Flying

Owen speaks of Errol in the present tense. “Errol loves butterflies,” he says as we walk around The Children’s Center, where our boys once went to school together. When Errol died, his teachers erected a birdhouse in the school garden as a memorial. The garden is planted in raised beds separated by a smooth path so anyone in a walker or with crutches or in a wheelchair can get right in the garden and reach up and touch the poppies, hear the butterflies, smell the coreopsis.

Here, at the end of summer, perched above the riotous flowers and buzzing insects is Errol’s fanciful copper roofed birdhouse. Errol would have loved it all.

Owen learned to ride his bike today. He went from not being able to ride to riding in about fifteen minutes. But what a fifteen minutes they were. There was a moment, as I ran alongside Owen, gripping his bike seat, as he wobbled from side to side, that I thought he would tip over. And it was there at the height of my terror that Owen suddenly reached his balance and I immediately let go (or he broke free), and just like that, Owen was riding his bike. He was gone.

As Owen rode down the parking lot, my huge grin vanished and tears welled in my eyes. Errol never got to ride off into the blue wondering how the hell he was going to stop this crazy metal contraption.

I never let go of Errol until it was too late.

Owen On His Own

Owen's Book For Errol

Our friends bring their seven month old to dinner. His sweet little sounds remind us of Errol who, when he died at age three and a half years, was developmentally about seven or eight months old. After our friends leave, Owen disappears into his room. He returns a few minutes later with the book he has been writing about Errol. We begin to add a second chapter to it.

Owen dictates and I type:

Chapter 2

I really, really, really miss Errol because he died seven months ago.
He is my best companion in the family.

Errol is the nicest brother in the whole universe.
Errol was so important to me.

Errol, my mom, and my dad are my best companions in the family.
Errol was so great to me.
I really liked how when I held him he would giggle sometimes.

I really miss Errol and I wish he were still here with us.
If Errol were here I would tickle him, and play peek-a-boo, and hold him and never put him down.

Errol would really like the summer time because he loved warm weather.
He would have really liked the pool we went to the other day. I really miss him.

Errol would have really liked Owen’s birthday party.
He would have liked the big splash Owen makes on the diving board and he would have liked opening Owen’s presents.
He would have really liked playing with the wrapping paper of the presents.

After I write his words out for him Owen turns to see if I am crying, reaches to embrace me with a big hug, and says, “it’s ok, Daddy.”

But it's really not.

Owen, Cary and I go into the boys’ room to put Owen down for the night. Cary reads Owen’s book about Errol out loud and Owen says, “We should get Errol wrapping paper for his birthday this year.” Cary stares ahead and says, ”I sure miss that little boy” and she starts to cry.

Unasked, Owen rushes to the bathroom to gets his mother a tissue, but before he can come back we hear him break into a high lonesome cry. After a minute, Owen reappears with a tissue to his watery eyes and a fist full of tissues for our tears. We tell Owen that he is the best kid in the world, as we fall upon one another like rain.

When our tears finally slow, Cary says, “I was going by the food co-op today when I realized I had forgotten to pick up Errol.”

And this morning, I made the same mistake. After I drop Owen off for school I steer the car - for a nanosecond - towards Errol's school until I remember that Errol is not with me.

I really miss Errol and I wish he were still here with us.
Errol was so great to me.

Errol's Quilt

Errol’s quilt, made from his clothes by our dear friend Stephanie, sits on the back of our sofa by day, and covers Owen by night.

Red and white plaid frames the quilt, and within the border are Errol’s black jeans handed down from his brother and now handed back down to us. I remember putting Errol on his tummy on a soft blanket, and folding his legs in these black jeans, up under him, hoping he would use his body, bent into the start of a crawl, to push his trunk forward. I hoped that would lead to crawling, then walking, then running. Of course, Errol had his own idea, and he just laughed and rolled over and then I tickled him.

There is a swatch of Errol’s blue denim jeans and their little man pockets that made him look like a little farmer.

