Amazing how much we get attached to our kids. From the minute they're born, we are inseparable. The more time goes by, the more we see them grow into themselves with their own beliefs, their own personality, their values and morals. No matter how distinct they may be from us, there is a measurable part of them that IS us. We can see ourselves in them. The way they talk, the way they think, the way they react and make choices, the way they move. Though they are their own person, we can definitely see yourself in your kids.
So when the unthinkable happens and you lose your child, which I certainly wish on nobody, it's like losing an arm or a leg (only worse!). You can certainly continue to live but things will not ever be the same again. Not only is there a physical change in the fact that he or she is gone, it's also the mental and spiritual one. A big chunk of your soul has disappeared. Whatever spiritual attachment you carried around with your child, it is now absent. This gives you that empty feeling where your child used to fill that space. It's like putting two snowballs together. The more you form the two together, the more they become one big round one. Then when you split them into two and one is gone, the one leaving takes part of you away but you also keep part of the one that left you. You are not the same as you were when you were together.
I find this to be very true when I do the things I did with Ben. For example, going to the mall. We used to eat at the food court often. Now, I find it difficult to even sit there or even smell the food. I can walk in the same stores we used to go frequent together, but I just look quickly and leave. I went to the Farmer's Market the other day. When I was with Ben, we would try all the cheeses, walk around and look at the different produce and things for sale and we would spend a good 2 hours there. Now, I walk around, pretending he is with me, but I find no enthusiasm in the things for sale. I buy one or two cheeses without trying them and then I would leave the market 10 minutes after I arrived.
Many people tell me that in time, things will get back to normal. I don't think that is true. My normal is having my son here, sharing everything with him, watching him grow and become an amazing human being with talents and passions. How can things return to normal when he is not in the picture? It's like a scar. You can't totally erase it. You can cover it up with concealer or makeup. You can get plastic surgery to try to make it disappear but it will always be there. Others may not see it but it's there and you know it is. This is the same whether physically or mentally. We carry this backpack of our lives everywhere we go until we die. Some things we can bury in the bottom but they will always be carried with us. This works for both good and bad. The good stuff we want to clip to the outside of the backpack so everyone can see, where we can also see them. Other things we want to hide away and never see them again.
When I was a child, I was so afraid of hearing the teacher call my name. This meant I had to answer a question or talk in class. I was so shy, I would get sick from getting nervous when I was called upon. I would turn red and start sweating. When I was in my last year of high school, in Ontario, we had grade 13, which was a preparatory grade for university. Within the first 3 weeks of class, I found out I had to do an oral presentation in Biology. I dropped all of grade 13 because of having to do that presentation. But after starting university, I came to a point where I told myself that I am denying myself all these classes and opportunities all because I can't stand up in front of people and say what I have to say. It just got unbearable. So I started teaching small art classes and I found it so much easier to talk to kids. Then I continued to push myself and started doing oral presentations in front of classmates at university. Soon, I was teaching 4th year university courses and doing workshops in front of hundreds of people. Sure I would still be nervous at first but once it got started, I felt better. Now I teach in front of kids and adults as a career. I pushed myself.
Losing Ben is totally different. It's not something I can overcome. It's not something I get over or push through to go beyond. Sure, I can push myself to do the things he and I did together, but I will never "get over" this lose. I will never be the same me, without him. I know ... You're probably thinking, "Well, weren't you your own person before your kids came along?" Yes, but with kids, you become another person. You no longer do things for yourself only. Most of what I do, I do for my kids. At least, that's how I do things. Even when I'm teaching, I will go out of my way to help a student feel better, or succeed, or overcome adversity. As a parent, your focus becomes your kids and everything for the good of the family. It becomes an entity. So, when I lost Ben, it was like my entire focus shifted into a blurry, spinning mess. Of course, I have my daughter, which I care so much about and will continue to focus on, but the entity that once was a system of four has now changed to a group of three. The dynamics is all different, not just for me but everyone in this entity. A long adaptation process needs to run its course.
Many days, I don't want this new situation to continue and I want to return to the old familiar family we had. Death is so final. There is NO going back. You have to turn the page, collect the memories and more forward. You have no choice. It's like going to school for the first time. You don't want to go but once you do, your everyday will forever change for the next 12 years and beyond.
All I know is that when you're so close to a child like this and you've spent so many years taking care of him, not just as your child but especially when he's been sick for so long, it's so difficult not to be able to take care of him anymore. It's difficult knowing his future stopped at 17 years old. All the future milestones, that he so deserved and should've had, he will never experience. When you see such a bright future, millimetres from his grasp, cut off forever, it's devastating.
I just hope there is something after all this where I will get to see Ben again and hold him one more time. As I've done most of my life as a father, I can only hope...
A Dad who's had to deal with the struggle and death, from cancer, of both his parents and his amazing son.