I became a father on July 10th, 1990. My son, Stephen Michael Ables was the most beautiful child ever born (of course), with only a smattering of blond hair that seemed to have a faint red tint, a full, round face and chubby little legs, he was so very perfect. He was often difficult for his mother, Lyea, and I to comfort, but as long as there was a grandmother nearby, all could be right with his world…and there was always a grandmother nearby. Stephen’s early years were those of a very happy child, he learned to disarm with a smile and oh, my did he use it. His smile would change the mood of all those around him and for those with lesser resistance to it, it would easily get him out of trouble. When Stephen laughed, everyone wanted to laugh with him, when Stephen was hurt, everyone wanted to comfort him.
As Stephen grew, it was important to me to instill in him a sense of respect and responsibility. He early on learned that “Yes, sir” was a proper answer and that “yeah” was to be saved for his friends. He took my sometimes stern parenting as he did most everything else, quite in stride. Stephen learned, as all children do, the “look”. If he was doing something that dad didn’t approve of, the look would almost always be enough to quell the situation, and then he would flash that smile…just to make sure that I knew that he understood and that I really shouldn’t be too mad at him.
When Stephen was almost 3 ½ years old, he got what he assumed was a new, precious toy. His little sister was born. With fiery red hair and an attitude to match, Stephen only had his new baby doll for a few months. She rebelled against his attentive nature in short order, but he still wanted to be there for her. He wanted to carry her, hold her, teach her how to play with his toys, have conversations with her that would stretch on far beyond her capacity to listen and to protect her. They still played after she rebelled, but it was always on her terms, but that did not matter to him…he took it in stride. Once his little sister was born, Stephen became a protector of all things great and small. He knew how the world should work, he’d seen it on the Power Rangers, heard it from Barney and his mother and I simply encouraged his kind nature and cheered him on.
When Stephen was about 5, he had the misfortune of being the son of a man who had watched the movie version of Stephen King’s “Pet Cemetery”. There is a scene in the movie where the parents have the unthinkable happen, their son dies because he does not heed their call to stop running toward the road. Watching that traumatized me so thoroughly that I began running drills with Stephen, and later with his little sister Tiffany. Those drills included my yelling “STOP” and no matter what they were doing, they knew to freeze, and then yelling “GET DOWN” and they would drop to the ground or “COME BACK”, and they would run to me as fast as they could. I was a paranoid dad, but as always, Stephen took it in stride. At least I still let him climb trees…even though I knew that I would often be called upon to rescue him from them.
When Stephen was about 7, we were living in Germany and I was not able to spend as much time with he and his sister and mother as I wanted, I was in the Army and Bosnia was a hot spot. I feel so very fortunate, however, to have been there when he came home from school terribly upset one day. I asked him what was wrong and he told me, barely holding back his tears, that the older kids were being bullies. I began to get so angry, I just wanted to know which parents I was going to be having a conversation with. So, I asked him if he knew who they were, but he did not, so I asked him what they had done and he told me. Those older bullies had been stomping on snails. For the next few weeks, Stephen was in full hero mode as he planned his protection of those tiny creatures. After trying to surround them individually with the little group he put together at school he decided there were just too many so they started hiding them. Now, I don’t know if he had heard a similar name elsewhere, or if he just came up with the name on his own, but he called his group “Save the Snails”.
When Stephen was about 10, I wanted him to play baseball. We worked and worked on catching, his weak point, but he never quite understood why he should stand in front of a baseball hurling toward him when stepping aside seemed like such a simple solution to the problem that presented. At one point I convinced him to try something. He sat on a tree stump so that he would not dodge to one side or another, but would focus on the ball. It worked for the first several throws, he was happy, I was happy, everything was going to be fine…until he missed the ball and it hit him on the forehead. I don’t think I can adequately express the guilt associated with that. So, we decided to go buy a soft practice baseball, just in case, and no more stump. We walked into the sporting goods store, we found the baseballs and then the soft practice balls that were the same size and weight and everything was going fine until I looked to my side and saw what he was doing. He was taking the various baseballs and pressing them to his forehead. He wanted to figure out which one was the best to get hit with. We never did work on baseball much after that, but the running joke continued with each of us occasionally pressing a baseball to our foreheads and both laughing every time.
By that age, Stephen had become a gamer. As a 10 year old, there were games on old computer systems that I could not get to work, but Stephen could do just fine with them. That is also the age when he began beating me at console games, and he never looked back from there. My brother in law tells a story of a problem he was having with a game on a Commodore 64, he asked me how he could fix the problem and I responded “I don’t know, ask Stephen”. He looked at me, the network engineer, then he looked at my 10 year old son, shrugged his shoulders and asked Stephen. Stephen fixed it for him. A few years later Stephen would choose the gamer name “Lexbas”, a jumble of our last name Ables with an X thrown in as an homage to a Final Fantasy troupe, but I think the Lexbas legend is somewhat older than the name itself.
