why couldn't the other driver had left his house a little earlier or a little later? Why couldn't the neighbors or the other driver taken a different route? Why couldn't the man just follow the traffic rules and not speed through a red light? Where was God anyway while all this was taking place? IF He's so all-knowing, all-loving, and all-powerful, why had He allowed this to happen? I prayed every morning for God to protect my family. Why hadn't He? Why were we being punished like this? Why had my son left us so soon? I was angry at the world, but especially I was angry at God. I felt betrayed. I had never been so angry about anything in my life. For the next several years I experienced what Richard Paul Evans described in his book, The Four Doors, as a "spiritual eclipse." I felt as if the entire world had become a place of complete and utter darkness. I felt incredibly isolated from life. There was no light left anywhere in the world, except a small point of light that I could only see when I looked back to where my life used to be. When I looked ahead I could see nothing because there was no light before me. Fortunately for me, this state of life was not to be permanent. There was a way out, but it took me awhile to discover the secret, which was really not a secret at all.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
06/15/2014
I'm not exactly sure why it's been so long since my last posting, but today, Father's Day, seems to be an appropriate day to resume. I think partly I was feeling overwhelmed by some of the emotions I was feeling (even after all these years) as I was attempting to blog for the first time through the months of February and March. Many of the feelings of those first dark days without Curtis came flooding back, and I found myself still not wanting to deal with some of those things all over again. Also, my back pain really flared up just after the tournament (a related issue?) and my class at school became very difficult to deal with. All in all, I found it difficult sometimes to focus on other things, including my blog.
We made it through what would have been Curtis's 28th birthday. As I've mentioned before, as time has passed, we have consciously attempted to focus more on the day Curtis came into our lives, rather than on the day he left us. I found myself wondering again what our son and his life would be like at such an age. Would he have his own family? Would we be grandparents? What kind of work would he be doing? Where would he be living? Obviously, such questions have no answers, but I can't help sometimes thinking about these things.
This year's Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament was another big success. As always a great big "thank you" to Coach Dave Gabonay, the staff and students of Southridge Middle School, the staff of the Fontana Unified School District, and the staff and leadership of the City of Fontana Community Services Department for making it possible for the tournament to not only continue on every year, but to keep getting bigger and better. It means so much to us. It has become a tremendous highlight of every year to us.
The tournament also makes it possible for us to continue awarding the Curtis E. Workman Memorial Scholarship each year to a deserving student from the Ontario HIgh School instrumental music program. As usual, we received many excellent applications. It's always difficult to narrow it down to one person, but we were again pleased to be able to recognize a deserving student. It brings us an amazing feeling of pride and satisfaction to be able to help a student continue their education. It's wonderful to be able to honor our son's memory in this way. It keeps alive for us and others what Curtis's life was all about.
As I reflect today on my life as a father, I actually feel a great sense of peace, finally, after so many years of turmoil since Curtis's death. I am so proud of my surviving son and daughter. They are both amazing people and are continuing to work at making all of their dreams come true. They've each traveled their own difficult road to where they are today. I regret to say that I haven't always been there for them in the way they deserved me to be in these last years, but I hope to make up for that as we journey onward. I've made a kind of peace with my loss of Curtis, at least most of the time. I believe very strongly that, for whatever reason, his mission on this earth was done, although, in many ways, he still has a very positive influence on the lives of people he touched while he was here. I'm now able to be grateful for the time he was with us, for all the wonderful memories he left behind, for the positive way he touched (and continues to touch) so many lives, and just for the incredible honor and privilege it was to be his father. Although he is gone from us physically, he is always with me, every moment of every day. I will always be Curtis's father, forever. The honor is all mine. I love you, Curtis.
We made it through what would have been Curtis's 28th birthday. As I've mentioned before, as time has passed, we have consciously attempted to focus more on the day Curtis came into our lives, rather than on the day he left us. I found myself wondering again what our son and his life would be like at such an age. Would he have his own family? Would we be grandparents? What kind of work would he be doing? Where would he be living? Obviously, such questions have no answers, but I can't help sometimes thinking about these things.
This year's Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament was another big success. As always a great big "thank you" to Coach Dave Gabonay, the staff and students of Southridge Middle School, the staff of the Fontana Unified School District, and the staff and leadership of the City of Fontana Community Services Department for making it possible for the tournament to not only continue on every year, but to keep getting bigger and better. It means so much to us. It has become a tremendous highlight of every year to us.
