What scares me about this horrific anniversary is that it’s only the first. Knowing I have to live the rest of my life without Charlie is what breaks me everyday.  Today was not any harder for me than yesterday or last week because I face Charlie’s death every second of everyday.  This isn’t a “sometimes” thing.  The only comfort or peace I’ve been able to accept is that the worst year is over. At least I think it is.  I’ve read that some people felt that the second year was the toughest and I’ve also read that the fifth year is the hardest.  Who knows?  All I know is that grief is as unique as the person carrying it.  Honestly, I can’t imagine ever experiencing the soul numbing pain that consumed every waking second of my life in those early months again. I know that I do feel different now. Not better. Different. One doesn’t get better after the death of their child. We just learn how to better carry our grief. That doesn’t mean there aren’t days where it’s just too much.  The weepy days when the smallest little thing triggers a bout of crying.  The angry days when the smallest little thing sets me off.  These days will forever be a part of who I am.

Today was extremely difficult.  Make no mistake about it.  But everyday is difficult.  We have an amazing support network that has helped us through since day one.  It was humbling and uplifting to see all of the family and friends at church to support us.  The amount of cards, emails, and text messages reminded us that we are not walking this unfathomable journey alone.  The number of visits to this blog today and since I launched it has surprised me.  I struggled to start this blog and I constantly struggle with its continuation.  I was concerned that people would not read it because they wouldn’t want to “go to the pain” of reading about me getting my heart ripped out. I am concerned it not as much about Charlie and his life as it is about my life without him.  I try to balance the two but I’m never satisfied with what I write but that’s just me being tough on myself.  As usual.  I tell Vanessa after every post that it was my last post.  I’ve told my sister Liz I’ve quit this blog countless times.  I’ve written 23 posts since June and after this one I’ll have had over 30,000 visits to my blog.  I realized pretty early on that my writing has helped some other bereaved parents.  Someone who lost a child is reading.  Someone who lost a child is watching the videos.  Someone who lost a child is looking at the pictures.  Someone that loves someone who lost a child is reading,watching, and looking too.  That’s enough for me to keep posting.

It’s been one year since my soul has been obliterated.  Personally, today didn’t bring anymore pain or grief than what I already fight everyday.  I miss Charlie like crazy but I don’t miss him any less today than I did one year ago.  It seems like I haven’t held Charlie in an eternity.  It’s been the longest year of my life.  It feels like yesterday when he died in my arms.  It’s been the fastest year in my life.  I haven’t been with Charlie in a year.  It’s been the worst year of my life.

Below is a video of pictures that my cousin made for us right after Charlie died.  It has his favorite songs dubbed over which means that youtube will eventually take it down.  If you’d like a copy leave a comment and I’ll try to mail you one.  The music kills me.  I remember Char walking around the house with my iPhone singing along to the songs.  He loved what he called, “The Alabama Song,” so much that he knew all of the words of the first two verses.

He was watching the movie Open Season.  There was a part in which the deer crashed through a glass door while riding in a shopping cart.  Charlie loved how he yelled, “Hey,” before he went through the glass.  Watching it once was never enough.  He always asked, “Can we do that again?”  Of course we can, Char.    Of course we can.

In all of my posts, I’ve always written “when Charlie went to heaven” or “Charlie is in heaven.”  I have never written the following sentence.  Charlie is dead.  Maybe I thought that if I didn’t write that sentence it would not be true.  But it is true.  My sweet, engaging, beautiful, and loving son is dead.  He is gone forever.  I have a hard time believing that I will see him again.  The stories about heaven and being reunited with your loved ones, while comforting and idealistic to most, provide zero solace for me lately.  I know I once wrote, and honestly believed, that the best part about today is that I am one day closer to being with Charlie again.  I’m not believing that lately.  All I believe is what I know and all I know is Charlie is dead.

