Just after I got my driver’s license I was using the family station wagon to run some errands.
I remember thinking, “Should I pull into that space between two parked cars or should I just go a bit further and make it easy on myself?” I channeled my dad’s voice which was always pushing me past my comfort zone, threw off my fear and started into the smaller space.
I kept trying to convince myself it was a dream. I was not going to have to go home and tell my father what I had done. It would disappear if only I wished hard enough.
But that was silly and untrue.
Denting the family wagon is small potatoes next to many other, bigger things I’ve faced in life.
And it is absolutely a zero on a scale of one to ten when considering the death of my son.
You can fix a dent. Even if it costs money and time.
You can’t fix child loss.
Because of that FACT-I wake every morning to the same awful reality: My child is dead. He’s not coming back. My life is forever changed. My family forever altered. My heart will carry this burden to the grave.
That makes waking up hard to do.
Each morning I must force myself to push through an invisible wall and set my feet on ground I’m not sure I want to walk upon.
I must open my eyes and abandon the sweet release of dreamless sleep.
I have to face the light and embrace reality.
Four years and it is still a shock.