The tournament also makes it possible for us to continue awarding the Curtis E. Workman Memorial Scholarship each year to a deserving student from the Ontario HIgh School instrumental music program. As usual, we received many excellent applications. It's always difficult to narrow it down to one person, but we were again pleased to be able to recognize a deserving student. It brings us an amazing feeling of pride and satisfaction to be able to help a student continue their education. It's wonderful to be able to honor our son's memory in this way. It keeps alive for us and others what Curtis's life was all about.
As I reflect today on my life as a father, I actually feel a great sense of peace, finally, after so many years of turmoil since Curtis's death. I am so proud of my surviving son and daughter. They are both amazing people and are continuing to work at making all of their dreams come true. They've each traveled their own difficult road to where they are today. I regret to say that I haven't always been there for them in the way they deserved me to be in these last years, but I hope to make up for that as we journey onward. I've made a kind of peace with my loss of Curtis, at least most of the time. I believe very strongly that, for whatever reason, his mission on this earth was done, although, in many ways, he still has a very positive influence on the lives of people he touched while he was here. I'm now able to be grateful for the time he was with us, for all the wonderful memories he left behind, for the positive way he touched (and continues to touch) so many lives, and just for the incredible honor and privilege it was to be his father. Although he is gone from us physically, he is always with me, every moment of every day. I will always be Curtis's father, forever. The honor is all mine. I love you, Curtis.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
03/01/2014
Made it through another February. The only remaining dates of significance on the horizon regarding Curtis is this coming Friday, which marks what would have been his 28th birthday, and March 15th, the day of the Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament. In the early years, we often commemorated his birthday with pizza and cheesecake (two of Curtis's favorite foods) and visits with many of his friends. As the years have rolled by, our focus has shifted more from the day he died to the day he came into our lives. The pain of losing him has diminished to the point where I'm now able to focus more on the good memories and positive legacy he left behind and less on all that we lost when he was taken from us. There will always be that nagging little ache from the empty spot in my life where Curtis should be physically, but the pain that so often threatened to overwhelm me is mostly gone. It still pops up occasionally, oftentimes unpredictably, especially so during this time of the year, but I've learned to better deal with it. It no longer catches me so much by surprise, threatening to incapacitate me. I'm now better equipped to focus more on the positive memories and that wonderful legacy that has become part of our son's life, and ours, as well.
The basketball tournament has been a source of great comfort to us through the years, especially since it has usually been held during this time of the year, so closely following all the days when it's impossible for us not to focus on our loss. Curtis played in this same tournament when he was a student at Southridge Middle School. His coach, Dave Gabonay, gave one of the eulogies at Curtis's funeral, and dedicated the 2001 Tournament in Curtis's memory. We kind of believed at the time that that probably marked the end of our association with Southridge and Coach Gabonay, but we were wrong. He kept in touch with us during the early months of our journey, and at one point asked us if it would be ok with us if they renamed the tournament in honor of our son. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It had never really occurred to me that someone would want to honor our son in such a way. As plans for the 2002 Curtis Workman Hoops Classic began to develop, it occurred to us that this might be a good opportunity to raise some money for the Curtis E. Workman Memorial Scholarship that we'd already set-up at Ontario High School. We decided to run the snack bar at the Tournament as a fundraiser for the Scholarship. With the exception of one year when, due to circumstances beyond anyone's control the Tournament could not be held, we have been doing this ever since. We run the snack bar, we provide Tournament T-shirts to the championship teams, we have a chance to address the crowd during the awards presentations, and we see friends and family who have supported us so much through all these difficult years. It can be exhausting at times, but it has also become an exhilarating time for us every year. I don't think that people who have never lost a child can possibly imagine how much it means to us to have our son's life remembered in this way. It still amazes me that after so many the years the Tournament keeps getting better and better. We owe so much to Coach Gabonay. I know that somewhere Curtis is smiling.
