A Short Walk Home (11 page)

But losing a sibling changes a child; there’s no doubt about that. Brennan will always view the world differently as a result of his experience. While he will hopefully not grow into a pessimist, he will always be more aware, more cognizant of reality. I trust that he will become as kind and courteous an adult as he is a child. Often when he speaks about things like college or careers, he talks as though they’ll happen next week. As a parent to both Logan and Brennan I feel I have learned more from them than they ever will from me. I feel enriched as a parent. Even through the bad times, love has prevailed.

The reality, at least for me, is that it doesn’t matter one bit how intelligent Brennan is, or how well he can apply that to his emotions. That’s not the way things work. My primary hope and prayer for Brennan as it relates to all of this is for him to be allowed the time to let his heart heal. To remember the good he found in his brother. To know that he is now in Heaven, watching over him every day. I do believe in angels, and I believe that they bring things to God’s attention; that some of what occurs in life is a result of other spiritual bodies intervening on our behalf. I maintain that what I believe constitutes a firm faith. We will see Brennan through—and so will God.

The hardest part of this entire experience has been monitoring our little one to ensure that he remains content and carefree, as much as possible. There are times when I worry Brennan keeps things too close to the chest, saying things in order to spare me and Jaymee further anxiety. He seems confident that, as long as
he appears to keep things together, everything will be all right; he doesn’t feel the need to own up to his own fears or misgivings. As an adult, I know better; the things that are seared into our brains don’t go away; and someday, Brennan
will
have to deal with these thoughts, these feelings. And while he knows that he has our love and caring without restriction, when the day comes and the hurt comes out, I sincerely hope that he’s safe in our loving arms.

I can already tell that Brennan will
be
someone in life; I have a very clear sense of this. It’s the reason why I do my best each day to ensure that he stays gentle with those who need it, befriending everyone without excluding anyone. I want to help ensure that his life is a reflection of what is in his heart—goodness and warmth. Brennan Cry can and will make the world a better place. With the love of two parents who care for him so, the world is wide open for him.

Brennan Cry may be the most loved child alive. I honestly believe that the tragedy we went through pushed us to love him more. I want him to grow up understanding how powerful an emotion love can be; as a father, I see this as one of my most significant responsibilities.

None of us are perfect parents, definitely not me or Jaymee. But with the child’s best interest in mind, none of us need to be. We take what we have been given in life, and attempt to chart a path through the bad things in life, aiming for the good. That’s part of going through something this difficult; you realize that good things
still
happen. You hear or see things that make you smile, make you laugh; this is normal. It’s
life
. I just want to take it all, good and bad, and carve out a good life. And I hope that this is a lesson that Brennan takes with him, out into his own life.

M
Y MOTHER AND
father are amazing people. They provided a great deal of support just after Logan was diagnosed. They really stepped it up; they’ve always seen him as their own grandchild, and so anything we needed was made available. Dad grew up poor in central Texas, while my mother was the daughter of an alcoholic in Washington, D.C. Both were born into difficult circumstances, but both used their problems in order to better visualize the lives they wished to lead. During college, my mother got married to (and pregnant by) a nuclear physicist, one who decided that walking out was a good idea one day. I didn’t fully understand that my “brother” was only my half-brother until I was 13; my dad adopted him just after he married my mother. His natural father didn’t reach out to make contact with him until the year after my brother graduated from Louisiana State University. I remember that, when my mom told me my brother was coming back to see his “father,” I didn’t understand what she was talking about. He was my brother; half or full didn’t occur to me.

My brothers were all very supportive during Logan’s struggle. My older brother actually quit his job during the summer of 2011 so that he and Logan could hang out together every day. At this point, Logan had begun to develop some problems, but
nothing too insurmountable. Still, it was good that he had my brother to entertain him, to take him places and share experiences. Jaymee enjoyed seeing this, and it gave me enough of a break to get a few things accomplished each day.

As things continued to move forward with Logan, each of us found comfort as best we could, in the places we felt most comfortable. For Brennan, who loves school, dropping him off every day was easy. Brennan loves to interact with other people, and loves to learn; we were just glad that he was safe, and not at home considering the worst. Jaymee and I spent more quality time together than we ever had, trying new restaurants, visiting galleries and museums, as we tried to create memories without the shadow of loss hanging over our heads. Of course, no matter what we did, that shadow remained; still, we did it. We had to. Being mired in desperation with nothing else to hold onto was simply not an option.

When it came to those people who truly stepped up and supported us in our time of need, let’s just say that both Jaymee and I learned a great deal about who our friends were. For me, it was easy; I circled the wagons, pulling four of my closest friends closer. These were men with whom I could share everything Logan-related, whenever I needed someone to talk to. All of them (in their own way) checked up on us regularly. One such buddy reached out to us twice a week, every week, for the seven months prior to Logan’s passing away. Every week I would answer the phone to hear the same questions. It became habitual; receiving support from old friends, which was never expected, but truly appreciated.

