Posts Tagged ‘death’

19
Jun

This Is The Day I Said Goodbye

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality, Tomorrow's Dreams, Yesterday's Memories

This is the day I said goodbye
This is the day you reached out to fly;
This is the day I let go of your hand
This is the day you alone would stand.

This is the day I wanted to weep
This is the day you were laid down to sleep;
This is the day I felt ever so numb
This is the day you showed me how to be strong.

This is the day I will never forget
This is the day you taught me to feel no regret;
This is the day I felt so much love
This is the day you shined down from above.

This is the day I said goodbye.

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15
Jun

One Year Later

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality, Tomorrow's Dreams, Yesterday's Memories

It has been a year since that fateful day
When your rapture came and you went away;
And in this time we have all come to see
The many things that were so special in thee:
Wisdom and talent that through the years
Earned you much admiration from your teachers and peers;
A quiet inner strength and a warrior’s heart
Were qualities that clearly set you apart;
But with ever a gentle and caring soul
That made one so young seem so old;
These memories of you we will cherish forever
Until our rapture comes and we are again together.

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11
Dec

Task Completed

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

Every day since Stephen died, I have kept myself focused on making sure that everything regarding his final arrangements has been taken care of. Now, almost six months since his death, the last of those arrangements has been completed – installing the headstone for his grave. We had spent several weeks determining what we wanted to put on it, and finally placed the order with the monument company in the latter part of August. We had received word before Thanksgiving that the stone had been completed and was awaiting installation, and on Friday morning we learned that it was in place. We went by the cemetery that afternoon for our first visit.

Steve had truly loved his music and playing in the school band; the day of the accident, he was hosting a pizza party for his fellow trumpet players. We wanted to somehow incorporate that passion of his into the headstone, and I came up with the idea of having a trumpet with musical notes coming out of it to represent his playing. We went back and forth with the monument company on the details, with me finally locating some line art of a realistic-looking trumpet and asking them to match it as closely as possible. Their artists came back with a design that we thought was appropriate, and we signed off on the order.

When we walked up to the stone for the first time, we were both amazed and extremely pleased with what we saw. The monument company had never before depicted a trumpet with such detail, but they stepped up to the challenge and the result was absolutely beautiful, far exceeding my expectations.

We had included a vase next to the stone so that we (and other visitors) could place flowers at the grave and not have them falling over or easily blowing away. It came in handy, for we had brought with us a flower arrangement my mother had purchased while we were visiting her last month for Thanksgiving. That arrangement became the first flowers to go in the vase.

With the flowers placed, we retrieved the temporary marker that had been placed at the grave by the funeral home and turned to leave.

We returned home, and as I sat in my office downloading from my camera the pictures I had just taken I began to realize that there was nothing left to be done for Steve. It was all finished – the huge task that began almost six months ago had finally been completed. I wrote in my last entry about how I was unsure of the way in which I would react when this time finally arrived. Now it is here, and I am more uncertain than ever.

I can, however, start to see a few early signs. One of my favorite musical groups to listen to around Christmastime is Mannheim Steamroller (for those who do not know them, they are the folks who perform the “funky-sounding” versions of traditional Christmas music like the Halleluiah Chorus, Winter Wonderland, and Deck The Halls). The leader of the group, Chip Davis, wrote a Christmas carol in 1988 called “Traditions Of Christmas” (on the album “A Fresh Aire Christmas”). From the first time I heard it, that piece of music has always held a special place in my heart, but I have never really understood why. On Friday evening I listened to it for the first time this season, and a wave of emotion swept through me that I had not felt since the accident. There is something in the tune that strikes a chord deep inside me, one that obviously has strong ties to my feelings and memories of Steve. It is nowhere close to being an answer to my fears, but it does give me a direction to start looking.

And so I continue to move forward…step by step, one day at a time.

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3
Dec

It May Look Like Christmas, But It Sure Doesn’t Feel Like It

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

We can find it everywhere – the bright Christmas lights, ornately decorated Christmas trees, radio stations playing Christmas music, and of course the Christmas sales on gift items we would not pay any attention to buying the other 11 months of the year. The countdown began after Thanksgiving, leading up to a day that is filled with great joy and excitement.