The basketball tournament has been a source of great comfort to us through the years, especially since it has usually been held during this time of the year, so closely following all the days when it's impossible for us not to focus on our loss. Curtis played in this same tournament when he was a student at Southridge Middle School. His coach, Dave Gabonay, gave one of the eulogies at Curtis's funeral, and dedicated the 2001 Tournament in Curtis's memory. We kind of believed at the time that that probably marked the end of our association with Southridge and Coach Gabonay, but we were wrong. He kept in touch with us during the early months of our journey, and at one point asked us if it would be ok with us if they renamed the tournament in honor of our son. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. It had never really occurred to me that someone would want to honor our son in such a way. As plans for the 2002 Curtis Workman Hoops Classic began to develop, it occurred to us that this might be a good opportunity to raise some money for the Curtis E. Workman Memorial Scholarship that we'd already set-up at Ontario High School. We decided to run the snack bar at the Tournament as a fundraiser for the Scholarship. With the exception of one year when, due to circumstances beyond anyone's control the Tournament could not be held, we have been doing this ever since. We run the snack bar, we provide Tournament T-shirts to the championship teams, we have a chance to address the crowd during the awards presentations, and we see friends and family who have supported us so much through all these difficult years. It can be exhausting at times, but it has also become an exhilarating time for us every year. I don't think that people who have never lost a child can possibly imagine how much it means to us to have our son's life remembered in this way. It still amazes me that after so many the years the Tournament keeps getting better and better. We owe so much to Coach Gabonay. I know that somewhere Curtis is smiling.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
02/22/2014
This weekend marks the final two days of this week marking the thirteenth anniversary of our son's death. Thirteen years ago today we said our final goodbyes to Curtis at his funeral and burial services. Tomorrow marks the thirteenth anniversary of the last of the funerals for the three friends that were held on three consecutive days during that terrible week. I don't expect that anything else that ever happens in my life (short of losing my wife or another one of my surviving children, God forbid) will have the far-reaching and devastating impact of those two horrible days-the day we lost our son and the day we had to forever leave his body at the cemetery. As I've stated before, this whole situation just seems to have violated the natural order of things. Oddly enough, I have not really felt much of anything emotionally today. The passing of time has certainly dulled the pain, although my memories of this day 13 years ago are still as vivid as ever. But now I filter them through a different perspective. I'm again able to focus more on all the positives that we have worked so hard to bring to fruition, rather than the pain of what to me remains as a senseless loss for us. Next up on the horizon of my journey will be what would have been Curtis's 28th birthday on March 7th. After that, on March 15, will be the Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament at Southridge Middle School in Fontana. It has become a wonderful event that serves as an annual memorial to our son. Besides giving us an opportunity to reunite with family and friends, it also serves to let other people know what a remarkable person Curtis really was. We are also able to raise money (through the Tournament snack bar) to sustain The Curtis E. Workman Memorial Scholarship at Ontario High School. It has always been something we look forward to every year. It gives us tremendous joy and inspiration to be able to give back this way to the communities that supported us so much during those dark days 13 years ago. In the meantime, I am grateful to be where I am today. Back in February of 2001, I wasn't sure I could survive what was happening to us. I wasn't even sure back then that I wanted to survive if it truly meant living the rest of my life without my son and being in such constant pain. Time and love have done their work. Curtis will always be a part of my life. The love he left behind will never fade as long as anyone he touched continues to carry that love with them and they pass it on to others. I feel him with me always in so many different ways. I don't think that it was a coincidence that today of all days while I was thinking about what I wanted to write (or if I even did want to write something today) the song Forever Young came on the radio. That was the last song we played for Curtis to close the service at the cemetery. My wife commented that this was Curtis's way of letting me know he was still with me. I believe that. My precious son will always be with me.
