This weekend was the traditional weekend for college football season openers. I drove home late from Missisissippi, listening to a combination of music on the radio, and sports talk updates. I'd usually be getting these updates from my son in the form of text messages, or I'd be listening on the couch as he'd make his season predictions after a day of watching football. As I drove into town toward the house I was drawn two blocks further to the City Cemetery. His mom had redecorated his spot to reflect the change of the seasons, football, fall, life in general. It's our first football season without him. I pulled into Corban's spot and listened to Sports Talk and reflected on the drastic turn my life has taken.
You don’t know me anymore. That sounds extreme, but it’s true. But you can get to know me again and I would welcome that. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me. Feeling sorry won’t bring Corban back. So just don’t. I’m the same person in a few ways, but I’m entirely different in a lot of ways. PTSD, anxiety, depression, and short-term memory problems are just a few consequences of experiencing sudden tragic events and child-loss. These are physical and emotional aspects of the human condition in crisis.
As a dad, it’s incredibly difficult to navigate. It’s humbling to realize the reality of all these things in my life. And yet all of them are real and are especially heightened as dates, and milestones come and go. Life waxes and wanes. In some ways, certain things really just don’t matter to me anymore. I mean that. In fact, some things that used to seem very important mean absolutely nothing. These days I have to weigh things based on their meaningfulness, their “difference-making potential” or their lasting or eternal value. It’s a priority shift of epic proportions for me, the result of a tragedy of epic proportions.
My perspective has shifted so much that some “problems” seem laughable, some concerns feel asinine to me. In some ways, mundane things are now absolutely ridiculous. A good friend once used to say regularly, “We don’t have problems, we have situations.” And I’d agree and chuckle. But that’s a fact now and no laughing matter. My perspectives and priorities have shifted so far I simply cannot tolerate some things. I have to remind myself regularly, daily, hourly sometimes, that while something may not matter to me anymore, it does matter to the person in front of me. I have to be intentional about that.
I talk a lot less these days until I find a meaningful way to contribute. I sleep a whole lot less these days thinking about Corban, what’s next in this new life, and wondering when things will seem both meaningful and manageable again. I get lost sometimes in deep reflection with my body present while my mind and soul drift off to faraway places—I can pull into my grassy parking spot at home—and sit, and sit, and sit before I realize I’ve been home a long time and my dogs' collective barking jolts me back. Sudden death doesn’t just steal the person from your life, it continues to steal the time you have left. Sometimes it wriggles back in and slowly shaves minutes away, and sometimes it grabs an hour or more and runs away with it.
Even before Corban left, I knew what the threat of losing him felt like. When Corban was small, we were told flatly and very matter-of-factly by our local hospital, “Your son has Osteosarcoma”. Cancer? I remember calling a friend and literally screaming into the phone, “What do I do? I cannot lose him. Please pray God will not allow us to lose our son.” We panicked.
We were sent first to Children’s hospital in Knoxville. We had multiple tests there, and they agreed Corban likely had osteosarcoma and we were referred to Vanderbilt Children’s Cancer Center. Within an hour, doctors came to see us to tell us that our super active, sometimes super human (like Jack-jack from The Incredibles) Corban had at some point broken his leg, and the quickly growing new cell growth around that part of his bone had mimicked cancer. So much so that it had apparently tricked two hospitals. Rather than leaving with a chemotherapy regimen, we left there with new life. Really? He’d limped some, but a broken leg? ---Thank you Lord. We’d gotten our miracle. But we don’t always get second chances, or do-overs. We are here only briefly. In my mind, we were shown great mercy. You don’t have to agree with me, but I am unwilling to explain away miracles anymore. Anyway…
My son mattered. My son was my life. Maybe that should not have been the case. Maybe I shouldn’t have put almost all of my life’s eggs in his basket but that’s what I did. Anyone who knows me knows Corban Scott was pretty much everything to me --to us. I wanted him to know he was loved by me, by us, by God. I wanted him to be happy.
