To Grieve: Perchance To Sleep

My eight year-old son Noah’s nine year-old friend Jack died on Sunday, but we didn’t find out what happened until today, and now here I am at 2:30 in the morning unable to process this tragic loss, let alone sleep with this flooding of emotion that keeps rolling through me.

Noah and Jack were after-school care friends for the past two years. Jack, who was one grade older, tried to teach Noah his times tables last year, and I remember Noah telling me how nice Jack was to try so hard to teach him such a difficult subject. Tonight when Noah brought it up again and was trying so hard to be optimistic about Jack’s passing, I had to do whatever I could to not cave in.

Noah has only two really good friends at his school, and Jack was one of them. He described Jack as “whiter than me,” which means that most of the kids at his public school are more local looking, and because of this, kids like Noah and Jack do not always get the popular approval from the darker majority. Noah told me how he saw Jack this past Friday and they played together just like any other day, and now he’s gone. Just like that.

The grief I’m experiencing tonight is multifaceted.

As a mother…I feel the agony that Jack’s mom must be experiencing. More than likely, she too is wide awake right now, thinking over all the memories and lack of memories to come. This is November. What will she do with Christmas? What will we do with Christmas?

As Noah’s mother…I feel his loss probably more so than he does right now as I know how death works on a person’s mind, especially as time passes. I lost my first boyfriend Paul when I was fourteen. He was killed on his bike by a drunk driver. We were out roller skating together the night it happened, but I didn’t find out until the next day. It didn’t make any sense to me at all. I didn’t even go to the funeral.

As a teacher…I feel the loss in Jack’s classroom. The empty desk will be empty for the rest of the school year. His teacher will see his name on the rosters until it is deleted, and then she’ll see the absence of his name.

I’m typing with my eyes closed. My face is overwhelmed with tears. I want to climb up the ladder into Noah’s new loft bed and hold him until he’s an old man.

Prior to writing this entry, I tried a number of distractions to keep myself from dealing with this gaping hole in my heart. I played around on Facebook, commenting on pictures and bantering with some students on my wall. I went to bed but it was too quiet, so I turned on my ipod and put it on shuffle. The first song that came on was by Casting Crowns. The song finally broke me.

I once was lost, but now I’m found
I once was lost, but now I’m found
So far away, but I’m home now
I once was lost, but now I’m found
And now my life song sings

I once was blind, but now I see
I once was blind, but now I see
I don’t know how, but when He touched me
I once was blind, but now I see

And now my life song sings

I once was dead, but now I live
I once was dead, but now I live
Now my life to You I give
Now my life to You I give
Now my life to You I give

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Let my life song sing to You


So it’s 3:30 now. The noises outside are few. A brewing storm. An occasional car. A moped. A chirping gecko. A baby. A dog. The clock on the wall. My own breathing…

Goodnight Jack. Hold me a spot, k?