There is the light blue plaid shirt that Errol’s mother especially liked and that I would dress him in on special occasions.

There is a blue and white plaid long-sleeved shirt that we put Errol in to go horseback riding.

There are the striped jean corduroy overalls that made Errol look like a train conductor. I have a picture of Errol in these pants with his train conductor hat, smiling for all the world. All aboard!

It is the little pockets adorning the quilt that get me - so empty.

The quilt is more than just Errol’s clothes; it brims with his smiles, and love, and joy.

Then there is the Joan Miro back of the quilt: riotous color and joyous patterns filling the canvas with broad stripes of red, blue, and green from Errol’s plush pajamas. It is what I imagine the flag of a country ruled by happy children would look like. There are the pjs with the stegosaurus and triceratops gleefully riding baseballs and footballs through outer space, enjoying impossible, happy dreams! There are Errol’s red velvety pjs that looked like a smoking jacket and made him look like a little playboy. And there are Errol’s sporty pjs that say GOAL above the upright, soccer playing alligator - uh oh! Errol wore these pajamas with his orange glasses that Sunday before his last surgery.

These are the clothes we put Errol to bed in, as we kissed him good night and wondered what he would dream of and how long we would be able to hold him.

Good night, sleep tight, wake up bright in the morning light.

Errol Laughing 2009

Pure Joy

Owen's Ceremony For Errol

We’ve never had a day like this at the beach before. The wind is blowing strong - out to sea - and has wiped the humidity from the air. We ride our bikes down the bike path along the canal and collect fallen bark husks from palmetto trees. The sun has bleached the outsides of the tawny husks, but the smooth concave insides – hollowed out like tiny canoes - are a cool dark brown.

Owen has the idea that that each member of the family will write a message to Errol on a piece of bark and then send their greeting out into the ocean. We have no idea where the messages will go, or if they will even float.

We sit on the porch, where we spent so many hours holding Errol, with pictures of Errol, a handful of magic markers, and the palmetto husks. We think of Errol and pen salutations, poetry, drawings.

I write: “Errol Is Pure Joy” and draw red hearts all over his bark.

After everyone is done we put our greetings in a basket and carry them out to Granddad’s boat. We push away from the dock and the wind kicks up. Owen sits on my lap, his mother beside us, and then Owen alternates sitting in Cary's lap, then mine, chirping nervously all the way on this lonesome journey. Grandma, Granddad, Cary’s siblings Jay, and Hope, and the three of us sail down the canal and into the wide river as the strong winds, choppy waves, and the outgoing tide pushes us out towards the sea. “Errol would have loved this!” Cary says.

The waves have never been higher on the creek, the wind never stronger. Gulls fly above, peering down into he basket to see if we have treats for them. My salty tears flow as I read the wishes his family is sending Errol.

It hasn’t been the same around here since you have gone.

You brought us such joy!

I remember your smile

Hello! Surrounded by a rainbow of hearts.

Owen simply writes:
Errol Errol Errol Owen Owen Owen

We sail down to the end of the island where Errol’s’ cousins, aunt, and uncle wait on the shore, waving to us. We anchor in the rough water and lift the basket of bark up to Owen. He starts with his own message and gently launches it into the tide. It bobs along in the waves and makes for the open ocean.

Errol Errol Errol Owen Owen Owen
Then Owen sends his uncle’s poem out to Errol, to the sea, to the universe…and then I follow with my own.

Cary sends her love out and then Owen follows with all the other messages that float and bob in a straight line out to the open ocean beyond.

Will someone catch one of these boats one day? Will the messages be wiped clean by the sun and the sea? Will they be blown back to us? It’s all a mystery.

A gull hovers above us and grandma sings a song to Errol; one that she’s sung hundreds of times at home and in the hospital:

“Hey Mr. Errol, Errol, Errol.
Hey Mr. Errol, how do you do?
Errol, Errol, we love you.
Errol, Errol, we love you!”

