Grief & Loss on a Birthday

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Twenty years ago today I watched my brother Johnny walk into the hospital waiting room and tell us that his son was born. I can still see him in the papery pale yellow gown. He somehow looked completely different in that moment. I don’t know how I feel about religion but if there is a higher power, I felt it in that moment. Nothing would ever be the same.

We called the baby Tyler. He was starting his life with some of the most positive supports possible. My brother, his father, is loving and funny and adored being a dad. Tyler’s mom is the kind of person whose typical facial expression is about the same as a statue of a buddha. She is warm and kind and thoughtful and I have always admired the way she interacts with children. Tyler was also surrounded by extended family. And, as the first born boy in a half Italian/half Chilean family, he was the prince. Even when his hair stuck straight out of his head like a Chia Pet, we only saw beauty. A diaper full of the stinkiest poo was an impressive feat. Three hour crying jag could only indicate superior lung capacity and a strong will.

As Tyler grew it became increasingly obvious that he was truly intelligent. I know that everyone thinks their child is a prodigy. But, at a very young age, Tyler could name and classify more dinosaurs than we could imagine. At three years old he knew the difference between bone and cartilage and could give a mini lecture on the form and function of shark anatomy. When he was in grade school he was the student who would score a perfect score on standardized math tests. I remember a story that once he found an error on one of these tests and wrote to the state to report it. Unless I have my facts wrong, the state (or the testing agency) wrote back confirming that Tyler was correct.

He loved movies and identified with the bad guys. Halloween costumes included Scar from The Lion King and Captain Hook. Although he had athletic talent, he did not particularly like to participate in team sports. His dad coached football in the hopes that being together on the field would spark his interest, but it just was not his thing. When he was older he found Parkour. He loved it and was very good at it. He earned the nickname Spidey for his ability to climb, jump, and navigate all kinds of spaces. His cousins used to joke that Tyler was secretly a ninja because he was super smart and could run up the side of a tree and flip over. He also loved to scuba dive. He became certified at ten years old and was a certified rescue diver before his was 18.

When Tyler entered high school he seemed to find his niche with the ROTC. Turns out he was a skilled marksman. He would win competitions and not even bother to share his successes. He did not talk a lot. He never bragged, even when he had a lot to for which to be proud.

As the oldest grandchild and nephew, preparing for Tyler to go away to college was not easy. At least a year before Tyler would even be deciding where to go I heard Tom Rush’s Child Song and just started thinking of Tyler and crying. I sent the song to my brother and he texted back that he and his wife were “not ready”. None of us were ready to send our little prince off to college.

Tyler was awarded a full scholarship and admission to an honors program. The summer before he went to college we got a house at the shore and hung out together. All the cousins were together. I remember Tyler rode a baby train to stay with one of the littles. We teased him for that and he just smiled. Not long before he left for college he and his sister and I went mini golfing and out for ice cream. I gave him something, my husband and I bought him an airline gift certificate so he could come home to visit.

That Christmas we were together again. The day he was headed back to college I put my head on his shoulder and told him I didn’t want him to go. But, I knew he would call. He did that at least once a month. Anytime my phone said “Tyler” I picked up. I was so surprised but delighted that he called me. I was headed to The Moth to tell a story. I told him my story and he laughed. That gave me confidence. I gave him one last squeeze and said good-bye. That was the last time I saw him.

He was 19 and beautiful and suffering and we had no idea. I guess it should not be a surprise that the kid who did not share his successes might also not share his feelings of despair. But I was surprised. Blind sided. To this day I still can’t believe he is gone.

Tyler died just about a month after his 19th birthday. We spoke about two weeks before he died. I remember everything about our conversation. He thanked me for the gift I sent him with a joke. The gift was a pair of socks with Einstein on them. He said they were “relatively comfortable” and giggled. I play it over in my head often — what did I miss? I remember what his voice sounded like. I can still hear him say, “Hey Tabby” when I would answer the phone. I remember exactly where my head would land on his chest when he would give me a hug. Having had held him from infancy, it always amazed me how big he had gotten, he had grown into a man.

I know I should be thankful for the 19 years we had together and getting to see him grow into a man. I know that is more than some people get. I really do understand that. But, I am still sad and mad and I still just think it sucks. I miss him every day and I wish there was something I could have said or done to change this painful outcome. I worry about my brother and my sister-in-law and my neice. I worry about my parents and my youngest brother. I worry about my own two sons. Tyler’s parents did everything right. They are wonderful parents. But, this still happened.

I have a vision. My vision is that every adolescent will know and believe that there is no version of this world that would be better off without them. Visions are big and we may not see them come to be. But, I can make a committment to communicate this idea to as many people as possible. I will make a committment through my words and actions to be sure that I let those with whom I come in contact, know that they matter and that there is no version of this world where it would be better without them. And, I will accept that it still may not make a difference for some.

On this day, twenty years after we welcomed Tyler to this world, I remember him with love and affection, I miss him with everything I am, and I wish peace for our family and for other families who are missing loved ones.