Like most people, I usually look forward to the Christmas season each year: spending time with family, exchanging gifts and good cheer, sharing old memories and making new ones, and reflecting on the year that has nearly passed. This Christmas, however, will be very different. In spite of my best efforts, I know the good cheer will be more somber, the memories bittersweet, and the reflections more contemplative. I suppose this is to be somewhat expected; the memories of Stephen’s accident are still very fresh in my mind and still weigh heavily on my heart. I doubt there has been a waking hour in the past six months when I have not thought about my son.

There are some friends of mine who seem simply amazed that I can function at all, and cannot imagine themselves being as “strong” as I have been in this situation. If the truth be told, I do not look at myself as a strong person; I may appear calm, cool, and collected on the outside, but if you could look into my heart and mind you would find I am a total wreck. My wife has commented that she has not seen me crying openly for our son, as she has been doing; what she does not understand is that on the inside I have not stopped crying since the day he died.

What is it that keeps me going forward? I believe it has been because of the need for “someone” to make sure that all of the things that needed to be done on Steve’s behalf were actually done. From making sure all of the funeral arrangements and details were covered, to handling all of the paperwork, and to being the “voice” of the family, I have focused on each task and given it my utmost attention and effort.

The last of those tasks is soon to be completed – we have received word that the monument for Stephen’s grave is finally finished and will be installed sometime within the next few days. What will happen to me after that is done? Will I still be “strong” or will I collapse into a blob of uncontrollable emotion? Or something in between? I do not know for sure, but I will find out soon enough.

In the meantime, the Christmas countdown continues…

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18
Oct

Mixed Days And Negative Feelings

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

October has been a busy month of anniversary days and feelings to match.

On the 1st I celebrated my 10th anniversary of working for Hewlett-Packard. Well, sort of. Back in 2000 I left Coca-Cola to accept a job with Bank of America. I was with the Bank for a little over two years, and then they decided to outsource my job to Electronic Data Systems (EDS). EDS was very gracious and rolled over my service time with the Bank. About five and a half years later EDS merged with Hewlett-Packard, and again my service time was rolled over. So, while 2010 technically marks my 10th service anniversary with HP, I have physically worked for them only two years. It seems strange to think that my time keeps getting rolled over from one company to the next…what would have been nice is if back in the beginning Bank of America had counted my time worked with Coca-Cola (about 12-1/2 years); then I would be in my 22nd year with HP instead of my 10th. But, it really would not mean very much in the long run…to recognize my “special day” my manager wished me a happy anniversary and I received a certificate (via e-mail) from the CEO of the company thanking me for my years of work. It felt somewhat underwhelming for the occasion, but given the state of the business world these days I am grateful to have a job.

Last Friday (the 15th) was another sort of anniversary, marking four months having passed since Stephen’s accident. I no longer count the weeks; they are becoming too numerous to keep up with. I will probably stop counting the months as well once the first year or two has passed. It reminds me a lot of when he was born…first we counted his age in days, then weeks, then months until he was about 2, and then we counted years after that. It feels strange that once again I am counting time like this for one of my children; I had not expected anything like that to happen until my children started having their own babies sometime in the far future.

Today is yet a different anniversary – my 48th birthday. It is another year older for me, which I really do not mind at this point in my life, but it is also another “first” because Stephen is not here. I am sure my wife and younger son will do something special this evening to celebrate and my friends will offer their best wishes throughout the day, all of which I greatly appreciate, but I am certain I will still feel somewhat empty inside because Steve isn’t here.

Underwhelmed, strange, and empty – all negative feelings, even for the days that should have been positive. I do not know what significance, if any, could be tied to that. Any thoughts?

