The Leper and the Sundial

Plodding endlessly in an ocean of whispers and perpetual shadows.

I was over at a friend’s house the other night and was shocked to hear she hadn’t read any of Ken Follett’s Kingsbridge books. I consider her quite the literati who loves to to curl up on the couch, a good period history in hand. I imagine a tiny cup of Central Asian coffee steaming on the table, so thick she could eat it with a spoon.

I tried to capture the sweeping, epic nature of his books. I tried to paint her a picture of victories so sweet and trials so overwhelming you can feel them in your body. But, as a guy who tends to read way to much unrealistic military fiction, I think my description permanently turned her off the series. “And then, the guy clubs the other guy in the face once it’s a bloody pulp he tortures the dude’s wife to death. Then he goes to kill the nuns at the leper colony across the river. I think you should read it too.”

A book reviewer I am not. Clearly.

A Colony of One (or Two or Three)

Speaking of lepers, that’s what I’ve been feeling like the last week A leper, in a colony of one. I used to be Jason, the guy in the neighbourhood with a lovely wife and two kids and a good, solid home. I’m the guy that occasionally does weird stuff like ride his unicycle or carry his kettlebells down the street.

I was at the dog park on two separate days last week and someone came up to me and looked at me with their face scrunched up and said, “I’m so sorry. How are you doing? I can’t imagine.” I don’t know how they even knew I had kids much less that I am Chloe’s dad. They were simply being kind.

And I wanted to tell them to fuck off…that my life was none of their fucking business. I wanted to tell them that I just want to walk my fucking dogs in peace without someone feeling the need to remind me that Chloe’s dead. Heaven forbid I have two minutes without thinking about her.

I wanted to say, “You know what? I don’t fucking give a shit that your neighbour two houses ago lost their kid too. What would make you think I want or need to know that?”

Of course I didn’t do any of that. I smiled and said, “I appreciate you saying that. Sometimes it’s hard to know the right thing to say or even if there is a right thing.” I wonder if I even really do appreciate it? I think I do, because no one ever mentioning Chloe’s death would probably be even worse.

After the second interaction, I was struck with the image of myself as a leper. When I walk through the neighbourhood from now on I’m going to be “that poor guy.” “Did you know he lost his wife and now he’s lost his daughter too. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. Although I did have a neighbour two houses ago…..”

I’m different. People might be worried the dark cloud that follows me around is contagious. Perhaps some people will want to steer clear of me lest I inadvertently place a curse upon their house.

I find myself paying more attention to my posture lest someone look at me and think I’m a bent and nearly broken soul doing his best to plod through a newly meaningless life.

Are people going to look at me with mixtures of pity and admiration? Are they going to talk amongst themselves about me and our family and wonder how we’re coping? Will they have advice that they’ll tell each other about what we should be doing to get “closure?” Are they going to hesitate to ask me how I’m doing because they don’t want to bring up shitty memories? Are certain people going to avoid me because they just don’t know what to say.

I think all those things will turn out to be true. I mean, fuck, I’d be doing and saying some of the same things if something similar happened to one of my friends or neighbours.

I’ve got a story people find interesting. The human journey through tragedy is fascinating. You wouldn’t believe how many Hollywood movies involve the mom dying. You notice these things when you’ve had a mom die in your family. I have to think there are going to be far viewer “mom and sister die” movies. The point is…people are curious and curious people talk.

And I have very little control over whether they do or not. I do have control over how I choose to perceive their gestures of kindness and sympathy. I do have control over how much time I allow myself to make up stories about what other people might be saying. And I also have control over how much I choose to share with others to answer some of the understandable and natural questions they have.

Those are the places I will choose to focus my energy and intention as I navigate each of the days to follow. I might not know HOW to focus my energy there but I do know WHERE to focus my energy and that’s a start.

If you see a lone guy with a perpetual shadow over him (with excellent posture) walking through the hood, it might be me. I’ll keep standing and the darkness will pass.

The Worlds Biggest Sundial

When I think of navigating Chloe’s death I’m struck with the image of being stuck in the shadow of a giant sundial. I can vividly remember the sunlight from behind me and I know sunlight lies ahead. And yet, a shadow looms over everything. Every. Single. Thing.

It seems no matter how hard I push, I’m still stuck in its shadow. My top speed seems to be exactly the same as this goddamned sundial. As I move, so moves the shadow. I know there is sunlight beyond the shadow. It’s so hard to see and I know it’s there.

In my heart I know that the answer is to stop and rest. Eventually the shadows will move on and sunlight will wash over me again. My problem is I don’t know how to do that yet. I have people counting on me. I own two businesses and am the primary breadwinner of our household. I have great people picking up the slack for me and they will grow tired of it. The world keeps moving regardless of what I do. I need to keep up or I’ll be left behind. These are the thoughts that keep me from resting in the first place.

I’m doing my best to balance the idea of resting and honouring this process with gently pushing myself to get in the saddle and keep moving. I haven’t been great at the gentle part. Thankfully, Tanja has been wonderful at stepping in and talking me out of my spirals of self-flagellation.

The idea of the shadow is so pervasive because right now it seems that everything is different. There’s no aspect of my life that has been left untouched by Chloe’s death. She’ll never make another sandwich on the island in the kitchen. She’ll never again insist on using the small, cheap cutlery despite being 19 years old. She’ll never leave her pile of hair shit all over the bathroom sink. Every thought hurts and trying to resist the hurt strengthens the shadow.

Every aspect of my life has been impacted by Chloe’s death and I’m reminded of her all day, every single day. I’m reminded that she’s gone. I’m reminded she’ll always be 19 years old. All I have of her are the memories that will eventually fade. I’m so terrified of losing them. Ironically, that fear strengthens the shadow.

Courage is not the absence of fear. It’s acting in the face of fear. I’ve come to realize healing will require courage. Fear and the courage to face it will look differently for each of us. Allowing myself to grieve the way my body and soul needs is requiring me to slow down. That scares the shit out of me and that’s what courage looks like for me right now.

I just realized it’s been one month since Chloe died. One month. I’m not even sure what to say about that other than I think I’ll go cry in the bathroom at Starbucks. That seems like the best thing I can do right now.

Normally, I’d try to wrap this up with a clever conclusion that ties everything together. I just don’t have it in me right now so I’m going to let it go. Maybe that’ll weaken the shadow just a little bit.