June 25th, Caleb should be thirty years old.
I have not been as diligent writing about him on his birthday, but most things I write revolve around him.
- After so many prayers, crying, and tears, you made me a father when I was not. I became the happiest man ever… No longer the happiest man ever, I cry wanting you back.
- Even though we talked, if I had known, I would have said a million more things.
- every day for six weeks has been harder than the first three years combined. Not exaggerating… Time is not making things easier; it is harder.
- Each tick of the second hand pounds out, echoes, and waits for permission from an unknown force to move again. Time moves freakishly slow, such that by the end of the day, several years have passed.
- Months of sleep deprivation while listening to a screaming child for hours seem like torment to most people. It’s blissful compared to the screaming grief in my head now.
- I have people asking me when I am going to start living life. Asking me why I cannot go to church on Father’s Day or on Caleb’s Death Day.
- Caleb’s life, his humor, his spirit remain part of me. The elephant in the room is not just my grief; it’s my love, my story, my son.
When I was thirty, he was four years old. Sometime in that year, I dropped him off at daycare like every day, and 30 minutes later, just as I pull into the parking garage, I got a call from the daycare.
“Caleb fell and you need to come right away.”
“Is he okay? Do you need 9-1-1?”
“He seems okay, but may need stitches.”
I drive back a bit faster.
I arrive and he is standing right next to the bookcase he had climbed up, and fell off of, while biting his lower lip. He had a habit of doing things while biting that lip. He was crying and bleeding while a worker was holding an ice pack against his mouth.
“How bad is it?”
“We don’t know. He won’t let us look.”
“He is four. You’re the adult.” I am quite upset with them at this point. They tell me he did not need emergency services yet they have zero idea why he is bleeding.
I tell him I am going to look as I gently open his mouth. I see blood coming out of his lip and a tooth coming out there too.
“We’re going to the E.R.”
I drive to the closest emergency room, which was barely more than a glorified outpatient center. I walk in, lay my ID and insurance card down and say what is wrong. We are in a room within seconds.
The doctor gets him cleaned up and then tries to stitch the lip. Caleb is yelling at him.
“You’re hurting me. You’re hurting me. YOU’RE HURTING MEEEE!”
Over and over. The doctor is telling him he has to fix it.
I tell Caleb, “You’re making it worse. Try to be still and quiet. I know it hurts. Be a big boy and let the doctor help you.”
“He’s hurting me,” he yells.
Several stitches have ripped out. The doctor cleans him again, wraps him tightly in a sheet, and straps him down on the gurney. The nurse holds the sides of his head. He is unable to move anything.
Except his lips. “You’re hurting me!”
I hold his head, my eyes locked with his. The nurse holds his cheeks. I keep talking, reassuring, helping him through this pain. The doctor gets the stitches in.
We go home and he lays on the couch all day watching TV. Donna comes home after work, sees his stitches and bloodstains, and faints. She only faints when one of her kids is bleeding.
You being gone is now hurting me.
Still Dead, Still Here: Long Grief After Suicide. More at StillDeadStillHere.com.
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