You be forced to make the decision to end life support for your son.  You hold your son when he’s taken off the ventilator and physically feel the life leave his body as it goes limp in your arms.  You go to the funeral home to check to see if your son looks “ok” in the open casket the day before his wake.  (He doesn’t look ok. He looks dead.)  You go to the cemetery to pick out a niche suitable for your son’s ashes.  You walk into his empty bedroom every morning and night.  Actually feel the grief of losing your child- not grandparent, parent, sibling, spouse, or friend- ripping apart your insides and then you can talk to me about heaven and all of it’s promises.  But even then, I’m still not listening.  (I’m not diminishing anyone’s grief over the loss of a loved one.  But if you’re a parent, you know without a shadow of doubt that if you had to choose between your kid or anyone else you would choose your kid to live everytime.)

I don’t want empty promises about being reunited in heaven.  I don’t want sympathetic overtures about having an angel look down upon me.  I don’t want quotes from the Bible, reassurances that God has a plan, plays to my ego that He only gives these burdens to those who can carry them, or that He only takes the good ones early.  You say God has a plan, huh?  You obviously like this plan b/c in this plan you still have your kid.  He only gives this burden to those whom can carry it?  You realize that means you’re not strong enough. It means you’re weak.  When people tell me, “I don’t know how you do it,” I get pretty annoyed.  What else can I do?  There’s really only one other option than not living and that’s ending my life.  I’m not going to do that but it doesn’t mean I’m more capable to carry this burden than you or anyone else.  He only takes the good ones early?  According to your illogical declaration that means your kid, and everyone else that is alive, is not good. (Hey, you said it. I didn’t.)  Nothing you can say to me, especially regarding God and heaven, will make Charlie’s death any easier for me to accept.

I’m not angry at God.  I’m not happy with God.  I guess it’s more of an indifference glazed with some disbelief.  I know Charlie is dead. . . I felt him die in my arms.  I don’t know if heaven is real. . . I’ve never been there.  I’ve read many books, including much of the Bible, that claim otherwise but I’m still not believing.  I remember someone telling me, “You will hold Charlie again.”  I cried. Not because I missed Charlie at that moment but b/c I didn’t believe him.  (This isn’t an invitation for anyone to try to convince me otherwise. It’s something I have to work through by myself.)  Immediately following Charlie’s death we went to church every week but the only reason I went was b/c Vanessa wanted to go. We eventually stopped going but I’m not sure why.  I just know Vanessa stopped asking if I wanted to go and I wasn’t about to force the issue b/c I didn’t feel it helped me.  I didn’t feel any closer to God or Charlie at church.  I just replayed Charlie’s funeral mass over and over in my head or I spent most of the time torturing myself by watching other children that were Charlie’s age interact with their parents.  The rest of the time I spent asking God, “Why?”  (I soon realized that I’ll never know why and have completely stopped asking myself that dangerous and unanswerable question.)

My tank is running low on faith but it’s not empty.  I have not found peace through prayer but that doesn’t mean I’ve completely eliminated it from my life.  God has always been a part of my life.  I went to a Catholic elementary and middle school.  I even went to a Jesuit university.  It’s been a while since we’ve gone to church but we’re going on the 23rd, Charlie’s Death Day.  The 12:10pm mass at Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago has been dedicated to Charlie.  January 23rd.  Just another Monday to everyone else but not to us. I’ll go to church.  I’ll ask God for forgiveness for all of the bad things I’ve thought about Him, my sins, and my dwindling faith.  I’ll even ask him to take care of Charlie in heaven.  (I said my faith was running low, not completely extinguished.)

When I told Vanessa the other day that I don’t think I believe in heaven she seemed shocked.  After all, it was me in those early days after Charlie died that was reassuring her that he was safe in heaven.  It was me that told her that Jesus personally came to lead Charlie to heaven and that he was never scared or alone.  It was me that promised her that we’d see Charlie again.  And I believed every syllable I uttered to Vanessa.  Now here I am telling her I think it’s all bullshit.  That I don’t believe in heaven and I don’t think I’ll ever see Charlie again.  Vanessa was quick to say that if she doesn’t have faith in God then she’s left with nothing.  No hope of life after death.  No hope of being reunited with Charlie. No hope of achieving even the slightest amount of inner peace.  Vanessa is keeping the faith and helping me hang onto what little shreds I have left.  Honestly, I want to believe.  I want to have faith.  It’s just so hard.  I am not as strong as you think.  I am broken and a lot of my faith has seeped through the cracks.

