Our son, Corban was killed in a car accident in October. These days I prefer to say that he left us. It’s more palatable and makes sense because after all, his last words were that he was leaving. So he left. But death is never palatable, is hard to swallow and the truth is, our beautiful, strong, son left us, but he was killed and that’s why. His earthly body thrashed about among a couple thousand pounds of metal, tangled amongst oak and maple trees, and forcefully cut out, or extricated. I can’t escape the images in my mind. I don’t have nightmares, I have day-mares, where typically my mind will wander off quickly to that place and conjure up sounds and images that would torture any parent. For me, it’s a part of grief-related PTSD.
Corban was killed, and we buried him a couple of blocks from our house in the fall which was also his favorite season. And these heartbreaking events were followed by traditional celebrations. His birthday. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Ringing in the New Year, with pomp and bowl games, all culminating with the College Football Championships. Did I mention his name was Corban?
My son’s name was Corban. Typically, we would have celebrated all of these in a raucous fashion surrounded by any variety or number of special people and at least four fur friends or maybe it would just be us. The past 3 months have been hauntingly different. Painful and empty. Our house screams of loneliness. A hollowness that we never imagined. All from a nightmare no one wants to admit could also happen to them. So, we don’t speak of it. At least not in depth. Only superficially. Where does this leave us? What next?
Recently some close friends we consider family, and appropriately refer to as such, invited us for a weekend away. Well, it was a full weekend, before it was shaved down. My wife no longer likes to be gone from the house long. We differ in that. I want to run for the hills. I would escape on regular sabbaticals to a castle far away or to a desolate island provided meals, pillows and internet were available upon request. Nevertheless, we agreed to go for two long days—but only one night before we traveled back to our Tennessee home. Back to whatever this is. Whatever it will become.
We agreed to a trip to Asheville, and our North Carolina family would plan everything else. They asked us what we wanted to do, and we laughed. We have no idea. For the last three months that’s been the question. What do we do? What will we do? We also laugh because grief and PTSD are real, and we often admit that between the two of us we might have half a brain. We live in fog. We set reminders. I’ve even forgotten pin numbers and passcodes I’ve had for years. We write notes. We make checklists. We text each other and ourselves. Because honestly, we are still in the middle of a nightmare. So we let others make the plans. We emphasized we’d simply be along for the ride.
If you’ve never visited Asheville, NC, you should add it to your list. It’s naturally beautiful, culturally interesting, and surrounded by phenomenal places to eat. That’s another thing, when you’re grieving often you don’t eat, or you eat everything. I’m the latter. I’ve gained 27 pounds since Corban left us. All balance is out the window, and I’ve stopped going to the gym. So there’s that. Corban loved eating, but he was also physically fit and worked out often multiple times a day, and he loved traveling, and he loved family, and he very much enjoyed Asheville. More than once at my wife’s request we had visited Biltmore, (referred to by many as America’s castle) Biltmore is a testament to George Vanderbilt’s fortune. It’s a 250 room chateau in the middle of Appalachia, with a rich history having been visited by royalty, aristocrats and politicians from around the world —and to my surprise Corban loved it. History was exciting to him, so whether we were visiting battlefields or chateaus he’d listen to the self-guided tour headsets intently, and soak it all in.
So I was actually glad that we avoided Biltmore Estate on this trip. It never even
came up. I don’t think I could bear to have gone. Along with the ghostly images of the Vanderbilt family, wealthy guests, and service staff, I know I’d imagine him there, and he’d be just as much a ghost to me as they are. Not in the literal sense, because he’s in Heaven now, and the grandeur there is greater than any here, but still I know in my mind, I’d see him studying the furniture and the ceilings, and also the other guests on the tour. And I’d imagine him making faces at me, scrunching his nose, or making purposeful wide-eyes And the pain that I already feel daily would ache even louder. These days I try to quell the aches. Because if I don’t, it will overtake me.
The trip to Asheville was more bearable than I expected. But it was also eye opening. It was great company, good conversation, lots of food, and lots of walking. Which I need of course all these extra pounds I’ve gained are not going to shed like tears I can’t just wipe them away---at some point I’ll have to put some motivation behind all this “mourning glory”. But not right now, right now I don’t feel like it. And besides, you can’t be in Asheville and avoid the cuisine. It draws you in, and just like breathing, I inhale good food. What’s not to like about eating, or breathing?
Along with our Asheville family, we share a love for art, nostalgia, antiques, and repurposed furniture. It’s odd, but over the last few years both Joy and I have begun to truly appreciate “repurposed” things. I’ll admit though that she’s much better at imagining or recognizing a new purpose for things before I do. She once had an old bed frame that held great meaning to our family, repurposed headboard and footboard and all into a bench. We had no space for another bed, but we could always use a bench. The idea that some object once meaningful or cherished by someone, that was left behind can be transformed into something useful once again is powerful.
