Fathers And Sons

I think I made Dr. Noggins cry. He asked what I thought triggered my sadness.

I told him about the phone call we received the first week in January five years ago. It was from one of the teachers at The Boy's old day care, which we left when he went to grade 1. We hadn't been in touch with any of the teachers, parents, or kids from that day care for the six years since The Boy left.

When The Boy was there, he was best buddies with three other kids. The four of them were a little gang that delighted the teachers even as the boys ripped their room apart.

On this morning, the teacher, Jan, was crying. She told us that one of the boys in The Boy's gang, Ry, had died. He lost his battle to a brain tumour which was discovered two years earlier.

The Boy, The Man and I went to the funeral. It was a sad funeral for sure, because children aren't supposed to die and we were not able to bring Ry back. The image I took away that day was of all the fathers clutching their 11-year-old sons as if to keep the sons by their sides so they wouldn't die. Most of the fathers were crying, or trying hard not to.

The parents at the service didn't talk to each other, most of us were strangers after all, and the funeral was not a social, get-to-know-you gathering. But you could feel in the air we felt the same thing - tremendous sorrow for Ry's parents, relieved our own sons were with us, but knowing this tragedy could have happened to any of us.

As I told this to Dr. Noggins, his eyes welled up. He said, That was very poignant. I told him that may have been the beginning of my sadness.