My Journey
It began with two words, "Brendon's gone." She repeated them, "Brendon's gone." It was the call from my wife, Kathy, that ripped our world inside out, upside down and completely apart.
My downward spiral began at 4:15 p.m. on March 16th, 1998 when I was in Chicago and got that call. At the time we lived in Geneva, a far western suburb of Chicago. I had to get home at rush hour. It was a horrific trip as I continuously communicated with Kath and the police. I begged for a police escort, but it would have taken too long to set up. All I could think was, "It can't be true. It can't be our son. It's got to be a mistake." A denial experienced by many bereaved parents. It's how we survive. I will always visit that phone call, but I no longer live there. That terror, that dread, that overwhelming wretchendness didn't remain with me because I became a fighter. Make no doubt about it, when I learned that our 21 yr. old son, Brendon, had been murdered, shot in the head and his body set on fire, I fell hard, I fell fast and I fell deep...........for a long time. But, I didn't stay down. I became a fighter.
Later that evening I was told to go to the morgue to identify my son. Bren's wallet was found in his car, but a positive ID was needed. Imagine that, going to the morgue to view your dead child's body. Nightmare doesn't begin to justify that feelling. Arriving at the morgue, I and my son, Aaron, were escorted into a room with lights that were much too bright. The smell was unnerving. There, lying on a gurnee was a body, allegedly my son, his head turned slightly towards the wall. I bent over, staring at that child, shaking with fear. "I don't recognize him," I whispered. "I don't know if that's Brendon." The coroner asked what I'd like him to do. "Show me his stomach. His initials are tattooed on his stomach." We were escorted out of the room while they rearranged the sheet covering his body. I stepped back in and there they were, BPA, my child's initials. Tears overflowed, my throat clenched, my stomach churned, "That's him. That's Brendon, my son." His hand was sticking out from the sheet. I bent down and held his cold, lifeless hand to my cheek, kissed it and cried. It was like he was saying, "Sorry Dad. Sorry for the trouble." I said, "I love you Brendon. Goodbye." And then I went home and told his mom that her son was dead.
There was never a conscious decision to fight back. It just seemed like the right thing to do. At some point, I said to myself in some form, in some way, "Death, you didn't, and can't, have all of my child." I became a fighter. Death got my son's body, but I refused to let death have all of my son.
Funny how things work in life. At the time of his death, we had a commercial photography studio in Chicago. Within a year, we closed the studio. I just couldn't do it. I became a Realtor. One day I was showing a house to a mom and dad with two young boys. We got to talking. I found out that their daughter, Aubrie, had died a few years earlier from heart complications brought on by Down Syndrome. "I belong to a group called The Compassionate Friends, a support group for bereaved parents," the mom said. "Would you like to come to a meeting?" At that time I wasn't ready, but I soon was and began to attend. That group saved my life. I was a lost and wandering dad. Through TCF, I found my path to healing. A support group worked for me.
I released my pain through talking and then through writing and speaking on local and national levels. I found positive ways to bleed out the poison of Brendon's death. The more I bled, the more room I made for Bren's life and my smile. In time I was able to understand the teachings of grief. Grief = Love. I will always grieve because I will always love and I wouldn't have it any other way. I've become grateful for my grief. Death took Bren's body, an irrefutable and unchangable reailty. He's not coming back in his physical form. But Brendon is, not was, so much more than his body. He lives through my amazing memories, his life force, spirt, soul or whatever one wants to call it. I call it my Brendon goose bumps. And of course he lives through my love. I love, not loveD, my son very much. There's never a reason to put a "d" on the end of the word love. There is no past tense to love. Brendon remains an "is" in my life in many wonderful and powerful ways. I'm a blessed and grateful father.
My main message is that this journey is survivable. Your life can be good again. I won't say it will be good again, that's up to you. To heal is a choice; just as not to heal is a choice. Become a fighter. Make the decision to heal and many terrific resources and people can come into your life. Make the decision to tell death that it didn't, and never can, get all of your loved one's life.
Don't let death win; let life win. Become a fighter and your loved one's life, and your smile, can return.