Stephen’s mother and I had many differences and by this time we had drifted apart. When we divorced, he took it in stride. When she joined the Army I had been out for a few years and he took that in stride as well. Both of her tours in Iraq, a brief attempt by the two of us to patch up our former lives, moving several times, hardships and all…he took everything in stride.
When Stephen was about 16 we went on a family hike at Enchanted Rock. Stephen and I were taking a fairly steep trek, but nothing too dangerous. However, it became dangerous when I damaged my shoe and could no longer get traction. I admit I was panicked a bit, but I was working through how I was going to get out of it. My plan was to spring upright and run down the rock, but I knew that if I lost my balance it was going to be very bad. I never got to try that plan because Stephen was in hero mode again. He quickly made his way to me and planted his foot beneath mine so I would not slip any further, then took my hand and pulled me up to steady and balance myself. I remember thinking of those times that as a little boy he had climbed up trees that he could not get back down without my help, and how as a young man he was helping me get down a rock that I had climbed, but couldn’t manage to get back down without his help. I was so very proud in that moment. I’ve always been proud of my son, but that moment was something very special, especially because I knew that he would do the same for anyone in trouble.
At about the same time, a friend and I opened a small computer shop and inside that shop was a gaming center. The shop name was Arctic Zero and the gaming center was the Arctic Arena. Stephen was so excited about gaming where his friends could join him and when we let him run the place during the summer he was perfectly at home. Of course, Stephen being Stephen meant that he did not want anyone left out, so he frequently gave away free hours of play so that everyone could stay late and have a good time. I never could get mad at him for that, the dad in me overruled the businessman. A couple of years later we sold the shop and the new owner shut down the gaming center, and Stephen and I began working on our plans for a new and improved Arctic Arena.
Stephen graduated High School at 17, a feat that is significantly tied to his Spanish class. Stephen really disliked Spanish, he had no interest in it and it took that poor Spanish teacher 4 years to get him to where he needed to be in order to graduate. During High School he often helped teachers with computer problems, assisted in the office, ran errands for school staff just because he wanted to be helpful, but when it came time for Spanish class, all that changed for an hour. The morning of Stephen’s graduation we were waiting on his final grade from Spanish to make sure he was going to be walking across the stage. He finished it with a C.
When Stephen was 19 he was building computers for friends and looking toward his future as a hardware design engineer and gaming center owner. Stephen and I were talking, often for hours at a time, about the plans. Great, long, techie talks where my 19 year old son would so often make observations that had escaped me.
By then, his mother and he had developed a bit of a running joke. Stephen, being the typical teen boy has a messy room and his mother, when she was in town, or even by phone would tell him to clean it and his constant reply would come…“I’m working on it”. At first I didn’t realize that it had turned into a joke, but I finally caught on. I had a different saying. When he was going out, especially with some of his acquaintances that I am not comfortable with I would say “I love you, be safe”. Recently Stephen began preempting me with “Hey dad, I’m going and I’ll be safe!“. That was about a week ago. As I write this, Stephen, my beautiful baby boy who grew into such an amazing man, has been dead for seven days.
I want to tell you about this week without Stephen.
Saturday
On August 1st, 2009 Stephen told me that he was going to hang out with his friend later that night. I had reservations about Stephen being with this particular friend, but Stephen is such a responsible young man that I felt he could hold his own and make good decisions. He had recently proved that to me, in fact. I was working late and he was at a party several miles from our house that I had dropped him off at on my way back to work. When someone broke out a beer bong at the party, instead of calling me at work and asking me to come get him, he walked home. From the far side of town, without a complaint and taking it all in stride, he walked away from a situation that he recognized could be trouble. I believed with every ounce of my being that Stephen would show that same responsibility when others were involved, so I said ok. For the next few hours we gamed. We were working on a new rotation for our warlock in World of Warcraft. At one point I decided that we needed some form of ice cream, so I offered to run to Dairy Queen and Stephen said “I know it’s bad for me, but I’d like a chocolate shake” (Chocolate caused Stephen to have mild nose bleeds), so I agreed and I went and got his shake and my Blizzard and we kept on gaming, never actually finishing the treats…we were too busy, so we stuck them in the fridge.
