Father and Son

2010. Father’s Day. Cole was fourteen years old.

He wrote this in my card:

“Mike-

These past few years have been great. I’m really enjoying the whole father, son thing. Anyway, hope you have a great day. You truly are the best father ever.

Love,

Cole”

As I’ve said before, he never called me Dad or Daddy. It was either Michael or Mike or one of a host of nicknames he made up for me. He did that for everyone in our family. I don’t know where he came up with them, but they were all meaningful to us. Most of them made us laugh.

A few years ago he started calling me Cutie. I think that’s my favourite. I loved hearing him calling me Cutie. It made my heart melt every single time he said it. It didn’t matter if we were talking in person or texting across the world. Like a Pavlovian dog, I always waited to hear him say Cutie because when Cole called me Cutie, I felt his love and that was all that mattered.

I’ve never thought of myself as “the best father ever”, however one defines that. I try to do the best I can, like so many other fathers. Nothing really special about that. I HAVE felt like an extremely lucky father to be gifted two such wonderful children, but I’m sure most parents feel that way about their kids, too, so there’s nothing really special about that either.

And I don’t take credit for how Cole and Alannah turned out. In the nature v. nurture debate, I lean strongly towards nature. Their personalities were evident almost from the day they were born. Everything they accomplished and the kind of people they turned out to be is because of them. We were just along for the ride providing a little support here and there. 

When I think of being a father, I often think of my own dad, Ben, because he played a large role in shaping the kind of father I am.

Ben was a really good dad. He did so many things with my brothers and me when we were growing up and was always looking for things we could do together. [You can learn more about him and our relationship in the blog post titled “Ben”.]

This must’ve rubbed off on me because shortly after Cole and Alannah were born I realized I enjoyed spending time with them more than doing anything else in the world. Even when it came to changing diapers at 2 a.m. Every minute was precious no matter what we were doing. Not that I looked for opportunities to change diapers at 2 a.m.

Fast forward. It’s 2022. Father’s Day.

I’d been thinking about this day for months. Shortly after Cole died I found myself thinking about dates that I expected to be even more difficult than every other day even though I couldn’t imagine how a day could possibly be any more difficult than every single day already was without Cole.

Christmas. New Year’s. Valentine’s Day. Katherine’s birthday. My birthday. Mother’s Day. Then Father’s Day. Days of celebration. Days I would normally look forward to. No longer. Now days of dread.

There would be no card from Cole this Father’s Day. There would be no Cole. I would not hear him call me Cutie.

I feel varying degrees of sadness every day, but I began to feel an extra layer of sadness brewing a couple weeks before Father’s Day. I knew it would be a very sad day, but I decided I would try my best to keep the sadness at bay and not mope around and wallow all day. Easier said than done because I can’t really control the sadness. It comes and goes as it pleases. But I still wanted to celebrate being a dad because it’s my favourite thing to be so I wanted to give it a try.

Somehow I managed to not get too low on Father’s Day, mostly because I spent much of the day with Alannah. She drenches me with her love every day, but she always finds a way to make me feel even more loved on Father’s Day.

My efforts at keeping the sadness at bay during Father’s Day came with a price. My grief was worse than usual the  following few days. You can’t control grief. It just keeps coming. When it wants in, it comes in, like water trickling in under a door. Putting towels down only stops it temporarily. I feel sad every day, but those few days were pretty bad, missing Cole tremendously and thinking how I’ll never see him again, except in my mind, where I see and hear him all the time. Not sure if that’s comforting or more painful.

When my dad died three years ago, it affected me deeply. It still does. But Cole’s death has devasted me. There’s no comparison between the two. I could say this grief is on a  different level, but that wouldn’t be accurate. This is a completely different feeling. It’s indescribable and unimaginable. Sons expect to bury their fathers. But fathers don’t expect to bury their sons. People often say “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling.” And I think to myself “Good. I wouldn’t want you to. Not even in your imagination. Don’t try to imagine such dark feelings. Better to think about good things.”

I can’t remember how many people reached out to me on Father’s Day to say they were thinking of me, but enough for me to think about how fortunate I am so many people care for me.

Nothing can bring Cole back and no one can ease the pain, but having the support of others helps me me withstand the waves of grief when they come. My special boy understood the value of these connections. Cole was so good at touching people and making them feel special. He’d be happy to know others are, too.

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I don’t know where this post came from. It doesn’t follow the outline I had in my head when I started it. I just sat down, started typing and it came out. Could be my co-writer decided to take charge and write this one. At least that’s what I’d like to think.

Thanks for reading and for subscribing if you’ve already subscribed. Cole wanted people to care about each other. Your support is inspiring and means a lot to both of us. Please keep touching and connecting with people whenever you have a chance. For Cole and for me and for you and for everyone else.

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