“Off the Diving Board: A grieving dad’s leap of faith into a life without his son.”  I believed it when I first wrote it six months ago. I even thought it was clever. After all, Charlie loved that diving board and he jumped off without any hesitation b/c he had faith in me being there.  I stand on the edge of a different diving board.  My board is over a vast darkness that represents the void in my soul.  I walk out to the end of that board everyday I wake up. Some days I’m like Charlie. Unafraid and eager to take that leap. Most days I’m scared and paralyzed with the fear of the unknown.  The fear of facing another day without my son.  The fear of not knowing if I’ll ever be with Charlie again.  I need to find the strength to make that leap.  I need to believe I’ll hold Charlie again.  I need to have a little faith.

We miss hearing you remind us that your are a good boy and not on the naughty list like Swiper.

We miss hearing you tell us what you want for Christmas.  Last year you would say, “Thomas Trains, Hungry Hungry Hippos, and presents.  And that’s all I want for Christmas.  Please.”  Always please.

We miss getting the milk and cookies ready for Santa with you.

We miss hearing your mischievous giggle at the top of the stairs when you’re supposed to be in bed.

We miss hearing you talk yourself to sleep.

We miss having you wake us up and hearing you say, “Santa brought us presents!”  Never “me” or “mine”.  Always “us” and “ours”.  You were such a sweet and tender boy.

We miss hearing your say, “Can we open it?” in your raspy and melodic voice after EVERY present you unwrapped.  (I miss your voice so much.)

We miss you so much.  This week has been hard but I want to thank you for our present. On 12/23/11, exactly eleven months after you went to heaven, your Aunt Liz and Uncle Eshoo delivered your cousin.  Natalie Charlie Eshoo came screaming into this world weighing 7lbs and 3oz.  For the first time, I truly feel you’ve sent me a sign and it’s the best present I’ve ever received.

Merry Christmas Charlie.  We miss you.

Here’s a clip from Christmas morning last year.  Charlie’s generous and endearing personality is on full display here.  Instead of feeling full of love and happiness this year, I feel violated and cheated.  He was such a good boy.  It’s so unfair he’s not with us.

(My initial reaction was that of excitement.  I figured Char had awoken a little early and asked Vanessa if he could call me.  I looked at the caller id and see it’s my Mom.  My stomach hit the floor.)

“Mom, why are you calling me?”

“Bry, Charlie is sick.  Vanessa is with him at the hospital.  He’s been having seizures and they can’t get them to stop.  You need to come home.”

I don’t remember too much after hearing those words.  I remember breaking down in the shower.  The brevity of the situation crashing down upon me as I tried to digest what the hell was happening back in Chicago.  I tried to tell my friends to stay and that I’d find a commercial flight home.  They would have none of that.  I was in trouble.  I needed help.  And there was no way a single one of them would let me go it alone.  (I have the best friends a guy could ask for.  And I love all of you.  Thank you for all you’ve done and continue to do.)  I finally got a hold of Vanessa.  I could hear the desperation in her voice.  “He’s coded twice.  They’re giving him a spinal tap.  Please get here as fast as you can.”

We had to stop twice on the way back to refuel.  I was able to get scattered reports from family members about Charlie- none of which had good news or encouraging updates.  Just a bunch of unanswered questions, fear, and tears.  When I finally got to the hospital, Charlie was getting a MRI so I was unable to see him.  They told us to wait up in the PICU and that he’d be up there in a little bit.  I couldn’t wait in the room so I stood by the elevator and waited to see my son.