Monday, February 17, 2014
02/17/2014
Well, we made it through another February 15th. It actually turned out to be an OK day. My wife and I went to the cemetery to put flowers on the kids' graves and to clean their headstones. In the evening we built a fire in the portable fire pit, set it out in the driveway, and spent about four hours around the flames. This was one of the things the kids enjoyed doing when they were alive, and we've tried to continue the tradition as a way of remembrance whenever we can. A couple of our dearest and most supportive friends came by to spent part of the evening with us. It was a very positive time. We received many messages of remembrance and support through social media and phone calls during the day. It's still amazing to realize in how many different ways people were connected to Curtis. Even after all this time we are still learning about new connections people had with our son, and what a positive impact he continues to have on the lives of so many. It's also amazing to me that while many of the milestones that have come and gone during my grief journey are somewhat jumbled to me as to what happened when, the events of that terrible first week are indelibly seared into my memory. Of course, there was the first night when the accident occurred. The following day was when we went to the mortuary and cemetery to make arrangements, and the memorial prayer service was held that evening. The next day was Saturday when the nurse came by our house to tell us she had stopped at the scene to try to help. This was also the day when the parents who had been driving the car that night were released from the hospital and came back to the neighborhood. Sunday was when we first contacted the minister at the Methodist Church about having Curtis's service at his church. We also went back to the cemetery to see if it would be possible to have the children buried together. Tuesday night was the viewing service for the first of the kids, and we met with the minister to discuss details of Curtis's service. Wednesday afternoon was the first of the funerals, and Curtis's viewing service was that evening. Curtis's funeral was Thursday, one week to the day since the accident. The final funeral was the next day, Friday. I think I remember more details, with greater clarity, from that first week than from all the rest of my journey combined. But while I remember so much from that horrible time, I don't find myself dwelling on those details like I did before. When I do think of that week, I no longer feel the burning pain that so often threatened to overwhelm me. I'm now able to focus more on the positive aspects of those days: how so many people provided us with unconditional love and support, how kind and generous people were, how I began to realize, in a very real sense for the first time, how incredibly special our son really was to so many different kinds of people. As I continue my journey through this anniversary week of our loss, I'm able to find comfort and warmth in the thought that Curtis is still loved and missed by so many people. That brings true joy to my heart.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
02/15/2014
Today is the 13th anniversary of Curtis's passing out of this life. For a long time I thought of this day as his death day, the day he was stolen from us for no good reason, and I anticipated its annual arrival with a sense of dread and foreboding. The numbing sorrow, anger, and pain I felt during all the rest of the year was magnified a thousand times during these horrible days in February. I especially remember how on the first anniversary in 2002, there must have been well over a hundred people come by the house to remember and honor him and show their love and support to us. We had two barbecues going cooking up hot dogs for everyone. We had a fire going in the fire pit. For several hours people shared with us again their memories of Curtis and how he had so positively impacted their lives. It was wonderful to hear such touching things about our son, but I was not yet in a place where I could fully appreciate them. I had not yet completely accepted that my son was gone forever. I could not yet accept that there could possibly be anything good come out of this situation. I could not yet believe I could even survive something like this, let alone find anything truly positive about it.
As the years have come and gone, however, I've noticed a change in myself in how I feel about things during this time of the year. I can't pinpoint any particular time when it happened, but gradually I became aware that enormous healing has taken place in my life. As I sit here today, on the 13th anniversary, looking down the street from our front porch at a block so different from what it was 13 years ago, I realize that I no longer feel the gut-wrenching, debilitating, frightening pain that marked the first few anniversaries. While February 15th will never be "just another day", I'm now able to more clearly appreciate the wonderful things that have taken place in our lives since Curtis left us. Don't misunderstand me. I still tremendously, and on some days, desperately miss my son. I still question why he had to die so young. I still often wonder what his life would be like today. I wonder what great things he would have accomplished by now. When I get to Heaven I still expect God to have some good answers to my questions. I still have moments of anger that my family had to suffer such an agonizing loss.
But I also can focus more now on the 14 years that were given to us to be Curtis's parents. We were not perfect parents, nor was Curtis a perfect child. When I think of his time with us I'm able to remember the entire package, good and not so good. I can revel in the wonderful things about him and take joy in all the memories of his life with us. I can also now more completely appreciate the positive impact he had on so many people's lives. From time to time even today, we still are hearing new stories about the positive legacy he left behind. The Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament at Southridge Middle School is still going strong after all these years, as is the Curtis Ethan Workman Memorial Scholarship at Ontario High School. At least two of Curtis's friends have honored his memory by giving their sons his name as part of their names. Most touching of all, perhaps, is that so many of his friends and family still remember this day after all these years. It means so much to us that Curtis's life and legacy live on in the lives of so many people he touched. I will never be glad my son was taken from us, and February 15th will never be an ordinary day, but I no longer think of it as a day of death. I can rest in the knowledge that, in a very real way, he is with us still. I love you, Curtis, always and forever.
As the years have come and gone, however, I've noticed a change in myself in how I feel about things during this time of the year. I can't pinpoint any particular time when it happened, but gradually I became aware that enormous healing has taken place in my life. As I sit here today, on the 13th anniversary, looking down the street from our front porch at a block so different from what it was 13 years ago, I realize that I no longer feel the gut-wrenching, debilitating, frightening pain that marked the first few anniversaries. While February 15th will never be "just another day", I'm now able to more clearly appreciate the wonderful things that have taken place in our lives since Curtis left us. Don't misunderstand me. I still tremendously, and on some days, desperately miss my son. I still question why he had to die so young. I still often wonder what his life would be like today. I wonder what great things he would have accomplished by now. When I get to Heaven I still expect God to have some good answers to my questions. I still have moments of anger that my family had to suffer such an agonizing loss.