But there is no laughter or giggling response, just the sound of our sobs, the waves slapping the boat, and the incessant ping, ping, ping of the wind blowing the mast of a catamaran on the shore. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping, ping.

Owen wants to sing another song to Errol, and we join him:
“Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Somewhere over the rainbow, why oh why can’t I…”

Errol’s two cousins wade out into the murky water and Owen, Cary, and I jump off the boat to join them. I dive under the water and Owen and Cary join me under the surface, baptized in the mystery of the day.

Errol Errol Errol Owen Owen Owen

And then Cary, Owen, and I wade out of the ocean, up onto the shore, and dripping wet, walk home, alone - with no one to push - all the way back to an empty house.

Mystery

And it’s all a mystery to me: why one person lives, and another dies. Why? Why? Why?

And we are at the beach – our first year without Errol - boating up a tidal creek and there is a cumulus cloud as high as Mount Everest, looming 30,000 feet above us. And the wind is slack, and the water looks like it has been wrapped in cellophane, and the dense green forest stretches down to the water. And we slow to watch the porpoises play in our wake and a gull flies overhead, calling down to us, and I think Errol accepted this mystery and enjoyed it as well as anyone. But that doesn’t make the space in my arms, where he should be, any less empty. And tears flood our little boat as we sail home into the orange sun.

We wipe the tears from our eyes, but it’s no clearer than the day Errol was born, or the day he died. It remains a mystery.

Six Months

Today marks six months without our beloved Errol.
He brought such pure joy to the world.
He would have enjoyed this day, as he did all days.
Still, try as I might, I am filled with such sadness.

The Three Little Pigs

Early in the morning, the students release the pigs into the school. It is April Fools Day, after all, and to make things more interesting the pigs are painted on their sides with the numbers 1, 2, and 4. It’s easy to imagine the administrators, on their walkie-talkies, roaming the school, sweating, out of breath, looking for number three and reporting to home base, “We’ve got one and two down in the physics lab, and four’s up here in the cafeteria, but we can’t find #3 anywhere.”

And here I am looking for Errol. It’s only been five months since we left him, and the other day someone said, “You must think of him every day.” And I think: Every day?!?! How ‘bout every hour, every minute, constantly! I am a glass of warm water and Errol is ice, and he has melted away-dissolved into me- and he makes me better and more than I was.

My senses are attuned to Errol: I see an automatic paper towel dispenser and there we are in the hospital, I hear bath water running and there he is, I smell sweet potatoes, and I am at the dinning room feeding Errol; but he is not really anywhere except within me, and I can look as long as the administrators look for number three, and I won’t find him out there. And I keep looking!

Good Night, Sleep Tight, Wake Up Bright In The Morning Light

Last night I put Owen to bed and said “Good night”
And his mother said, “Sleep tight.”
And Owen said, “Wake up bright in the morning light!”

Owen’s words joined with ours to make the song we sang Owen and Errol to bed to every night of Errol’s life.

Good Night
Sleep Tight
Wake Up Bright In The Morning Light

And he always did. And he always was our bright morning light.

When Errol lay dying in his mother’s arms, when there was no hope he would get better, when it was time for his suffering to end, we wanted to do whatever we could to help ease his passage out of life. We unplugged Errol from all the ventilators and machines that were keeping him alive, and then we turned off his oxygen. As his little breaths got shallower and shallower and the space between them got longer and longer we sang Errol the goodnight song to help him let go. To help end his suffering.

Through sobs and moans Cary and I sang, over and over again, “Good night, sleep tight, wake up bright in the morning light.” Errol slowly stopped breathing until he was gone.

We have not dared to sing this song or even say these words since then.
But last night, Owen was ready to sing this beautiful song.

Errol Word Cloud

Click on the image above to see the words from Errol's blog transformed into a word cloud! The more frequently a word is used, the larger it is in the word cloud.