I will NEVER forget the moment his bed came out of the elevator.  “That is not my son,” I said to no one in particular but to everyone around me.

The nurses and doctors, most of whom are Vanessa’s friends and colleagues, started sobbing when I said that b/c they knew too.  The lifeless body with empty eyes on that bed was not my Charlie.  It was a body that once hosted the beautiful spirit of my son.  Dr. Belmonte approached me with tears filling his already red and puffy eyes.  I asked him, “If he lives, will it be in a vegetative state?”  Frank -I’m referring to Dr. Belmonte as Frank here b/c it was Frank, not Dr. Belmonte, that answered my question- looked me dead in the eye and answered me as a friend, fellow father, and man.  “Yes.  It is very likely that he will be in a vegetative state.”

I knew it was over the instant I saw Charlie on that bed.  There was never a glimmer of hope for me.  I could tell just by looking at him.  I couldn’t feel the energy or aura that defined Charlie. We sat by his bed all day and night.  Family and friends that were visiting were telling me to hold out hope and that there was still a chance he’d come around but I knew they were either trying to make me feel better, delusional, or both.  The next morning they did more tests on his body.  I remember the doctor pushing so hard on his abdomen that I got angry b/c I thought he was hurting him.  Charlie didn’t flinch.  (I’m told he didn’t flinch when he received the spinal tap either.  This haunts the doctor who performed the spinal tap to this day.)  They did more tests desperately seeking some sort of reaction.  All produced the result I knew they would.  Completely brain dead.  They told us we could keep him on the machines but there was no chance of a recovery.  We had to make a decision no parent should ever have to make.

Charlie officially died the instant we turned off life support on January 23rd, 2011 but in my eyes he was dead before I even got to the hospital the day before.  That was not my son hooked up to those machines.  That was Charlie’s body but that was not my son.  Vanessa and I were allowed as much time as we wanted to be with Charlie.  We stayed with him for hours but it felt like 30 seconds.  We held him.  We read to him. We washed him.  I remember picking him up and holding him with his arms draped around my shoulders and trying to squeeze the life back into him as I uncontrollably sobbed.  I also vividly remember the big bump on the back of his head near his neck.  It’s where his skull cracked from the pressure of his brain exploding.  A while later we finally had to say our goodbye and left the room where I literally felt my son die in our arms.  I have not been the same since.

                            ——————————————————————

That is not my Daddy.

My Daddy isn’t crippled by guilt.  Not a second goes by where he doesn’t beat himself up for not being home the one morning I needed him most.  My Daddy doesn’t get anxious going to work, hanging out with friends and family, or meeting new people.  He never knew what anxiety felt like until January 23, 2011.  Now he can’t walk 10 steps without thinking if the person who just passed him notices the pain in his eyes.  My Daddy isn’t afraid to love deeply and without fear of loss.  He never feared anything.  Now he checks on Danny in the middle of the night to make sure he’s breathing.

Nope.  The man you see hiding behind the shaggy hair, scraggly beard, and sunken eyes is not my Daddy.  He’s a man wounded and forever changed by losing me.  He’s a man that cherishes my memory and agonizes over my spirit and life being trivialized or forgotten.  He’s a man that can’t look at his wife without being absolutely crushed by the fact she had to experience that fateful morning alone.  He’s a man that hates himself with an unforgiving and unquantifiable intensity because he was not there to help me.  Because of this hatred he is sometimes blinded from all of the good still left in his life.  The man you see will never be the man that was my Daddy again. . .  but he’s promised me to try to let his love flow freely and deeply.  It’s going to be extremely difficult but he’s going to will himself to do it.  He can’t give up.  He won’t give up.  He’s going to do it for Vanessa.  He’s going to do it for Danny.  He’s going to do it for my new sibling on the way.  He’s going to do it for me.  THAT is my Daddy and it’s why I love him.

Here is a video of Charlie when he was 20 months.  I miss him so much.