But I also can focus more now on the 14 years that were given to us to be Curtis's parents. We were not perfect parents, nor was Curtis a perfect child. When I think of his time with us I'm able to remember the entire package, good and not so good. I can revel in the wonderful things about him and take joy in all the memories of his life with us. I can also now more completely appreciate the positive impact he had on so many people's lives. From time to time even today, we still are hearing new stories about the positive legacy he left behind. The Curtis Workman Hoops Classic Basketball Tournament at Southridge Middle School is still going strong after all these years, as is the Curtis Ethan Workman Memorial Scholarship at Ontario High School. At least two of Curtis's friends have honored his memory by giving their sons his name as part of their names. Most touching of all, perhaps, is that so many of his friends and family still remember this day after all these years. It means so much to us that Curtis's life and legacy live on in the lives of so many people he touched. I will never be glad my son was taken from us, and February 15th will never be an ordinary day, but I no longer think of it as a day of death. I can rest in the knowledge that, in a very real way, he is with us still. I love you, Curtis, always and forever.
Friday, February 14, 2014
02/14/2014
I've mentioned several times in these postings about the impossibility of regaining my "normal" life following the death of my son. Well, today is the 13th anniversary of the last normal day of my life-Valentine's Day 2001. I didn't realize it at the time, but it would prove to also be the last time I would really be able to fully appreciate and celebrate Valentine's Day.
February 14, 2001, was a very pleasant day. My wife and I spent it together just enjoying breakfast out and doing some shopping for a new dresser for Curtis's bedroom. I remember how good it felt to just enjoy my wife's company for the day without having anything really planned out or scheduled. We just kind of let the day flow. Life felt so good. Our kids were all doing well in school. We were all healthy and well. Casey, our oldest son, was a junior in high school and beginning to map out his college options. Curtis was a freshman, just beginning his trip through high school. Carly was still in elementary school, but already anxious to follow her brothers to middle school and high school. We were all active and busy in a variety of areas. I remember thinking more than once during that day how blessed we were to have such a wonderful family. What happened the next night shattered all of that forever. That's not to say that nothing good has happened in these last 13 years. There have been innumerable things that have happened to us that have been nothing short of wonderful, many of which only occurred because of Curtis's death. But the normalcy of my life ended when my son's life ended. My normal life would no longer exist. How could it? My normal life included my beautiful son, and he was now gone for good. Of the nearly 5,000 days I've lived without my son not a one has been normal. However many more days I'm granted on this earth, none of them will be normal. Normal would mean that Curtis was still with us. I realize that if someone just beginning their own journey on this road of grief were to be reading this, they would probably think, "Wow! What a depressing thought! My life will never be the same again?" To be brutally honest, no, it won't ever be the same. It can't be. But that doesn't mean that you can't find your way through to a new normal. We (and thousands of parents like us) are living proof that it can, indeed, be done. It has taken much time, effort, love, and support to get to where I am today. Just where is that? Well, some days I'm really not sure, but at least today I can finally again feel some sense of the joy and love represented by Valentine's Day. My son may be gone, for the time being, from my physical life, but I've reached a point in my journey where I can celebrate the love he left behind and share that again with others.