Jaymee, on the other hand, struggled a bit in the area of support. She had her closest friend to rely on, and she became much
closer with my mother, but her primary source of support was me. At times, this was a heavy load to bear. Whenever I tried to offer her comfort, I was all too aware of Jaymee’s past experiences with ALD. Having cared for her father until the end of his life, and watching other family members succumb to the same illness, it made whatever I said to her seem so small by comparison. As hard as I tried, I could never truly comprehend the loss she had experienced. But still I tried each and every day to make her feel special. Sometimes it worked; other days, not so much. But in the end, it fostered in us a closeness I had never imagined sharing with anyone. She is my girl, and always will be.

And now, having now gone through it myself, I can relate to the
magnitude
of her pain, as well as the frequency with which it occurred. Twelve days after Logan died, my father passed away, after just over a year’s battle with a terrible form of cancer, multiple myeloma. Dad’s loss, coming right on the heels of losing Logan, was made even more devastating. It was a trying time. The oddest thing is, although I miss my dad every day, and wish he could be here to be a grandfather to Brennan, his loss was one of the more adult experiences of my life. While I did cry when I learned he was gone, I spent more time with a smile on my face than with tears in my eyes. I was remembering what it meant to be his son; remembering the joy I was allowed. I recalled the rites of passage I had experienced through his wisdom and guidance. It tempered my grief to the extent that I can only smile when I think of my father now.

Memories are there for a reason. I believe that God gave us memories so that we can always cherish the good in our lives, while giving us a reference point for the bad.

For all the other people in our lives who were denied access into the “inner sanctum” during this experience, I hope that each of you knows I appreciate you, and all the care you showed us. When you deal with anything as traumatic as caring for a sick child, things change internally that most people cannot understand. I spent a long time beating myself up after Logan got sick. To my mind, how could the head of an organization like mine not be able to help his son? I couldn’t make sense of it; I couldn’t
process
it. I struggled; I wept; I wept some more.

I hope that anyone reading this knows to make themselves readily available to anyone going through what Jaymee, Brennan, and I did. I would hope that, at least for a moment, each of you would willingly put your own needs aside to ensure that your friend or family member has everything they need. And beyond that, if anyone you attempt to help rebuffs you, please do not take it personally. Unless you have been through a near identical situation, you will likely not be able to completely comprehend what that person is experiencing. As Jaymee has asked me to do a hundred times or more, try putting yourself in the other person’s shoes, if only for a moment. In doing so, you may come to understand why it’s so difficult for them to accept assistance.

And even then, it’s unlikely that you can ever truly understand another’s pain. “I understand exactly what you are dealing with;” we heard that more than once. But even if you have lost your own child, you still don’t fully understand what the other person has gone through. We are all different; our motivations, feelings, and ability to process grief are ours alone. There really are no exceptions.

Instead, just offer your full support, and go from there. True and meaningful love is always returned; just don’t be surprised if it doesn’t happen immediately. Consider this, before moving
on: Imagine that it were your own child who became ill. You begin to observe stark changes in their temperament, personality, physical ability, and capacity to communicate. What’s more, you know that tomorrow is only going to be worse. You understand that there will be an end, but that when that time comes, this child—this direct extension of you—will no longer exist. They will be gone forever. If you can readily conceive of this, then know that that pit of despair, the lowest point of a person’s life, is where Jaymee and I resided. Understanding others is an imperative in the development of relationships. Jaymee’s directive of “Put yourself in my shoes” was hard for me to understand at first. Today, I understand it better than I could have ever dreamed.

F
OR NEARLY
15 years, I have served families far and wide. I have taken calls seven days a week, 365 days a year. I recall that during a family vacation in 2007 Jaymee begged me not to forward my calls to my cell phone. She knew that if I did, I would spend half of each day immersed in the problems of others. Looking back now; I appreciate the fact that she asked, even more so because I acquiesced. She wanted me to be free, a desire I appreciate even more now.

The morning after Logan was diagnosed I received a call from the mother of a boy who had been diagnosed with ALD within hours of Logan. While most people would have begged off and forwarded her elsewhere, I took the call. I had to; in many ways, I felt that catharsis needed to begin as soon as possible. And what better way than by dealing with problems not my own? I knew that I was just delaying the inevitable, but when it comes to grief, there is no magic formula.

All of the mothers and fathers I have dealt with over the years have earned my undying respect, starting from the very first family I dealt with back in 2000, a mere two weeks after I started. They had a son who needed a bone marrow transplant, but their insurance would not allow it. Working through our existing
contacts, I took on this challenge and reached out, eventually persuading a sitting United States senator to intervene on their behalf. Although his efforts ultimately proved futile, and the boy’s procedure was rejected, it still demonstrated to me the importance of the role I’d taken up. It was a real eye-opener.