Little Things, Big Things

 It was just a small part of the day, a quick trip to Target. The dog was in the back seat of the car after a walk in the woods so I could not aimlessly wander the aisles. This stop was all business - dog food and shaving items. My son needed a men’s razor and shave gel.

A few days earlier, my oldest child turned fourteen. He is now decidedly taller than me with little trace of his toddler plumpness. He and I have noticed quite a bit of peach fuzz on his face, and I mentioned that whenever he wanted to shave, we could tackle that. He didn’t say much, so I left it there except to acknowledge that it would be strange without Dad. I told him we could easily find resources just like I do when I’m faced with a task Dad used to do. YouTube, of course. In fact, I had learned of a guy who made videos for just this purpose – to help boys whose fathers weren’t around for any reason – and I mentioned that to my son.

A few weeks went by, and then my son said he thought he should shave. He worried out loud that he would never learn without Dad. It was one of the only times he has voiced that kind of concern… My heart felt a stabbing pain for his loss. For Chris’s loss. My mind’s eye traveled back in time to other moments, where a father took absolute delight in teaching his son to use tools. To ride a bike. To fish.  

I don’t know what to say in the face of pain related to Chris’s death that isn’t mine. If I try to dive into the feelings too much, it goes nowhere and feels forced. I know that instantly relating back to my pain is doing the other person a disservice; I think it might be worse than saying nothing, so I try to avoid doing that though the urge is strong and well-intentioned. As in so many other unfixable moments of this experience, first with Chris and later with family members, I listened in this case. I did not want to say nothing, so I simply said I was sorry, that Dad would have loved to teach him. We let it go again.

Later, I found out that my son had privately searched for the YouTube man’s channel after our conversation. Sure enough, there was a video tutorial on shaving and he had watched it. Turns out it didn’t seem so hard and my boy was ready to try. We looked in the bathroom closet. There was a plastic case of six razor cartridges and Dad’s old razor. I had thrown away the used blade on the razor a while back, closing my eyes as I buried the dulled cartridge in the trash, but I saved the handle for just this moment. That act had reminded me of discarding Chris’s electric toothbrush head a few days after he died, I had forced myself to do it while swallowing bile.

The razor handle seemed to be missing a piece to fit to the blades in the refill pack. The scientist in me pulled out my own razor and replacement blades to examine the mechanism for snapping together, and still I couldn’t understand the six cartridges in front of us. The blades obviously needed another piece of plastic to fit to the razor handle. Perhaps I had unknowingly thrown that critical fitting away with the last blade Chris used. It was clear that there was no way for our son to affix the new blades and reuse Chris’s razor handle with the supplies I could find in our house.

It was another disappointment, but I didn’t say anything about that to our son. In fact, I don’t know if using Chris’s razor and blades would have been meaningful to him or if it would have been a burden imposed by me, or just… a means to an end - shaving for the first time in that minute.

Thus, my trip to Target. I tried to make it easy on myself by limiting the time so I couldn’t lose myself in memories and wonderings, the “he should be here, he should get to do this” thoughts. Unfortunately, I spent considerable time in the shaving aisle out of confusion. I saw the same multi-pack of blades lacking the plastic fitting that we had at home, and I didn’t see any razor handles that could use them. I felt stupid. I looked at new razors that came with two replacement blades, seeing the same handle that Chris used but blade cartridges with a plastic fitting. All the while, my brain was working overtime remembering the countless times we ran simple errands together. First it was just us, then it was our family of three, later it became our finished family of four. We preferred to be together whenever possible, even for the mundane stuff, even when a toddler and six-year-old in tow tried our patience, even when I was convinced said six-year-old had lice and I was close to hyperventilating in Target. It was always. Always. ALWAYS safe and comfortable and life-affirming to be together.

Come back. We need you. Please come back.

I swore to myself that I would not cry in Target over this. One more minute in the men’s hygiene aisle and I would, aching for my husband and in disbelief that our boy was becoming a man without his father, so I just grabbed a new razor packaged with two replacement blades. There were too many options for shaving cream and gel, so I forced myself to pick a can without overthinking the choice. I made a beeline for the self-checkout lanes and escaped.

It felt sad, yet good at the same time, to casually present the purchases to my son. He had a need. His dad would be the most natural person to help him, but he’s dead. So, I took care of it in the best and only way I know how.  

My son put the new shaving supplies in “his” bathroom. The lower-level bathroom. The bathroom that Chris arranged to be remodeled and painted himself in the cheerful blue color we chose together. The one the males in the family used for a couple of years, and now just my boy does.

Later, my son shaved for the first time in the privacy of his bathroom. Chris wasn’t there. I was not needed in the room. Apparently, it went quite well without either of us supervising. Just one tiny cut. I provided some advice - put a little piece of tissue on it. The blood will draw the tissue to press against the skin, sealing it off. Miraculously (from my son’s point of view), that worked. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two.

I am all that my children have now for their daily care, guidance, and ultimate launching into the world. I worry that I am not enough. Still, I do the best I can because there is no other choice. Similarly, the children are forced to be self-reliant and mature beyond their years. That last point may not be all bad, but the tradeoff is terrible. How I wish it were not so…

This was just a small event. Something that my son and I handled. But it was a big reminder that the things Chris lamented he would miss are now happening. Time has passed and the children are growing up. Two years past his death and these kids are entirely different people, much farther down their personal trajectories toward adulthood. Without a doubt, Chris would be shocked by their stature and delighted by their personalities.

Why am I the one still here? Why did I draw the long straw? Why am I not filled with joy at being able to witness this?

With respect to the latter, it is because my heart is full of loss. Surviving and coping require so much, it is still hard to feel any joy. And yet, I am uncomfortable with my selfishness. I have been so focused on my personal pain that sometimes I cannot imagine what others feel. The kids miss Dad even if they don’t talk about it much. Chris has missed so much time with them, so many accomplishments and such growth, and he will miss so much more.

Chris knew and fully understood what I am only now beginning to grasp. Oh, he clearly and deeply knew just what he would miss. At the time, when he talked of disappearing and not getting to see how the kids turned out, I didn’t know what to say. I tried to listen. I tried to be present and not turn away out of fear. I tried not to burden him with my own pain of facing a future without him. I hope I did the right thing in those moments; I hope it was enough. I did the best I could.

I miss him.

We miss him.

He should be here.

This was just a little thing, a blip, but the little things in life are what make it so special. The little things are really the big things, and Chris is missing them all.