Entry from Blogger site, 2012
Sunday, September 9, 2012
I rarely cry--don't even remember crying at my dad's funeral or in the days preceding his slow week-long transition from this world to the next. What I'd felt then was joy--yes, a sense of loss-- but joy and pride for a life well lived and a release from an infirmed body and difficult world. He'd wanted to go.
But last night I cried in bed, alone and rather surprised at my tears. I cried for the loss of closeness with Scott. Since his visit to Denver over Labor Day weekend, I wasn't really surprised when he said he thought he might move there, but what startled me was that my uncle had passed away last week and I hadn't thought to notify Scott; it hadn't entered my head; I'd never considered it. And I'm wondering why.
My brother had sent out an email about my uncle's funeral arrangements, and that was the first Scott had heard of it. Last night Scott called after both Pete and I had sent texts or left phone messages and his question, "so when were you going to tell me Uncle John had died?" left me wondering. Why was it? why had the death of a family member, news that you want to share with family, not been something I thought he should hear? The other two kids had been informed.
Is Scott so emotionally distant that he seems outside the family? As the tears fell last night, rolling down my cheeks, I realized the potential loss of my oldest child, the fear I'd been carrying around since he brazenly signed up for the army and spent three tours in Iraq, had come to pass. I've lost him, and I'm still losing him. And I'm sad and my eyes are tear-filled as I write this.