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20
Aug

An Unwanted Anniversary

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Yesterday's Memories

It was 22 years ago today, on August 20, 1988, that my father passed away. It was a Saturday morning, and the word came from his wife at about 7am (my parents divorced in 1980, and he remarried in 1987). The entire sequence of events that followed, right up to the end of the funeral two days later, are as clear in my mind today as they were when they happened. Those memories were actually helpful to me when my son passed away in June; having been through the experience of making funeral preparations back then made it much less confusing when the time came to make Stephen’s arrangements.

For the first few years after Dad died, I would visit his grave on this day. I was always by myself when I visited…that was not because I wanted to be alone; it just seemed to work out that way. He had been in the Army when he was younger, and the government provided a metal grave marker that sits flush with the ground; I would usually make sure nothing was growing over it, then stand there silently for some time. Some years, I would talk to him as though he was there listening patiently; somehow, I felt he was.

 

Photo courtesy of Randy Sheppard

I got married in 1993, and the effort of raising a family took me away from visiting his grave regularly; then finally in 2000 I moved out of the state altogether, making any kind of simple visit impossible. I have been back to visit relatives several times since then, usually around holidays or while on business trips, but I never seemed to have enough time to pay Dad a visit.

When I stop to think about all of the changes in my life since that day, it boggles my mind – getting married and raising three children, moving 1,000 miles away from where I was raised and starting over in a new town, watching the kids grow into teenagers, sending my first one off to college, and recently losing my son. I have reached the pinnacles of success and the depths of despair, and had many accomplishments in between that were both good and bad; I wonder, though, how many of those might have been different had I been able to seek Dad’s counsel. There were countless times I wanted to talk with him about what I was doing and where I was going, and ask for his advice on so many difficult decisions, but I could not; instead, I had to figure things out on my own. I have tried to reason with myself, asking “what would Dad have done in this situation?” but it is simply not the same as talking to a living, breathing person.

If he were alive today Dad would be 79 years old, but I would be willing to bet his mind would still be as sharp as it ever was. He was a big baseball fan, and would watch or listen to every Atlanta Braves game each season and could rattle off stats about all of the players; today, he would probably still be trying to follow them, even though their games are rarely televised any more. He and my son Stephen would have gotten along great because Steve was also a big baseball fan, having played in Little League and also having followed the Braves as much as he could. I am certain they are both in Heaven now, swapping stories about their favorite players and games. They might even be taking turns hitting some balls around; both of them liked to do that, oddly enough. I’m sure I’ll have a lot of catching up to do with both of them when I get there!

And so, this is my salute to you, Dad. May you always rest in peace.

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6
Aug

The First Of Many Firsts

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

Today would have been my son Stephen’s 16th birthday. It is the first one to pass without him.

The high school band Steve was a member of decided to have a brief event today in remembrance of him, and my family was invited to attend and participate. It was held outdoors on their practice field. Everyone was given a helium balloon and stood together in a large circle. After a moment of silence, the balloons were released to float away with the wind. Following that, we went to their band hall for lunch, and I spoke a few words of thanks to them for remembering him today. We also took the opportunity to present his pallbearers (most of whom were his fellow band members) with small thank-you gifts, as well as give small tokens of appreciation to several other people. In return, my younger son was given several t-shirts that were being worn by the band…two were what are called a “section shirt” (worn by everyone who plays a particular instrument – in his case, the trumpet), while the other was a “leadership shirt” (he was a section leader). In both cases, his name was listed on the shirts. When I saw them, I realized that the band was going through a “first” of their own by commemorating someone who was so loved and respected.

I know how emotional “firsts” can be. In July of last year I had coronary bypass surgery. Every major event that happened for the next twelve months – my wedding anniversary, birthday, holidays, even the changing seasons – became a “first” for me…but in a good way. These were events I might not have lived to see were it not for the skilled hands of the surgeon and the love, support, and prayers of my family and friends. They were firsts I looked forward to, and when each one arrived I felt so very grateful to be alive and able to share them with everyone. I was still going through those firsts on the day of Stephen’s accident. So now, I have another twelve months’ worth of firsts to live through, but I am not looking forward to any of them.