I began getting calls and texts from friends that wanted me to come to Fort Hood because some of my old neighbors were visiting and they wanted me to go down for a cookout. I was ignoring them at first, but later in the evening Stephen reminded me that he was going to be gone, so I told him about my invite, and I told him that I was going to go since he had plans. “Cool, have fun” was his answer. As I left, he was standing in front of our stove, having just grabbed a drink of water. “I love you, be safe” was the last thing I said to my son. “I will, dad, have fun” was the last thing my son said to me. Then he flashed that smile and I walked out the door.
Sunday
As is often the case on military installations, the gathering lasted all night. I had a single beer early on, but I never planned on spending the night, so I didn’t drink anything else. I caught up with old friends, I talked about my kids and they talked about theirs, I listened to some neighborhood drama and by 4 in the morning I realized the time and I left shortly after. As I was driving home, I was almost to the city limits when I suddenly saw police lights in my rear view mirror. I quickly pulled over, but the Sheriff’s car sped around me so fast that I knew someone was in trouble. I wondered what the rush could be at just after 6 in the morning in our little town. When I got home a few minutes later, Stephen’s car that he had just gotten was not there, but that was not unusual, I assumed he was off buying donuts. 20 minutes later I began calling him and I was getting irritated that he was not answering, but I decided to just wait a bit, so I played World of Warcraft for a while because I had an idea and wanted to show him something. Over an hour went by and I tried to call again and again, but no answer. I convinced myself that he had stayed the night and we would just have to have a talk about proper notification later on that day. I decided to lie down and rest at about 8:15. At 8:30 on Sunday morning, August 2nd, 2009, the doorbell rang twice. When I went to the door in my t-shirt and underwear there were two men standing there and they asked if I was Michael Ables. I said yes and they asked me to come outside. I excused myself to put shorts on and I remember thinking that the city was going to complain that my grass was too tall. Stephen and I had been working on the lawnmower but had not finished it. When I walked out they asked me if I had a son, Stephen Ables. I began hoping and praying that he had not been hurt in a car wreck, he drove a tiny car and I was so very concerned that it would not hold up well in case of a wreck. I told them that Stephen is my son. One of them said “I’m sorry, but we have some really bad news Mr. Ables, Stephen passed away this morning.” I remember wishing and praying that he had been hurt in a car wreck.
The next few minutes are hard to recall. I remember the look on the officers faces when my knees buckled, they seemed very concerned for me, but also looked like 2 men unprepared to catch a 260 pound 6’3” man on his way to the ground. The brick wall behind me did the job instead. I tried to talk as they described what had happened, but I could not. I wanted the whole thing to be some horrible dream, or at least for it to slow down, but the roar in my ears blocked out everything but their words, including my own thoughts. There were flashes of realization, a clarity that told me I was never going to see my son again but the roar was there, constantly assaulting me and as I stumbled around my porch and to the hood of my car I knew that the roar was not only my crying, it was the sound of my life being torn apart. There was only one thing I could anchor myself to, that was my daughter. Everything else was gone. I knew I had to call Lyea, she is stationed in Hawaii and my daughter was visiting her at the time. When I called her it was somewhere around 4 a.m. her time, she answered and I didn’t notice that she was groggy. I told her what I knew, that Stephen had gone to a party, drank something and passed out and began getting sick, when the people there didn’t want him making a mess, they had shoved this 6’4, 230 pound man into a bathtub and some time later without any notice from the party goers, he died there. “What? Michael, Michael, what? Stephen?” is what I heard her scream. I had to put her on speaker with the sheriff’s deputies to tell her what I was trying to say. When she hung up she went to our daughters room. She put a hand on either side of Tiffany’s face and make her focus “We have to go” she told her. “What’s wrong?” asked Tiffany. “It’s Stephen, he went to a party and drank too much” said Lyea. “Is he okay?” “No”. My 15 year old daughter screamed and then cried uncontrollably for almost 6 hours before she was exhausted enough that she stopped. At one point hours after I had called her, Lyea accidentally called me back but I did not hear the phone. The voice mail is still on my phone of my daughter crying, she was in the floor of the emergency room where her mother works, the phone was pressed between them as her mother was trying in vain to console her.
My next call was to my mother. She did not answer, so I called her sister trying to get word to her. My aunt broke down simply saying “Michael, no, no, no, oh no” and my mom called back having seen the missed call. She began to cry when I told her, sobbing “What, what? Stephen?” and said she would be right over. I called my dad next “Oh, no, no, no”. My aunt and uncle “Michael, you don’t mean that, no, no…stay where you are, we are on our way”. My friend still has my call on his voice mail, it took 3 people at his house listening to what they thought was a prank to finally understand what I was saying. My aunt and uncle showed up, then my mom was there. Then my dad, my sister, my step-dad and others. I was still sitting in the same spot I’d finally collapsed into, Stephen’s spot on the front porch where he had been sitting the day before talking gaming strategy with me. I called the Red Cross to get Stephen’s mother cleared to leave her duty station, I tried to listen to what people were saying but could not and I began to pray.
