It's 2:50am and once again I can't sleep

This is a post I wrote in the middle of the night:

It’s 2:50am and once again I can’t sleep. Sometimes I feel as if he has completely rearranged my life…like he’s come inside of my heart and simply moved the furniture around. It’s still my furniture, it’s just not where I left it. But now that I think about it, isn’t that the way it should be? Is it possible to lose something you love and not feel as if your life has been rearranged? If so, maybe it wasn’t really love. If that is the case, I welcome the new arrangement. Although unsettling, I have proof that I have experienced the result of true love. Some people will live a lifetime and not experience this type of rearrangement…I don’t know if I should count them blessed or pity them. Maybe a little of both.

The one year anniversary of Lincoln’s birth was especially hard. I remember being flooded with memories…memories of the hospital, coming home, watching Jill hold him, the funeral. But none was more painful than writing him a birthday card and leaving it at his grave. I remember going to Walgreens and looking through the cards for about an hour. I wanted to make sure I found the right one. This was a surreal experience because I knew he would never read it but I still felt like it needed to be done…like I still had some things to tell him. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t going to read it, because reality is my heart still bleeds, feels, loves and knows. I remember holding him at night and whispering in his ear, “I love you, I love you…I know you don’t understand what I’m saying but I can’t stop telling you.” Buying the card gives me this image of a teenager pulling away in his car when his dad suddenly realizes he forgot to tell him something important. The dad is waving his hands in the air, but the kid never sees him and keeps on driving. In this story the kid never returns.

I sat in my car at the cemetery for about 30 minutes before I ever wrote a word. I didn’t know how to start this kind of letter. So I just wrote the first thing that came to mind. “Your mom and I miss you.” After the words made it to page, I just sat there and wept…simply reduced to a whimpering child. I tried to think of something else to write but nothing else came to mind. So I just sat there content with my one line. Ten minutes later my hand starts on the next sentence. Then another. Then another. Before you know it I’ve run out of space. I wrote it all so fast that I had to go back and reread my own words. The line I remember most is, “mom hasn’t been the same since you passed away. I think when you passed, a piece of her passed as well.”

I used to think that the goal of healing after tragedy is to recapture this part of your self that is missing. You know, to go back to the way things were. I don’t know if that is true any more. I think I’ve finally become content that my life will never be the same…that the new furniture arrangement is the way it’s going to stay. I’ve come to embrace that a piece of my wife has passed as well. I once heard an amputee say that he was grateful to be alive and that he had adjusted to his new life. He had learned how to function in a society of non-handicaps. He began to laugh again, form new relationships, and even re-enlisted into the military. But no matter what, that didn’t change the fact that every time he looked in the mirror he saw his leg was missing. That is how I feel. That piece that’s missing, that piece that keeps me up at night, that piece that has rearranged my life, these things exist because…I loved my son…I loved him infinitely…and I can’t stop if I tried. That is what I’ve come to live with. One last thing, if I could somehow change the story it would go like this. My son was pulling away in his car when I remembered I forgot to tell him something. I waved my arms in the air as high as I could. He glanced in his rear view mirror and saw me standing there. He turned the car around and drove back towards home. My son pulled in the driveway, rolled down the window and asked, “what is it dad?” I would tell him this, “I love it when you’re home and hate it when you’re gone. Can you stay with me a little bit longer?”