It began with two words, "Brendon's gone." She repeated them, "Brendon's gone." It was the call from my wife, Kathy, that ripped our world inside out, upside down and completely apart.
My downward spiral began at 4:15 p.m. on March 16th, 1998 when I was in Chicago and got that call. At the time we lived in Geneva, a far western suburb of Chicago. I had to get home at rush hour. It was a horrific trip as I continuously communicated with Kath and the police. I begged for a police escort, but it would have taken too long to set up. All I could think was, "It can't be true. It can't be our son. It's got to be a mistake." A denial experienced by many bereaved parents. It's how we survive. I will always visit that phone call, but I no longer live there. That terror, that dread, that overwhelming wretchendness didn't remain with me because I became a fighter. Make no doubt about it, when I learned that our 21 yr. old son, Brendon, had been murdered, shot in the head and his body set on fire, I fell hard, I fell fast and I fell deep...........for a long time. But, I didn't stay down. I became a fighter.
Later that evening I was told to go to the morgue to identify my son. Bren's wallet was found in his car, but a positive ID was needed. Imagine that, going to the morgue to view your dead child's body. Nightmare doesn't begin to justify that feelling. Arriving at the morgue, I and my son, Aaron, were escorted into a room with lights that were much too bright. The smell was unnerving. There, lying on a gurnee was a body, allegedly my son, his head turned slightly towards the wall. I bent over, staring at that child, shaking with fear. "I don't recognize him," I whispered. "I don't know if that's Brendon." The coroner asked what I'd like him to do. "Show me his stomach. His initials are tattooed on his stomach." We were escorted out of the room while they rearranged the sheet covering his body. I stepped back in and there they were, BPA, my child's initials. Tears overflowed, my throat clenched, my stomach churned, "That's him. That's Brendon, my son." His hand was sticking out from the sheet. I bent down and held his cold, lifeless hand to my cheek, kissed it and cried. It was like he was saying, "Sorry Dad. Sorry for the trouble." I said, "I love you Brendon. Goodbye." And then I went home and told his mom that her son was dead.
There was never a conscious decision to fight back. It just seemed like the right thing to do. At some point, I said to myself in some form, in some way, "Death, you didn't, and can't, have all of my child." I became a fighter. Death got my son's body, but I refused to let death have all of my son.
Funny how things work in life. At the time of his death, we had a commercial photography studio in Chicago. Within a year, we closed the studio. I just couldn't do it. I became a Realtor. One day I was showing a house to a mom and dad with two young boys. We got to talking. I found out that their daughter, Aubrie, had died a few years earlier from heart complications brought on by Down Syndrome. "I belong to a group called The Compassionate Friends, a support group for bereaved parents," the mom said. "Would you like to come to a meeting?" At that time I wasn't ready, but I soon was and began to attend. That group saved my life. I was a lost and wandering dad. Through TCF, I found my path to healing. A support group worked for me.
I released my pain through talking and then through writing and speaking on local and national levels. I found positive ways to bleed out the poison of Brendon's death. The more I bled, the more room I made for Bren's life and my smile. In time I was able to understand the teachings of grief. Grief = Love. I will always grieve because I will always love and I wouldn't have it any other way. I've become grateful for my grief. Death took Bren's body, an irrefutable and unchangable reailty. He's not coming back in his physical form. But Brendon is, not was, so much more than his body. He lives through my amazing memories, his life force, spirt, soul or whatever one wants to call it. I call it my Brendon goose bumps. And of course he lives through my love. I love, not loveD, my son very much. There's never a reason to put a "d" on the end of the word love. There is no past tense to love. Brendon remains an "is" in my life in many wonderful and powerful ways. I'm a blessed and grateful father.
My main message is that this journey is survivable. Your life can be good again. I won't say it will be good again, that's up to you. To heal is a choice; just as not to heal is a choice. Become a fighter. Make the decision to heal and many terrific resources and people can come into your life. Make the decision to tell death that it didn't, and never can, get all of your loved one's life.
Don't let death win; let life win. Become a fighter and your loved one's life, and your smile, can return.