I’ve spent the last nine months stumbling around with this feeling of emptiness still trying to process what has happened to us.  As I’ve said a thousand times over, Charlie was my everything.  I could never get enough of him and he could never get enough of me.  If I was running an errand, he was coming with me.  If I was going to do yard work or shovel, he was coming with me.  No matter where I was going, Charlie was going too.  And I cherished every second of it.  That’s not grief stricken hyperbole either.  That’s the truth.  And it’s why it hurts so much.  It’s why I can physically feel the emptiness.  I loved Charlie deeper than I knew I could love anyone.  My sole purpose in life was to be the best father I could be.  To me, beyond providing for him, this meant spending as much time with him as possible.  It gave me that unspoken bond I shared with him.  I wasn’t proud because I was a dad.  I was proud because I was Charlie’s Dad.  I loved taking him places to show him off.  I knew I had something special in this kid and I wanted the world to experience him too.

Then it was all ripped away.  In one short day, I went from feeling complete and whole to empty and shattered.  Everything has changed.  My life has been turned upside down, shaken up, and kicked to the curb.  I feel empty.  I feel cheated.  I feel violated.

Do you know how sometimes you have a dream that feels real?  The kind of dream where you wake up and you might be crying or experiencing that “pit in your stomach” feeling.  I’ve been having dreams in which I am chasing and fighting people.  I can never see who I’m fighting but it’s usually more than one person.  That empty feeling burns inside as I’m chasing after these shadows.  It rages as I pound them with my fists.  (Vanessa has mentioned how she can tell when I’m having these dreams b/c of my thrashing in bed.)  I don’t always catch these shadows.  It seems like I keep running after something that can’t be caught.  But when I do catch them it’s violent.  Lately, I’ve been killing these shadows with my bare hands.  There are many times when I get killed.  Most of the time, however, they manage to get away from me.  The majority of these types of dreams end with me feeling defeated and exhausted as I watch a shadow run further away from me.

When I wake up my heart is racing and my muscles are tense.  It feels like I just got into a fight but I don’t have the sore hands, face, or body that usually accompany a good ol’ fist fight.  The dreams feel so real.  I’ve read that dreams where I’m chasing someone signifies that I’m attempting to overcome a difficult goal or task.  I’ve also read that dreams about fighting may parallel a fight or struggle that I’m going through in my waking life.  Check aaannd check.

I still haven’t had a dream with Charlie in it.  I haven’t experienced any signs or “God winks” from Charlie either.  I can’t turn Charlie on.  Maybe that is what I’m chasing in my dreams?  A sign from Charlie.  I feel that void all day everyday.  There will be moments when my stomach drops because it feels like I forgot something important.  I become panicky and my heart feels like it’s going to pop out of my chest.  I quickly realize that Charlie is no longer with me.  I yearn for my stomach to drop in exhilaration instead of terror.  I need one of those “God winks” in a bad way.

These past few weeks have been my best stretch since Charlie went to heaven.  Hard to explain but I can tell you it hasn’t felt like I am going to be sucked into that giant void in my soul.  My guy Danno has been a BIG reason for this.  I still think about Charlie constantly, always injecting him into whatever situation I find myself whether it be at swim class or bedtime, but it hasn’t been reducing me to a sobbing heap of a man.  It’s the reason why I haven’t written in a while either.  Crying sucks and I can never write without crying.  So I’ve taken a break.

But the holidays are coming.  My sister Liz’s baby is coming.  A bunch of “firsts” that are the wrong kind of firsts mixed in with Danny’s firsts are coming. It makes me want to scream.  It makes me want to cry.  My life is a paradox and there is no relief in sight.  I need Charlie but I can’t have him.  I can’t turn Charlie on.

Charlie loved watching the videos of himself on our Flip camera.  He figured out how to turn it on and find whichever video he was looking for but sometimes he’d accidentally begin recording.  This is one of those instances.  Charlie was 2 years and 5 months in this video.  Five months before he went to heaven.