In this case, the firsts go beyond the annual events to include many of the firsts of any young adult’s life – first driver’s license…first time borrowing the car to go out on a date…first day at college…first full-time job…even his first love. But then, who is to say he had not already met his first love? If he did, he never spoke to me or my wife about her; or, perhaps he had already met her and did not know it because they were both too shy to say anything to one another. If this were true, I am sure that girl has felt absolutely devastated since his death. If she truly exists, I would hope that someday I could meet her and tell her more about him.

I have been told that writing is therapeutic for some people, and I believe this to be true, at least in my case. Writing helps me organize the jumbled thoughts I often have running through my head; and, more importantly, it allows me to share my thoughts, and wishes, and memories that would eventually be misplaced or lost had I not done so. I hope to write much more about my son in the days to come, and I hope you will be along to read about him and share in my memories.

Happy Birthday, Steve.

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14
Jul

Four Weeks And Forever Counting

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

Yesterday marked four weeks since my son passed away. It’s difficult to comprehend so much time has already gone by, but indeed it has. I returned to work full-time two weeks ago, and have been running through a fairly normal schedule of activities; my managers, however, appear to have been giving me some leeway and not pressuring me for a lot of things. I am grateful for their concern and compassion.

The last condolence cards I’ve seen came in last week, and my wife and I have begun sending out thank-you notes. There were about 50 different cards and letters to come in, some with very touching messages that made us both tear up as we read them. Two of them were from parents who had also lost teenage sons, one of those being the first to drown in the same lake. Others were from people we have never met, but who heard the news and reached out to offer their hearts and to share our grief.

During these weeks, there hasn’t been a single waking minute in which I haven’t thought about my son. I think about all the things we did together, and all the things I wished we had done; sometimes, it feels like there are more sad memories than happy ones. As I wander through my thoughts, I wonder if he ever realized how proud I was of him and all of his accomplishments… if he did, he surely didn’t let on that he knew. He was always pushing himself to do better at everything, whether it was playing his trumpet, assembling a project for school, or working with his 4-H goats. He had worked very hard to become a section leader in the school band, and after he was selected he still didn’t let up. He even pushed himself to organize the pizza party at the lake that fateful day, settling for nothing less than putting it all together by himself.

He had set some very lofty goals for himself – he wanted to be class valedictorian; he planned to go to an Ivy League school; and he wanted to work in government somewhere, perhaps even serving in an elected office one day. Although we will never truly know, I am quite certain he would have done well in anything he had set his mind to do.

The weeks will continue to pass, and with each we will move a little further down the road. The pain we feel today will slowly fade with the passage of time, but the thoughts and memories will never end.

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8
Jul

Sibling Parity, Final Take

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

I have related in several earlier postings the constant back-and-forth competition between my two sons and their computers. The latest round in the battle occurred around Memorial Day, when I was finally able to purchase the pieces I needed to make the older son’s machine as capable of playing games as the younger son’s. Both of the boys were thrilled to be able to play games equally well, and at long last I had achieved balance in the universe.

Little did I know it would be the last competition between them.

Two weeks later, on June 15th, my older son was hosting a party for his marching band section at a local lake. Without going through a lot of detail (I will do that in the future), there was an accident on the lake and he drowned. The funeral was held four days later, with many of his friends and classmates and their families attending.

It has been three weeks since my son’s death, and even though his younger brother is in the house all day long it still feels eerily quiet. He has been spending these hot summer days alternating between watching TV shows and spending time on his computer. He hasn’t been playing his games as much, opting instead to read online or listen to music…the same music my older son used to play on his computer and MP3 player. He doesn’t talk about his brother very much, mostly when my wife or I mention him in conversation. He reminds me a lot of how I used to be when I was younger…not letting on about how much I was hurting inside. I wish I could get him to talk about it more, but it’s difficult to do when you’re also trying to come to terms with the same loss.

Some of my older son’s friends and classmates have tried reaching out to him, both by phone and online through Facebook, and he seems to be responding to them; perhaps I can try getting them to spend more time with him and maybe it will help him open up more. I plan to contact a couple of their parents to see if they can help out as well.

Unfortunately, even with all of their help I will never be able to restore that delicate balance ever again.