February 14, 2001, was a very pleasant day. My wife and I spent it together just enjoying breakfast out and doing some shopping for a new dresser for Curtis's bedroom. I remember how good it felt to just enjoy my wife's company for the day without having anything really planned out or scheduled. We just kind of let the day flow. Life felt so good. Our kids were all doing well in school. We were all healthy and well. Casey, our oldest son, was a junior in high school and beginning to map out his college options. Curtis was a freshman, just beginning his trip through high school. Carly was still in elementary school, but already anxious to follow her brothers to middle school and high school. We were all active and busy in a variety of areas. I remember thinking more than once during that day how blessed we were to have such a wonderful family. What happened the next night shattered all of that forever. That's not to say that nothing good has happened in these last 13 years. There have been innumerable things that have happened to us that have been nothing short of wonderful, many of which only occurred because of Curtis's death. But the normalcy of my life ended when my son's life ended. My normal life would no longer exist. How could it? My normal life included my beautiful son, and he was now gone for good. Of the nearly 5,000 days I've lived without my son not a one has been normal. However many more days I'm granted on this earth, none of them will be normal. Normal would mean that Curtis was still with us. I realize that if someone just beginning their own journey on this road of grief were to be reading this, they would probably think, "Wow! What a depressing thought! My life will never be the same again?" To be brutally honest, no, it won't ever be the same. It can't be. But that doesn't mean that you can't find your way through to a new normal. We (and thousands of parents like us) are living proof that it can, indeed, be done. It has taken much time, effort, love, and support to get to where I am today. Just where is that? Well, some days I'm really not sure, but at least today I can finally again feel some sense of the joy and love represented by Valentine's Day. My son may be gone, for the time being, from my physical life, but I've reached a point in my journey where I can celebrate the love he left behind and share that again with others.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
02/01/2014
Ah, February has come again. I have come to hate this month. It is true that the passage of time has diminished the painful memories, but I still usually wish that I could go to sleep on January 31st and not wake up until March 1st. Sometimes it seems that nothing good for me has ever happened in February, although I know that is not really true. It's just that the last 13 Februarys have been so filled with painful, incomprehensible memories that it is difficult to remember there was ever anything else good about this month. Even Valentine's Day is bittersweet since it's always the day before my son was taken from us. It's still hard to see the store displays, the commercials, etc. and realize that while much of the rest of the world is celebrating the spirit of love, I often have found myself transported back in time to that horrible February of 2001. I remember that this side-by-side existence of people going about their normal lives while I was melting into a puddle of unrelenting pain and anguish was one of the first and most difficult aspects of those early days of my journey. How was it possible that the rest of the world could just go merrily on while my world was crumbling? I still find that question bubbling to the surface during these days leading up to Valentine's Day. I realize that there's never a good time for someone to die, but it somehow seems worse when it comes tied to some significant national or global date that never changes from year to year. It's just another aspect of this whole situation that we obviously have no control over. Through the years we have found ourselves dwelling less on the day Curtis was taken from us and thinking more about the day he came into our lives and all the marvelous, amazing, common, normal, frustrating, wondrous days in between. Yes, time has dimmed the pain of our loss and helped me focus on and appreciate the positive presence Curtis was in our lives and the lives of everyone who knew him. We are all richer for having known him.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
1/19/2014
It's been exactly one month to the day since my last posting. This is my first post of the new year. Happy New Year to all. We have just gone through our 13th holiday season without Curtis being physically present. We had him for 15 holiday seasons before he was taken from us. This time of year has gotten decidedly easier as time has passed, but the holidays will never be what they once were. We have tried hard to keep some traditions alive and added some new ones along the way, but there will always be an empty spot where Curtis should be. Time has most assuredly eased the intensity of the pain, but even the passage of the years cannot dim it entirely. I think that's why I haven't been able to blog lately. Curtis loved the holidays-all the way from Halloween through New Year's-and it is still a difficult time of year for me to face. Coming on the horizon is the 13th anniversary of his death on February 15th. I never know how I will feel until the day arrives. Their have been years where I felt strong and in control in the days leading up to Feb. 15th only to fall apart when the day actually came.
There have been other years where I would be extremely agitated and practically non-functioning on the days prior to the 15th, only to feel an almost miraculous sense of peace and tranquillity on the actual day. I do know, however, that, generally speaking, time has worked its magic in this area as well. After having endured those first few anniversary dates I was not sure I could face that situation once a year, every year, for the rest of my life without losing my mind. Of course, I hadn't been sure I could face any of this without going crazy, but over time, with the support and love of my wonderful wife, my family and friends, a sensitive counselor, and a lot of hard, painful, one-step-at-a-time work, I found myself recovering some semblance of my "normal" self. It was, however, a self that had been so greatly changed that it would become necessary to reacquaint myself with this new person I had become.
There have been other years where I would be extremely agitated and practically non-functioning on the days prior to the 15th, only to feel an almost miraculous sense of peace and tranquillity on the actual day. I do know, however, that, generally speaking, time has worked its magic in this area as well. After having endured those first few anniversary dates I was not sure I could face that situation once a year, every year, for the rest of my life without losing my mind. Of course, I hadn't been sure I could face any of this without going crazy, but over time, with the support and love of my wonderful wife, my family and friends, a sensitive counselor, and a lot of hard, painful, one-step-at-a-time work, I found myself recovering some semblance of my "normal" self. It was, however, a self that had been so greatly changed that it would become necessary to reacquaint myself with this new person I had become.
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