Even so, sometimes I could be hard on him. I remember once arguing with adolescent teenage Corban about doing something or not doing something and he’d made a point to say that “so and so’s parents let them do it”. And I remember looking at him squarely in the eye and saying “well then, I guess so and so’s parents don’t love them.” I would do anything to protect him. But I couldn't protect him from the car accident that killed him.
We argued now and then and it could be intense. Joy would say, “You guys are too much alike” –and we’d look at her incredulously. I’ll be honest, I’ve cried more in my adult life than I am willing to admit since he left us—and some of it is because of hard conversations we had as Corban was growing up. I don’t know if other grieving parents deal with this, but I have guilt, and I replay arguments, even the most simple ones over, and over, and over. I know that’s not realistic or fair to myself—parents parent. That’s what we do, but I hate that I have any Corban memories of sadness or disappointment. I look back on some of that, (not all), and I think what a waste of time, and of life’s precious moments.
Several months have passed now, and the barrage of people saying, “How much longer will you grieve? When will you get over this?” is growing. Yes, even well-meaning people say these things. A cacophony of unbelievably, blissfully, clueless remarks. We don’t even know how to respond to those types of questions. I will say this. I do pray regularly for the protection of my friends, and their families, and especially for their children. I pray for protection from the heart-scarring, numbing, pain of child loss. I do. If you are someone I am in contact with daily or even on social media. You can just about bet, I’ve prayed for you not to ever experience what we are living. When will we “get over it”? We will not.
I mentioned priority shifts, and guilt…. After Corban left us I cancelled tons of stand-up comedy opportunities and took a pass on film auditions that were offered-- for myriad of reasons. On one hand, stand up had taken me away from Corban from time to time, and I was mad at myself for having lost any time with him, and on the other hand, laughing seems so weird and awkward, insensitive and wrong. Much of my material had to do with Corban, and the rest of it was just pretty silly— and film didn’t seem much different—and suddenly I’m faced with the sobering reality—that some things just don’t matter, some things are trivial. For awhile, I dug in my heels and determined laughter to be both trivial and silly, and maybe even meaningless. Perhaps laughter even robbed me of time that could have better been spent with Corban. Sometimes I blame laughter for missing out on one more trip to Pennsylvania, or Seattle, or Memphis, or Baltimore, or to Disney. Maybe one more ballgame. Just one more tour on some historic warship. A trip to a museum. He loved museums and documentaries, and sports.
This week a friend told me stories of Corban I had not heard. She talked about his passion for working out, and his excellence in sports officiating. He had reffed for college intramural sports. I could feel my heart beat almost out of my chest. I love stories about him—especially stories from his other side of life---those parts I wasn’t privy to—and for a moment, I felt happy and alive. Then one of his friends reached out and invited us to a gathering. We didn't go, but what a great gesture. Another tagged me in an old social media post from Corban, a 10 second video of him doing the ice-bucket challenge, and challenging me to do it. I never followed through.
Why didn’t I do it? Did I get side-tracked? Guilt. That trend has passed but maybe I should still do it. Who knows? Pouring freezing water over my head might jolt me closer to where I need to be. Still another of his friends sent me a video of them together on an ATV—I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him laughing and enjoying life---I’ll take it.
I thank God these people loved Corban, and I thank God that they love us enough to know we’re hurting. I am infected with loneliness without him. Few others can understand that. But these young people. They seem to get it more than others. They actively show love. Gen Z gets a bad wrap, but I’ve felt nothing but love from them. I know sometimes God loves us through the people around us and that even when our priorities and perspectives have changed in epic proportions, His epic love for us does not. I hope this helps y’all understand my new reality more. I’m doing my best to get to a place where laughing comes easy again, even when the road ahead remains a challenge. Have you ever experienced similar thoughts around grief? If so, I'm so sorry and I'd love to know more.
If I don’t see you soon, I’ll see you Somewhere, --until then, Serve Strong,
--CorbansDad
