Eight years ago on this day, the 27th of May, my son died. Thus, began for us who loved him, and love him still, a journey of mourning and grief from which I sometimes feel there is no way back. In a sense, this is true. Having walked through the valley of death, by way of lamentations for those we lost, we can never return. At least not as we once were.
For one thing, to paraphrase C.S. Lewis in his classic “A Grief Observed”, some aspects of my fatherhood must be written off. Never, in any place or time, will I have my son on my knees, or bathe him, or tell him a story, or plan for his future, or see my grandchild.
Or get a haircut together. And share some burger and fries after. Which we used to do on a regular basis, just the two of us.
Still, I cling to memories and mementos of our time together, specially books, which he loved. It gave me indescribable pleasure to read to him, most often in bed just before sleeping. A particular favorite, “The Sailor Dog”, about a dog that always wanted to go to sea and realizes his dream, has pride of place in my bookshelf.
He would have been fourteen now, going on fifteen. Try as I might, I have trouble envisioning him as a young teenager. In my unimaginative mind, he will always be six going on seven.
For now, my own words fail me and I have to borrow that of Gordon Livingston, a bereaved father who lost a son the same age as Lui:
Parents who have lost a child speak of the “zero point”. Our lives are divided into the time before and the time after our children died. No event – no graduation, no marriage, no other death – so defines us. At one moment I was one person, then, suddenly, I was someone else. The task we face is to create with our new selves something that, in some measure redeems our suffering. We plant gardens, establish memorials, cherish our children’s memories and help those who must struggle, as did we, with despair. We read stories of other parents bereft; sometime we reach out to them with our experience of bearing the unbearable.
We see, always with longing, children who remind us of what our child was or would be now.
My view of death has changed. I fear it more for those I love but less for myself. I have the curious confidence of one to whom the worst has happened.
We have been humbled but not broken. If it is true that our greatest strengths are our greatest weaknesses, then it perhaps follows that these terrible losses can ultimately ennoble us – if we can persevere through our pain to cherish what remains.
And so, as I contemplate the western horizon of my life, I think of my son with exquisite sadness and profound gratitude. He evoked in me a capacity for love I did not know I had. Those feelings did not die with him, nor will they, I pray, die with me.
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michelle dayao
i have read all the blogs regarding the death of luijoe and how you and your wife suffered for his lost,i justwant to offer some prayers for his death anniversary..
more power,
michelle
the warrior lawyer
Thanks very much, Michelle. Hope all is well with you and your family. Take care.
Nick
My own words also fail me in this situation, because I know not the feeling of losing a son..
As I can only do, I offer my prayers on this solemn day for you and your family.
cocoy
i don’t think there are “right words” to say or do except to express that my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.
the warrior lawyer
Thank you, Nick. Your kind words and prayers are much appreciated. Sharing our story with those in the community eases the pain somewhat.
Pat Dazis
My heart goes out to you. You are so very articulate. You have given me a way to describe the before and after. I had simply said “all that we were had been torn away, we were brand new children standing there in adult bodies after we heard those terrible words “Chris is Dead!” The zero point is a great way to describe it.
Thank your for your great blog and beautiful memorial to your son.
benj
I also lost a brother 16 years ago and it still is a very painful topic for my family. I hope your family could pull through this together.
I wish your family the best.
the warrior lawyer
@Cocoy, thank you for your kind concern. The grief process, and life in general, is a journey and road is made easier to travel when I meet friends like you.
@Benj, being no stranger to grief makes it easier for you to reach out to others in compassion. This, I believe, is an important aspect of your being an effective healer. Thank you for your friendship.
Marck
sir butch:
condolences on your son’s death anniversary. i hope you find peace and serenity; i can only imagine how it’s like to lose a son.
marck
benign0
Hi Butch,
I have a son turning eight in July and I was profoundly affected by the pictures you posted of your son and some of the reading I did after finding out from Nick.
Having a son myself does not at all help me even begin to imagine what you’ve gone through.
All the best to you and your family and thanks for sharing all this.
the warrior lawyer
@Pat Dazis, thank you for the kind words. “Zero point” was Gordon Livingston’s phrase, not mine, but yes it is an apt description, isn’t it ? Zero point is where we move on to a “new normal” after a catastrophic loss. Things will never be the same, we will never be the same, but we move on, despite our hurt and hopefully, find some measure of meaning and understanding in our pain. Be well.
@Marck, thanks for the concern and sympathy. Peace and serenity, I suppose, is a wish and a prayer for all of us.
lisaflor
Reading about your son always brings tears to my eyes. My little boy is turning 3 years old, and until now, I don’t feel that his Dad cares about him at all (I’m a single mom, just recently settled legal stuff with the dad). Your thoughts about spending father and son moments touches my heart, and I wonder why some dads are not like you and the other good dads…
Anyway, I am just glad that your son has experienced your love. Not every kid gets to experience that.
Have peace.
the jester-in-exile
while a lot of pre-meiji restoration writing speak of the sword being the soul of the samurai, it seems clear to me that it is your son’s memory that is a large part of this sword of yours.
my sympathies with your continuing journey.
mona
i chanced upon you blogsite by accident and i just can’t help but drop a line to offer my sympathies to you and your family.
i have a 10-year old son and i cannot even bear the thought of losing him.
may God bless you.
melody
Your son is so lucky to have parents like you. God bless!
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