Maybe This Should Come With a Trigger Warning For Grief

Hi, it’s me, your walking nightmare.

Andrew, our youngest child and only son, just 25-years-old, died on October 24, 2024. That’s hard to write. It’s harder to say, it’s even harder to believe. I could say he passed away or we had to say goodbye or, I hate this one the most, that we lost him, like a kid under a clothing rounder at JC Penney’s or a dog who bolted out the door. The reality is that he died. He was here one day and now he is gone. Physically, at least.

I’m sure you are curious, most people are, about what happened. I get it. We didn’t see it coming either. I can’t in a big picture way tell you what happened, and I will never truly understand it, but I can tell you what transpired.

Testicular cancer is treated successfully in 95-98% of cases with a trio of potent chemotherapy drugs. One of which is bleomycin. I’ve always hated the use of war language surrounding cancer treatment, and yet, it’s the only way my brain can begin to process this. Prescribed to help him win the war, in the end bleomycin killed him in battle. Andrew didn’t die from cancer; he was a victim of friendly fire. I’m not going to debate treatments or malign his doctors. Andrew played very favorable odds (not that he had another option) and as the world is an arbitrary and unpredictable place, it wasn’t a winning hand.

We’ve played the lottery from time to time, giving scratchers in Christmas stockings and as family BINGO prizes but I’ve never been someone who wants to hit the jackpot. Somewhere in the back of the mind, I’ve always understood that the tendrils of fate that could pluck you from obscurity to win the Mega Millions could also drop a chunk of space junk on your head. Both are rare and random. I’ll take my chances living a normal life, I thought. Now we are forever under the glare of circumstance, the focus of discussion, pity, and sympathy. I hope that Andrew’s premature death doesn’t overshadow the gift that was his life.

I thought I would never be able or interested in writing again, but here I am.

My dad died almost exactly 20 years ago, a month after we moved to Australia, and seven months after my mom died. Living in a hotel, still touring houses to rent, our crated belongings on a ship somewhere, our upside-down life was just beginning in more ways than one. Having just started a journal as a way to capture a once-in-a-lifetime experience, I could not bring myself to continue without writing that my dad was gone, and so, the journal ended as soon as it had begun.

This time, I’m going to continue to write. I don’t know how this will go; life is different and so am I. No amount of eye serum or firming patches will fix my baggy, bleary eyes. I cry everyday but I laugh, too. The laughter is the greatest and most surprising gift. We are a family of laughers and the harder we laugh at some shared joke, the more I feel Andrew’s presence. I’m writing because I started this project ten years ago and I just need to finish it. I’m writing to remember and to forget. I can’t promise you won’t cry if you read along, although that’s certainly not what I’m going for, but I’m hoping you’ll laugh some too. Thanks for reading. I’ve missed you.

Before you go…I think it’s okay to say that I’m not okay. I exist in a time and place both unfathomable, and sadly, real. I get out of bed everyday. I shower. I eat. I am alive. The shaky tower of support we teeter on has been lovingly built with texts and messages, cards and prayers, emails and comments, pictures and memories and stories: both Instagram and old school. We’ve received flowers and food and notifications of cherished donations to Carolina Tiger Rescue. Thank you. I love getting photos of dogs, book recommendations, videos of capybaras taking baths, pygmy hippos with attitude, and cats being cats; hearing about Korean BBQ feasts, and that The Sopranos make you think of Andrew. I appreciate knowing you are thinking about me, about Andrew, about our family.

I don’t love the question “How are you?” I don’t know how to answer that.