Aside from seeing Dan for the first time, the most memorable moment of that morning was leaving Charlie to go to the hospital.  He would not let go of me as I tried to leave the house to get Vanessa to the hospital.  He never had separation anxiety before and dropping him off at daycare or with a babysitter was never a problem.  That morning was the first time I heard him say, “Don’t leave me Daddy!”  He was desperately trying to free himself from my sister and crying as we pulled out of the driveway.  I cried as I drove to the hospital.  (Man, I cry a lot.)  I felt so guilty.  It felt like I was cheating on Charlie.  That scene of Charlie hysterically crying as I drove AWAY from him still plays over and over in mind.  I had a hard time dealing with Charlie thinking I was leaving him.

One of the best things about young children is that they have short memories.  Or they are quick to forgive.  Three hours later when Charlie came into the room to meet his “baby brudda” he was all smiles and eager to see Danny.  At no point was there a whiff of jealousy or resentment coming from Charlie about his brother.  Any fears I had of Charlie not responding well to his little brother were squashed immediately.  Charlie loved Danny with every fiber of his being and it made me swell with pride that I helped raise such a tender and loving little boy.

This post is supposed to be about Danny.  It’s his 1st birthday.  But, of course, it’s about Charlie.  Everything is and it’s beyond unfair to Danny.  Singing Happy Birthday is going to be tough but I’m going to try my best to live in the moment and enjoy it with Danny, Vanessa, our family and friends, and Charlie.

Happy 1st Birthday to my son Daniel Thomas Tobin.  Thank you for not only showing me there is light in this darkness but for guiding me towards it.  Mommy and I love you more than life itself.  I am sorry you got cheated out of ever knowing your older brother.  He loved you very much and will always look after you.

Kneeling over Jim at the wake and the morning of the funeral felt like a tidal wave of emotion crashing down on me.  I tried to prepare myself for this surge but my preparation proved to be futile.  Seeing the casket as I walked in felt like I was reliving Charlie’s wake.  I was in a state of shock during Charlie’s wake/funeral so my true emotions were unconsciously suppressed to help me cope.  They were definitely not for Uncle Jim’s wake/funeral.

I’ve been struggling with a wide range of emotions and thoughts the past eight months.  This past week has not only magnified these thoughts and emotions but they also introduced some new ones.  (These may be alarming and difficult to understand but you must remember that my life is alarming and even more difficult to understand.  My thought process and feelings are abnormal.  I know I’m kind of crazy and the guilt I feel for some of these feelings is immeasurable.  It’s a side effect of losing my son.)

I’m jealous of Uncle Jim.  Yep, you read that correctly.  I want to be in heaven with Charlie and I am jealous of Jim b/c he gets to be there.  Do you know what I find to be great about today?  I’m one day closer to being with Char again.  I don’t know when that day will come but it will come and I find solace in knowing that I’m at least one day closer to it.  It’s one of the tricks I play on my mind to get me out of bed each day.  When I heard that Jim had passed I was initially jealous.  I wrote my last post the day after Jim died and it scared a lot of people close to me b/c it seemed a little suicidal.  Naturally, it was a little more emotionally charged than most of my recent posts b/c it was my first loss of someone I loved since Charlie.  Let me be clear with everyone.  I do not want to die.  I’m just jealous that Jim is in heaven hangin with Charlie and I’m down here desperately seeking some sort of attachment to Char.

I was relieved when I got the news that Jim had passed away and I hate myself for it.  I loved this man and I hate knowing that the next family party is going to now be missing two people.  I hate admitting that I’m relieved he’s in heaven.  Especially after watching his wife and sons go through their loss.  Watching Jim’s parents, Babe and Popi, have to endure losing their son killed me b/c I know their pain and it is, without question, the worst kind of pain.  But knowing that my guy Jim is up there with Charlie filled me with a sense of relief because I’ve always been afraid that Charlie didn’t know anyone in heaven.  My grandma passed away when Charlie was only a year and a half so he didn’t really know her.  Char knew Jim and it made us feel a little better knowing that Uncle Jim was up there hanging with Charlie again.  Jim had an uncanny ability to make everyone feel comfortable, safe, and welcomed.  I know he’s looking over and protecting my Charlie until I get up there and it makes me feel relieved.