The part of Asheville we enjoyed most this trip was River Arts District. The four of us made our way in and out of repurposed brick buildings, perhaps were once garages or factories transformed now to shops, displays, and galleries. Winding in and out, upstairs and down, we admired the art and the artisans, glass blowers, jewelry makers, potters and painters. Creators with the ability to take clay, knotted wood or twisted metal, and create a masterpiece for others to behold fascinate me.
One of the last buildings we visited was Riverview Station, a group of brick buildings housing artists in residence, art shops, coffee shops, classes, and scores of galleries. The gallery we spent the most time studying there was that of Walter Arnold. I had no idea who he was until we entered the building and one of the artists spoke up and pointed out her own water colors before gesturing to the right proclaiming “You may also like Walter Arnold’s work, he’s the artist photographer known for abandonment.”
Abandonment.
Abandonment? I took a breath. Suddenly my wife who loves repurposing and cannot stomach neglected people or things, began filtering through the artist’s prints and originals. The walls were filled with photos on metal, large and small. I also searched briefly through images of once useful places now abandoned. There were photos of old hospitals, dance halls, police departments---not the cookie cutter industrial kind we see often today, but the ornate ones designed artistically and architecturally to impress, and to speak to—built to last. They are reminders of previous decades or generations. Stained glass windows. Marbled or checkered floors. Rich frames of deep dark woods. All now empty or covered in dust or overgrowth. Left behind. An emotional collision of abandoned old world buildings suddenly invaded by vines, or limbs, suspended in time. Evidence of the beautiful-old and the unwelcomed-new. I found it all overwhelming and troubling before sitting down. Pretty soon we had moved on to other places, but the gallery of Abandonment sticks with me. This is how I feel. It’s the best way I can describe it. Abandoned. This is where well-meaning friends say, “You are not abandoned by God”…”He will never leave you or forsake you.” Yes, I know and trust that to be true. But “abandoned” that’s how I feel sometimes. They might also say, “Corban did not abandon you.” Yes I know that as well. It’s not rational to think so anyway. But in a final breath he calmly said he was leaving, and he left us. There was nothing he or we could do about that. And again, we trust we know where he is. But it’s how I feel. Abandoned. Left behind. Truth is we all know that “feelings” are not truth. We can feel any number of ways, and that doesn’t mean the way we are feeling is true. We might be unnecessarily, irrationally gripped with fear sometimes, but nevertheless, the feeling is real.
And yet, just like those abandoned theaters, zoos, carnivals and penitentiaries, our beautiful family is overwhelmed with indescribable, unrelatable emptiness. Our home is museum-like in a sense. We are at a standstill. We have a bedroom suspended in time. I am not sure how to fight the unwelcomed, encroaching new. I want what we had. I want the familiar. I am not ready to be invaded. I’m still in shock. For those of you who don’t understand that-- most professionals say this is very normal. It’s ok. You don’t live in my world but you do need to understand that is our reality. I desperately need you to understand. I am so thankful for those of you who do not have to live with grief—and the incomprehensible mourning of loss of a child. Yes, we have eternal hope and joy. Holding onto the gift of joy in one hand, does not magically counteract emptiness and yes, feelings of abandonment brought on by a sudden loss of our only child.
When we left the Abandonment exhibit, I know I was stunned. We walked some more, supporting local bookstores and shops. It was cold. So cold. We laughed some more. That does happen occasionally and sometimes it’s even genuine.
Over dinner we began to discuss grief and our circumstances. Slowly as we recapped the day we made our way to the Abandonment artist. And then my wife utters, what I’ve been thinking. “What will we do with all our stuff? Many don’t understand Corban is our only child and there will be no one to pass things to. My mind immediately goes to our home, cars, valuables of which there are not many. Where will they go. And then she says, “No I am talking about our photos, family photos, school crafts and pictures, vacation souvenirs-- the things we’ve collected that are meaningful to us.” We had briefly touched on that once-I don’t even remember when. I just remember I had quickly shut it down and tucked that one away. It was too much for that day. Talk about daggers to the heart. But these are the things we are left to ponder. And then, as the comedian in the family who occasionally gets paid small sums for stand-up comedy, I’d suggested that “Perhaps, our photos will be the photos displayed in Cracker Barrels and antique shops?” Alas, too soon.
We walked all over Asheville that day, and that city got its share of money and patronage out of us. We brought home items once cherished to be repurposed. And perhaps one day we will be repurposed as well. But for now, we are the left behind, right now, we are the damaged and the broken, waiting in the Artisan’s shop. We’re in the fire but haven’t even made it to the kiln yet. We returned to our home of abandonment. Our home once, not perfect, but beautifully inhabited is now lost in a dimension of grief and mourning that resides along-side the rest of you, until we’re found again. We’re twisted, and mangled, and sometimes empty. Our old life abandoned…but not from our choosing. One day we will be repurposed. On one hand there is truth that I am never left or forsaken, I am persecuted but not abandoned and on the other there is truth of how I feel—abandoned. Just like joy can exist with pain. These can also co-exist. And my God can handle that.
Thanks for listening,
CorbansDad
