Dead People Suck

This week will mark 5 years since my son died.

I want to celebrate him with warm-from-the-oven, double-chocolate brownies and frosty root beer. I want to mourn him with 11 bouquets of deep red roses and sad, sad poems that drip with remorse. I want to acknowledge him by telling crazy stories about his rowdy, shortened life.

Mostly, I want to hear people say his name.

Roman.

I wanna dig deep and be brave and nod when people I barely know call me strong. I want to smack the shit outta the next stranger who calls me an inspiration.

I want to sit down by the creek with a bottle of vodka and the sunset. Alone.

I want to have a ginormous, outta-control party: I want to invite every neighbor, friend, cousin, and stranger whose life he ever touched.

I want to scream, yell, sob, smile, and laugh until the tears run down my face. Then collapse into bed.

I want to say his name, whisper it, shout it from the snowy tip-top of Mt. Hood where he first learned to board.

Roman.

I want people to stop for a single second and reflect on the rambunctious, recalcitrant beauty that was my son.

And, for one split millisecond, I want everyone to know, feel, and understand what it’s like to lose a child.

Just so they know.

…

“And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.” — William Cullen Bryant

Some lessons are not worth the cost

I’ve learned a lot the last 5 years since my son died, there’s no doubt about that.

I’ve learned how to cope, how to forgive, how to mourn, how to ignore, how to release, how to gather, how to rebuild, how to find new friends, how to empathize, how to keep living even on days when it seems too hard to even get your feet on the floor.

I’ve learned that dead people cause a lotta problems.

Those problems aren’t theirs. Nope: the problems are for those who loved them. Those who are left. Those who live on.

Don’t like ads? Become a supporter and enjoy The Good Men Project ad free

The main lesson? Dead people suck.

…

“Unable are the Loved to die, for love is immortality.” — Emily Dickinson

A few random reasons why dead people suck

How do they suck? Let me count the ways.

1. They’re gone. Really, really gone.

You can’t see them, touch them, hear them. You can’t give them a monumental hug that lasts for 47 seconds. Nope: they’re not here. I mean, I’ve held Roman’s pewter urn, but it’s not the same.

2. You miss them.

Sometimes, you can’t stand another moment without them. But too bad. They’re going to miss the next 10 or 20 or 40 holidays, vacations — and random dinnertime arguments.

3. You can’t replace them even though you try.

Oh, you try. There’s so many distractions — good, bad, and ambiguous. You drink, smoke, sleep, Netflix, write, paint. You sign up for good causes. You help make the world a better place in their memory. It’s a nice try — but they’re still dead.

4. Other people suck when you need them most.

Yep, I said it. Not only does it suck that your person died, but other people who should be loving and supporting you usually suck too. They’ll tell you how to feel, what to do, how to act — even how to grieve. They’ll ask, “How are you?” and expect a coherent answer. They’ll tell you to be strong, be happy you had them, be grateful you have other children. They’ll tell you to call them if you need anything. And many, many of them will simply — poof! — disappear. Most people suck. End of story. (P.S. Good and empathetic people will show up. They will. You may have to wait for it.)

5. They begin to fade into the sunset.

You. Start. To. Forget. First, the small things about them: the scent of their hair. The press of their hug. The sound of their laugh. Then, the bigger things: when they first walked and talked. Their favorite foods. If they knew you loved them. Slowly, their life becomes a ghost in your mind.

6. You become different than you were before.

You change. Grief does this. Trauma too. You think more, speak less. You lose patience. People frustrate you. You cry more. You laugh harder. You drink or smoke more. Some days, you lose hope. You see the darkness. You touch death, even in life.

7. Some days, you want to give up and join them.

Sometimes, it seems easier to die. Some days, you just wanna join them. Mostly, you motor on. Sometimes, you find a new mission, understanding, passion, or love to sustain you. I hope that’s true for you. (And me.)

8. Moving on is for trucks and out-of-work celebrities.

Oh, the people who want you to just get over it. They want you to forget, to motor forward, to move on. Fuck that. Moving on is for people without feelings, without compassion, without love. Your person died. You love them still. You don’t move on: you carry them with you.

9. You’re plagued by WHAT IF’s.

This is guilt. This is regret. This is pain and blame and shame. You wish you could’ve done more. You wish you could have saved them. You wish things coulda been different. It’s a mind game that will haunt your hours if you don’t learn ways to divert, distract, and detain those thoughts. Work at it. It takes time — lots of it.

10. The only people who give a sh*t are those who have also lost.

It’s just like the song: “Until it happens to you.” Cuz, until it does, you have zero clue. But you’ll find your tribe of those who have also loved and lost — and they’ll find you.
And:

The main reason dead people suck? It’s the most simple and most difficult reason of all:

11. There’s no way to get them back.

End of story.

…

“No one here gets out alive” — Jim Morrison

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.

***