Knowing/Not Knowing

            It’s one thing knowing it. It’s quite another saying it.

            It’s been quite a while since I had to tell anyone new that I was the parent of a dead child (those who already know probably hear me say it too much).  Pretty much everyone who ought to have known found out right when Colin died.  Since then, it’s something I kind of chose to keep to myself.  Like, why bum the room out with that information, if it’s just someone with whom I’m making small talk.

            Now I’ve gotten to bring it up three times in just a month.  It’s an odd sensation.  I mean, there’s no good way to present the story.  There’s no “Here’s a funny anecdote lead-in.”  There’s no way to soften it all.  I try to say “This is going to be heavy,” but “heavy” doesn’t really do justice to a kindergartener dying of cancer.  But you also don’t want to bludgeon your way into the conversation that way.

            I suppose it comes down a bit to how I think others view me.  I’ll catch us in the backyard, when we’ve tempted the kids outside and Murphy isn’t actively barking at a neighbor and we look like a happy family.  We are a happy family.  We genuinely enjoy each others’ company.  But I can’t help but think how someone looking in from the outside would act.  Should we not be dressed in black?  Should we not be having a moment of silence for Colin at every family gathering?  Should we not all be openly weeping?

            The radio show I listen to on my phone while making the kids’ lunches each morning keeps coming up unexpectedly with shows that touch on death, which is always an unexpected kick to the gut.  Just a day or so ago, I listened to one about the parents of one of the victims of Sandy Hook taking on the internet trolls who insist that no children died that day.  In this instance, the trolls had latched on to the fact that the dead boy’s mother seemed so composed in a TV interview.  Shouldn’t she be crying?  How could she have had time to get her nails and makeup done?  How come she’s not a complete mess?  Those were the questions they asked as they sought to prove she was an actor.

            It’s because you have two choices when a child dies.  You can crumple up into a ball or you can choose to keep on living.  And if you have other surviving children, you really need to pick the option where you keep living, because someone has to care for them.  That’s what it comes down to.

            And then, after you’ve lived a while longer, you run into new people who don’t know you spent a summer in a hospice and that your wife spends part of every weekend tending to your son’s grave.

            The first case was a professional one.  Not to get into details, but I’m exploring my options professionally.  And it became necessary during this Zoom call to find out how much time any new options would give me for my surviving children.  I didn’t want to beat around the bush, so I laid it out there.

            Then, this last weekend, I was at the school where Emma goes and where Noah is going to start in August.  I remembered that, although we told the head office about Colin, the news never got to Emma’s classroom.  So, when everyone introduced themselves and Emma got up to talk about her dead brother, the poor teachers never had a clue what was coming.  I wanted to avoid it, so I pulled aside the English teacher and asked what I should do.  Not that the English teacher has anything to do with any of this, but because I didn’t want to go through this in German.

            And then a friend I hadn’t heard from in years emailed out of the blue.  And asked how I was doing.

            You can tell when you break open this news that you’ve ruined their day.  You could tell the Zoom lady was happy not to be in the room with me.  You could tell the old friend by email was happy to quickly change the topic to the nightmare of work and home repairs.  The English teacher was the hardest, since I was right there.  I could tell as I told her that I was breaking into my nervous laugh, because it’s the laugh I do when I’m nervous, but what a bad time for it.  She teared up and asked out loud why she was getting so sad.  She had the good graces to not ask why I was acting like I was sharing a knock-knock joke.  Like wandering around telling people about Colin’s death is just something I do.

            It’s going to happen again.  It probably would have happened a lot more in the last few years if not for all the lockdowns.  Christina recently had to tell someone and worried for a few weeks after that this person was going to cut us out of her life, due to the sheer surprise (she didn’t).

            Another of those radio shows I listen to involved people who were fat.  This one woman, who is apparently fat (it’s a radio show … I can’t say) had started telling her friends and acquaintances that she was fat.  The general reaction was that, well, um, they had noticed.  But it was still a different vibe in the air.  There was a transition from “Everyone knows, but we don’t talk about it” to “Now we have talked about it.”  On some level I get it.  It’s one thing that I act weird when the topic of sick and dying children comes up.  It’s quite another when I’ve told a person to their face why it’s a tough topic.

            It comes down to this: I look too normal.  There’s no warning bells that I’m a little broken inside.  For instance, the new dog-walking friend I have has no idea what’s gone wrong with my life up until now.  Then again, I have no idea what’s up with him.  And maybe that’s the trick to it.  I can’t tell everybody.  And the people I do tell won’t have fun while they’re being told.  And maybe it’s good being anonymous every now and then and not having to share the weight of Colin’s death with just anybody.  But sometimes, maybe it is good to get it out.  As usual, there are no good answers.  There’s just getting through it all.