This Is What I Know
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Dual Funk
March 13, 2005
I have been in a kind of dual funk - ever since Eric died. The duality of the funk includes my continuation of my daily life, and the fact that everything is different - it’s all changed.
The change started the morning that B wrote about the accident, and that she couldn't find Eric, and that she called hospitals, and then that "ric is dead".
That was the subject line - "ric is dead".
The subject line was all there was. No other words.
There were no other words available or necessary.
I waited for my heart to stop beating - then I waited for it to start again.
I waited for my next breath. It was a long time coming. I waited for the grief to set in. I sat here at this stupid computer, staring at the screen, staring at the words, hoping they’d change, waiting.
They didn’t change.
Then I went into emergency mode, which is a way to deal with life’s tragedies. (Emergency mode, when I’m here, and B is there is really useless.) But emergency mode means responding in some way.
It means -- Jackie Kennedy, -- and it means -- "I don't know what to say" and it means, -- "I love you, Brenda and Scott, and I know my love doesn't mean shit!!"
I met Eric. I remember Eric. I saw him bounce in to the room, and perch on the couch, I watched him smile at his Mom, and at his lady, and at his family, and I couldn't breathe.
I will NEVER forget him.
His picture hangs on my wall, under the picture of my K. His sweet picture, waving.
Waving hello. Or goodbye. Sweet baby, with a face like his mother's. And like his Dad's.
Eric died on January 3rd, 2005. I will always remember that day. After I read my emails, I went in to the 'office', and I said, "Eric is dead. Eric, the eldest son of the sweetest lady - he's dead. I hate this whole world!"
Dead. I used the word 'dead'. Over and over again.
And I was MAD.
Never, even once, did I thank God, or the Goddess, or anybody, that it wasn't my K.
Never, not even once. (Which makes it possible for me to actually look at my old face in the mirror every morning.)
Every time B writes, with "Grief" on the subject line, I read what she has written. She doesn't have to get 'over' this - but she has to get through it. The only way out, is through. And I can’t do or say, one damn thing that will help. Maybe somebody can, but I can’t. I really don’t know - and she doesn’t want me ever to really know.
I've read what Eric wrote, and I want to read what else he wrote. I will always remember him - those tiny moments I knew him, I will remember --always.
I am extremely grateful to him. Grateful to Eric.
Why? Because life is a crap shoot.
Every time -- all of it. There is no 'fair', there is no 'safe', there are no trades. Eric showed me this - completely - on the day he died, and every day since.
Re-wind.
When my eldest son was born, 34 years ago, this country was floundering in the quagmires that included VietNam. My brother said to me, when I held that tiny person in my arms, (I was 21), "When he is 18, he will go to VietNam, and die there." My brother was wrong. (He is very glad to be wrong, by the way.) He said that before he had children. He said that before he knew that yes, there would eventually be somebody on the planet he would kill for.
34 years ago, my sweet brother was 25.
When I decided to have another baby, and my youngest son was born, my K, I realized that -- now that I had my K, it would NOT be 'alright' to lose my Christopher.
There are no trades.
They are both so different, my two sons. So completely different from each other, partly because they had such different mothers. (They had the same mother - me - but I was different.) And they had different worlds. Christopher is the child of my soul. Kevin is the child of my other soul. My grandsons are my soul - so, what to do?
To have a son who is a Marine - to send that son to war - again. And again. And yet, AGAIN! To know that what ever the press releases were, my baby was not 'safe'.
Nobody was 'taking care' of him!
I lost my whole focus, I couldn't think, or plan, or do, I couldn't be who I was, because my baby was getting shot at, and as often as I'd told him to be his own self, as often as I tried to give him the skills he'd need to deal with the world as it is, instead of how it should be, as often as I'd watched him actually do what I'd taught him, and what he learned his own SELF ...... it didn't matter. I was lost and drowning -- in possibilities and "what if..?" Nobody understood what it was like for this Mom of a Marine, except other Moms of Marines. (When people asked me how my K was, I usually said, “There are no Marines on my porch.” I said this gladly, and with a laugh, but only the other Moms of Marines laughed back, and were glad with me. People who didn’t personally know any Marines were appauled. It was very sad, actually.)
When Cpl. Amaya was killed, my K was standing about 4 feet from him. My K told me later that it was like "a light switch. It was on, then it was off. He was there, then he was gone." In all my hippie hawk-ness, (I was a hippie, but now I’m real Hawk-y - not for the Administration, but for the kids who are actually doing the work.) I asked my K, "Did you get them?"
He was quiet, and then he said, "I think so. We grabbed Amaya, and pulled back. The building we were in was there, but now it's NOT."
There are no trades, but sometimes, weird things are as comforting as they can be, when there is no comfort. And there is no comfort, but there is a --- shift.
Eric performed a paradigm shift for me, on the day he died. I know that was not his intention. I know that he didn't remember me, or mine, or anything about us, but I am extremely grateful to him, for the light that is him, and I will never forget him. He changed everything. The whole world has shifted. My approach to everything is changed. Eric changed it all.
Because, as much as it matters, it doesn't matter - it makes no difference. There is no 'okay' way to lose a child. There is also no completely safe place - Eric's death is every mother's nightmare about her kid-who-drives. Or her kid-who-rides.
Little did we ever know – it’s not the driving or not driving, it’s not the shooting, or the not shooting. It’s not what we taught our kids, or didn’t teach them – sometimes shit just happens. And there is nothing we can do, except love one another. And remember.
It doesn’t matter if both my sons are here, in this country, or if only one is here and the other is in Iraq. Nobody in Iraq is specifically gunning for my K - Nobody here is specifically after my Christopher, either. And because I have one son, it would never be ‘alright’ to lose the other. I had one grandson, but when I found out there would be another baby, I wondered, “Can I love another grandchild as much as I love him?”
I managed, though, to love them both. I love them both so completely it amazes me.
But, there are no trades.
Eric's light is not gone. Only Eric is gone. There is no comfort in that, but then - there is no comfort. There is only the ‘shift.’ (Thanks, Eric.)
Lots of us grieve for the loss of Eric.
His mother, his father, his brother, his sisters, even me.
And at the same time, he isn’t lost. But he is gone.
The only way out, is through. (But sometimes, ‘through’ seriously SUCKS.)
In Eric’s name, and in the name of all who have buried their babies, I will tell the people I love, that I love them. I will do that, because that’s all I can do. Except remember. And I will remember.
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