Charles' Soliloquy

I remember being scared, wondering if I was going to act “appropriately.” Stupid. My son dies and my biggest worry is what other people are going to think about my reaction, how I behave. As if it matters. I kept telling myself that nobody’s going to care, nobody’s going to judge me. But that didn’t really help. People do care, I could feel them watching me, watching us. Wondering. “Are they going to be okay?” It's a raw time to be questioned.

I didn’t cry at first, and was mortified that I wouldn’t be able to. That’s what I’ve heard anyway, that sometimes people can’t cry when they lose a child, they just hold it all in. I didn’t want to do that, be that guy. But I didn’t want to be too weepy either, you know? I mean, there was Melinda to think about, and I figured she’d cry for both of us. And she did, we both did. We cried plenty.

But I didn’t have to cry too much or too long, I think. So yeah, that’s what I was worried about, not being able to cry or only being able to cry or… I think I was expecting at least one of those things to happen. It might be worse though, processing loss the way you’re supposed to, the guilt of outliving your son. Grief. I can still laugh; did you know that? It scared me the first time, the sound of it. My own voice seemed jarring in my own head, like I shouldn’t be allowed.

Yeah, actually a buddy of mine told me one the other day. What do you call it when you film pedestrians? Footage! Right? Get it? Eh, it’s pretty awful, maybe you had to be there. It was kind of funny. I can’t tell jokes, never could. Ask Mel, she’ll tell you. But Michael liked my jokes. Maybe I’m only good at little kid jokes.

What I don’t understand, continue to not understand is how I’m okay. I’m dealing with everything just the way I’m supposed to. Taking whatever steps they tell me to take. It’s not even really that hard. It’s not good, I don’t like it. It’s not like I’m happy, or anything like that. But I know the situation, that what happened wasn’t anybody’s fault, that I won’t ever be the same. Don’t want to be the same. Can’t be the same. But I’ll be okay. You don’t get better, I don’t think. You do move on and it get’s a little more bearable. I guess. But there’s not a fix.

I just don’t like that I’m okay. I don’t think I should be. It’s what everybody is telling me is good, I’m doing good. It doesn’t feel good to do good, not like this. Not without Mike. So I wake up sometimes at night and I have my milk, go back to bed, and have another day tomorrow.