The guilt I have for feeling the way I do is immense.  I felt guilty at Jim’s wake/funeral b/c all I could think about was Charlie.  Before the funeral service began, the family was able to say one last goodbye before the casket would be closed.  When I walked up to pay my final respects I noticed an orange “Charlie” bracelet on Jim’s hand and I lost it.  During the funeral service all I could think about were the impending Prayers of the Faithful. When the time came and the first couple of prayers were read I wasn’t really listening.  My body began to shake uncontrollably as I knew it was getting closer to me hearing, “For those who have died.  Especially (name I forget), (name I forget), (name I forget), and Charlie Tobin.  Let us pray to the Lord.”  This absolutely gutted me.  I accidentally let out an audible sob and buried my face into my hands.  I was convulsing as I was trying to catch my breath without openly wailing.  I haven’t cried that hard in a long time.  I guess hearing it in church makes it more absolute or final for me.  It’s further proof that this is indeed not a bad dream.

Like I’ve said 100′s of times before, everything is different now.   I can’t go and mourn the death of a loved one without being completely consumed with Charlie.  Instead of being only sad over the loss of a loved one I become jealous of them and feel relieved that they’re in heaven with Charlie.  I hate myself for having these feelings and I wish I could apologize to Uncle Jim for them.  But I know he’d tell me to never apologize for these feelings I have, give me a big hug with his new found strength, and assure me that he’s taking care of Char.  And I would believe him b/c he took care of everyone else first and himself last.

I feel the grief ripping through me like bullets as tears fill my eyes. It feels like I got the wind knocked out of me. A sharp pounding fills my head. I feel weak and struggle to breath. I am wounded. But this wound does not bleed. It’s not visible.

Or maybe it is visible? Maybe my countenance screams, “This unrelenting and visceral agony is too much to handle.”  Maybe you’ve been around me and noticed that I am detached from the conversation or aloof in a social setting?  I find myself daydreaming about what Charlie would be doing with me at that moment the majority of my time spent awake. (I simply cannot turn it off.)  Maybe the dark circles under my eyes reveal the cold hard truth of sleepless nights spent staring out my window hoping for Char to come bounding into our room in the morning?

You’ve seen us around town, at parties, or at work and we probably seem to be doing better than you would’ve expected. You may have even talked about the strength we’ve exhibited throughout this tragedy. You need to know that right under that thin veil of composure is a parent destroyed by the death of their child and maintaining that stiff upper lip is a constant fight. At any moment something can set me off. A song on the radio. The recoil sound of a diving board. Everytime I start the lawnmower. (In the picture on Charlie’s prayer card, his right hand is on my lawn mower. “Can I use Daddy’s lawnmower” was a question he asked ad nauseam.) Tempering my sadness, or at least trying to temper it, whenever I’m being riddled with these bullets of grief is my new normal.

We have an amazing support system and we are extremely grateful for it. Our friends, family, and even strangers have all rallied around us. I was grocery shopping early one Saturday morning (no one is at the grocery store at that time and that’s how I like it) when a woman I did not know approached me. With a shaky voice and a quivering lip she asked, “Are you Bryan Tobin?” “I am,” I replied knowing exactly what was coming next. “You don’t know me but I know you. I will never pretend to know the depths of your pain but I do know that me and my family pray for you daily. I wish there was more that I could do but I know there isn’t. His life, your eulogy and your blog are an inspiration to us.” BOOM!  A shotgun blast to the soul. It’s painful to absorb but I like knowing Charlie inspires people.  I also hate it.  I hate the fact that Charlie is the cautionary tale that reminds people to cherish everyday of their life.  I hate the fact that parents who are feeling frustrated with their bratty kids remind themselves, “At least they’re still alive, unlike Charlie Tobin.”  I hate having to carry this burden of grief all day everyday.