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28
May

Feelings Of Loss

   Posted by: Michael Bernier   in Today's Reality

We’ve always had dogs as a part of our family. My wife had a small house dog when we were first married, and over the years we’ve had several others come in an go out of our lives. Earlier this spring, we were compelled to send all of our Great Pyrenees dogs away to other homes (one of them had attacked a neighbor’s dog and almost ripped its ear off; the choices we had were to restrain our dogs or send them away, and anyone who has owned a Pyr will tell you that restraining them is almost impossible). That left us with our one house dog, a 9-year-old blue merle collie named Duke. We got him as a puppy the summer after we moved from Georgia to Texas, and unlike most collies he was not quite the brightest star in the sky. We knew he wasn’t the pick of the litter, but he was loved and accepted by all of us just the same.

Almost two weeks ago, Duke went to the vet for his monthly allergy shot (this dog has had a problem with allergies that’s been so bad he’d scratch and chew all the hair off his backside). He seemed okay after the shot, but during the following week he started having problems, first with eating and then with drinking water. He would eat his food as always, but sometimes it didn’t stay down for very long and next thing we knew we were cleaning up a mess somewhere in the house (usually on one of our carpets). The vet offered the suggestion that he was dealing with a stomach bug of some type, and to give him Kaopectate to settle his stomach and help him keep his food down. That didn’t work, and the random messes continued. Then this past Monday we noticed he wasn’t drinking as much water as usual (normally he’d go through as much as a half gallon at a time). By Tuesday morning he had stopped drinking and eating altogether, and also didn’t want to get up and walk around, even to go outside (which he has always loved to do).

My wife took Duke back to the vet that morning and they did some blood work. The news wasn’t good – his kidneys were failing. They pushed IV fluids into him for most of the day to see if it would help, but he didn’t seem to be improving. They kept him overnight and told us to check back in the morning. After a fitful night for us, we called the next morning and he was still no better. A couple of hours later, we got the news we had been dreading – Duke had died.

My wife was in tears, and I was simply stunned. He had gone downhill so quickly…just 11 days after a routine visit and all was well, and now he was dead. The vet asked us what we wanted to do with the body. I’m usually able to step in and deal with situations like this, having had other animals that have died on our ranch over the years, but this is one time I simply couldn’t do it…I couldn’t muster the courage within myself to go there and bring his cold and lifeless body back to bury him. We took the vet’s suggestion and had them cremate him. At least that way, we could remember him as he was and not as he had become.

My thoughts turned to our children; they had literally grown up together with Duke. I sent a text message to our daughter in San Antonio to break the news to her, and we told the boys when they got home from school. We were all hurting from the loss, but I surmised that it would hit the two older children harder because they had been able to play and spend more time with him than their younger brother had (Duke also liked to sleep in our daughter’s bedroom at night, and we liked to say that he was “her” dog). My wife talked about it over the phone with our daughter, the first time either of us had heard from her in several weeks; meanwhile, our older son asked about the body, and I explained what the vet was doing with it. I think he was somewhat disappointed that we weren’t going to bury him ourselves, and equally bummed out because Duke was “the last dog”.

As for our youngest son, he was generally quiet about the whole situation; much like me at that age, he looks at the world with an analytical eye and tends to keep his emotions to himself. His heart seems to be more attuned to the great cycle of life as well, possibly from having tried to maintain an aquarium in his room for several years and experiencing a sometimes regular loss of fish in the process.

It’s been a couple of days since this tragic event, and the pain is still very fresh on our minds. My wife and I are trying to look ahead through the pain and decide whether or not to get another dog. If we do, it would most likely be an adult so it can get out and play with the boys right away, rather than a puppy they would have to wait on to grow up (after all, our older son will be with us for only two more years before he heads off to college). I think we will, but it’s still too early to make that sort of decision. We need some time to mourn, and to heal a little, before we take that next step. Hopefully the long Memorial Day weekend ahead will give that process a chance to start rolling.

Needless to say, this isn’t the best way to end a week. Rest in peace, Duke.

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