Broken after losing dear son

Since the Chinese bad bat broth has brought the world to its knees, death has almost become an accepted phenomenon. Personally, we have lost a goodly number of friends and acquaintances with regularity and we empathised and shared the loss with them.

Nothing, but nothing could have prepared Heidi and I for the unexpected death of our older son in New Zealand. Not of Covid – but collapsing after his regular morning run.

The early-morning phone call was an indescribable shock to the system. It can’t be, we kept crying. It wasn’t possible.

And for someone so young to die was simply not possible. And totally unfair.

After all, we are the ones in the departure lounge of a retirement village and should for all intents and purposes be in line to call it a day – not a young and fit person at the cusp of a successful career and loving husband and father of a teenage daughter.

We have witnessed this scenario in families who’ve lost loved ones but only now fully appreciate the utter desolation and sadness that overwhelms our whole being during every waking hour.

We’ve also learnt what it means to have a breaking heart.

I’ve had a successful quadruple heart bypass, but no surgeon can repair or replace a grieving one.

A few weeks ago, I recorded my doubts about the existence of heaven and why so many cling to the idea. I now know. It spells hope.

Hope to meet up with a son we hadn’t physically seen for seven years; so, no hugs, no goodbyes.

I now also catch on to the lyrics of a song sung by a grieving son who regrets not having danced with his father for a last time.

A day doesn’t pass without me hoping that somehow, someday I’ll meet up with him, not to dance, but to talk “man’s talk” and enjoy his quirky giggle when I purposefully pronounce my pet words incorrectly.

Like “minyore” instead of manure. It’s the small things I miss.

Heidi is prepared for the hugs and kisses one day.

All I can do is hope she’s right and that I’ve had it all wrong with my cynicism towards what I called misguided imaginings.

Maybe the adage “hope springs eternal” has merit. That’s all I have to cling to.