This grief I carry reminds me of a quote I heard watching a 9/11 special this past weekend. “I carry this sadness everywhere. It’s like a brick in my pocket.” Perfectly said. It’s heavy. It’s hard. It’s rough. It’s awkward. But it’s mine. And I’ll always carry it with me as I run around dodging those bullets in this grief stricken firefight. It’s my normal.

I haven’t had any “signs” or instances in which I’ve felt Charlie.  I’m desperately waiting for my first one.  However, I heard a song on the radio the other day that inspired me to write this post b/c I interpreted the lyrics as Charlie talking to me.  (Almost all songs are about love and they all take on this angle for me now.  Yet another example of my new normal.)

“But the space between where you’re smilin’ high
Is where you’ll find me if I get to go
The space between the bullets in our firefight
Is where I’ll be hiding, waiting for you

The rain that falls splash in your heart
Ran like sadness down the window into your room
The space between our wicked lies
Is where we hope to keep safe from pain

Take my hand ’cause we’re walking out of here
Oh, right out of here, love is all we need, dear

The space between what’s wrong and right
Is where you’ll find me hiding, waiting for you
The space between your heart and mine
Is the space we’ll fill with time”

Char, the day I get to go to the place where you’re smilin’ high cannot come soon enough b/c there will be no more space between us if I get to go.  There is no space between the bullets in this firefight.  I’m under constant fire and I’m unable to find where you’re hiding and waiting for me.  The sadness doesn’t merely splash my heart, it floods it.  I tell myself wicked lies to keep me safe from pain but I know they’re lies so they don’t protect me at all.  Will I hold you again?  Please, I beg you to stop hiding from me.  Where is this space between what’s wrong and right?  This space between your heart and mine was filled with too much time the second you were gone.  I don’t think I can wait any longer.  Come talk at me in this space between.  PLEASE CHAR, COME TAKE MY HAND AND WALK ME RIGHT OUT OF HERE. . .

Two years ago Charlie and I were walking out of Starbucks when I ran into my 8th grade teacher.  I had maybe seen her a handful of times since Emily’s wake so I was unsure if she would recognize me.  That doubt was immediately squashed as I noticed her start to fight tears back as she said hello to me and Char.  I felt terrible because she obviously associated me with the year her daughter Emily passed away.  I wished that I was able to take some of her pain away, even if just a little.  But even then I knew that was impossible.

I saw my 8th grade teacher again seven and half months ago.  This time it was at my son Charlie’s wake.  I don’t remember too much from that day but I remember seeing her.  I remember thinking about the pain I saw in her eyes from that day I introduced Charlie to her and it scared me to death.  I knew immediately that Charlie going to heaven was something that I will never get over but seeing my teacher reaffirmed that feeling.

When I was in 8th grade I remember thinking how unfair it was that my teacher, who is a wonderful, loving, and devoted parent could lose her daughter.  I think about unfair it is that we lost our Charlie.  I think about the other “grief” blogs I follow and their authors. Men and women who are bumbling through this new life they’re forced to live. A life they were not expecting. A life walking an unforgiving and relentless path through pain and sorrow. A life which they will never wholly appreciate like they once did. A life without their child.

I follow them because I’m longing for a sense of normalcy and reading others’ views about this unthinkable pain that we share makes me feel like I’m not alone.  I read a post written by a grieving dad that shared how he greets other people who have lost a child.  He says, “It’s an unfortunate honor to meet you.”  Perfectly said.  These blogs are where I go when I I get the feeling that I coming unhinged.  They assure me that the million different emotions I’m feeling and thoughts racing around my head are not crazy.  Yep, I’m not alone.  I’m a member of group that has no voluntary members.  We’re all here against our will.  But it’s our will that will get us through.

I’ve added a list of blogs that I follow on the side of the page using a widget.  I’ve never heard of a widget until the other day and now understand how they work.  Introducing, My Blogroll Widget.  Thanks to the authors for writing these and helping me help myself to stay attached.