Chapter 4. Monday

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First, you may be thinking, Why would anybody want to write about the death of their child? It’s certainly not for everyone. But for me, it was the only thing I could do. Over the years, while I was writing this story, or talking with a friend, or a grief therapist, or singing (screaming and crying) at the top of my lungs while driving alone . . . I was also re-learning how to live with these details that are forever etched in my memory.

about this chapter

Chapter 4. Monday is the day (April 30, 2007) when the unthinkable happens.

he didn’t wave goodbye

I make the boys waffles with peanut butter and sliced bananas for breakfast, then pack two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, chips, cookies, and yogurts, and zip up two lunchboxes. On Joey’s, Scooby-Doo is grinning, silly and clueless. On Sam’s lunchbox, his G. I. Joe action figure Duke is serious, crouched and ready for battle.

No matter how many times I replay that morning, or the days leading up to that Monday, it always ends with this: David is backing out of the driveway, and I’m standing in my usual spot to wave goodbye. The boys always turned and waved; it was our thing. But this day, Sam didn’t look back. He didn’t wave goodbye. Joey did, but Sam didn’t. He had PE on Mondays, and I worried that he was worried about that.

(from Chapter 4. Monday, afraid)

Remembering a talk Sam and I had a few weeks earlier:

“I’m the slowest runner in the class.”

“But you have the fastest mind,” I tell him. “Some kids are fast runners. Some are fast readers—like you. But very few are as smart as you. Maybe you’re not the fastest runner, but you are the fastest learner.”

“Yeah. I am the fastest learner, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. When you were little, you used to say, ‘Amn’t I?’ Do you remember that? I didn’t even know amn’t was a word. You’re my teacher. I’m always learning from you!”

“I love you, Mommy.”

“And I love you.”

When David walked the boys into school, he stood in his usual spot to wave goodbye. Joey went to the right, to his first-grade classroom, and turned and waved. Sam went to the left, where the other third graders were filing in, but he didn’t look back. David would tell me this later. “Sam didn’t turn around. He didn’t wave.”

(from Chapter 4. Monday, afraid)

rattled

Late morning. I convince myself it’s a good day to renew my New Year’s resolution and start exercising. In the gym, a man wearing a navy-blue Fire Rescue T-shirt is lifting weights. I try to act normal, think normal thoughts, but the weight-lifting paramedic has rattled me.

My anxious and overactive imagination always got the better of me. If I had called the school that morning and told them, forewarned them, would this have changed the outcome? But what would I have said? Sam is going to need medical attention. When? Not sure. I just saw a paramedic lifting weights. Please, just in case, call 911. And how many times could I do this before becoming the insane mom who cried wolf?

(from Chapter 4 Monday, afraid)

I’m afraid

Around lunchtime. A friend calls to tell me that one of our high school classmates has died. She sounds shocked which makes me angry, irritable, snappish.

“It happens. We die.” Death is all around us. Everywhere. Every minute. Why does everyone pretend it isn’t?

I’m angry at the world, at that mass in Sam’s heart. No one really understands my fear, my constant state of alert, my mission, my fight, my fatigue.

I’m afraid when Sam gets overheated, rides his bike, his scooter, or gets too sweaty. I worry he might become dehydrated, and his heart . . .

I’m afraid when he catches a cold or sleeps too soundly or says he feels funny but that he’ll be fine. All it takes is one missed warning to go from fine to . . .

I’m afraid this day because he didn’t wave goodbye.

Why didn’t he look back, like every other day, and wave goodbye to us?

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