Some time later I was at my mother’s house. I don’t remember being taken, but I know it was my mother that took me. Hours had passed and my body felt wrecked. There was no part of me that wasn’t in pain and the tears kept coming no matter how bad it hurt to cry. Co-workers were calling, current and past, to ask what they could do, but I didn’t know what to tell them. I just cried instead of giving any direction. Then it was dark, the moon was out and I was on my mother’s back porch. Some friends were there, as was my cousin Derrick and others, I remember flashes of them arriving and I remember parts of conversations, but it was on the porch that night when I began collecting all the parts of things people were saying and processing them. I asked my cousin who is more religious than I am about his view on heaven. I told him what I believe and I begged God to let me be right. I talked to both of them and my step-dad for what must have been hours, but I am not sure I said much. My step-dad had gone with a friend and a sheriff’s deputy to get Stephen’s car earlier, I had his cell phone and someone asked if his voice was on it. I found a 14 second recording. It was a gaming sequence he had recorded so that he would remember the best way to use the character he was playing. I didn’t understand why I had it, it had been found by my family in his car along with his wallet, class ring, a work shirt and what we thought were work pants and some miscellaneous odds and ends, but no answers. Stephen would not have left his phone in the car, much less his wallet or class ring. It was 2 in the morning, early Monday. Stephen died one day ago.
Monday
I did not sleep that night, just brief moments of exhaustion overcame me and I would nod off only to wake up shaking and crying and praying. I began getting these flashes of urgency, brief passing moments of a feeling that I had to save Stephen, followed by the realization that it was too late. Over and over it happened, each time followed by an indescribable wave of agony.
Family, food and condolences were flooding in a few hours later. My sister had gone to my house and collected a change of clothes and a few things I might need. My daughter and her mother were flying in from Hawaii, and for the first time in my life, I felt old. Devastated is not a strong enough word, there are no words to describe how I felt. I remember thinking that Stephen’s mom was going through the same thing, but having to deal with airlines and military protocol. I could not imagine anything being worse that what I was going through, but I knew there was at least one person that was facing just that. My friends from Fort Hood were at my mom’s house and I was sitting in the floor against the wall telling people about Stephen and I decided then that I would do the same at his funeral. I began warning people that it might take me a while to get through it, but I owed it to my son to let people know what kind of man he was.
I don’t remember Lyea and Tiffany getting there. I know that I was somehow at home and that coworkers and friends and family and strangers were there. On the front page of our newspaper was a picture of Stephen, they called him a graduate of Stephenville High School that had died after a night of partying with friends. Stephen had no friends at that party, any friend would have watched out for him or just accepted there was going to be trouble and called 911. It was not in his nature to be a party guy. How could they print that without asking someone that knew him, any of his true friends, any of his family? I know that parents are surprised all the time by things their kids do that they never suspected they might, but I also know that Stephen had never become rebellious against me, I spent hours every day with him. We talked and we played and we planned together. Stephen had my back and he knew that I had his. Stephen was not the party guy the newspaper made him out to be and that was widely known I discovered. Rumors were beginning to fly about what really happened, but I trust the sheriff’s office to do their job, so I am sticking with what I know. I knew that Stephen was in Dallas for an autopsy. I knew that there was a funeral director named Vance that needed to talk to me. I knew that there was more food in my house than there had ever been and I remember thinking that Stephen would think it was heaven, then I thought about that and I broke down wholeheartedly again. Lyea and I picked out the last clothes that Stephen would wear, just as we had picked out the first clothes he ever wore. We met with Vance. I wrote my son’s obituary.
It had occurred to me that no matter what, Stephen’s death was alcohol related in some way. I had to do something, so I called the Star Council on Substance Abuse and told them that I wanted Stephen’s story in the prevention program. Stephen was not a drug user, not a drinker, he was a good kid that made one bad decision. We had to save the next kid that was going to do the same. I questioned them about their recent appearance in newspapers regarding some financial issues because I did not want Stephen associated with an organization that was doing the wrong things. They were very open with me and I accepted the explanations they gave. I added to the obituary that people should contribute to them in Stephen’s name.
The day passed and it was early Tuesday morning. Stephen died two days ago.
Tuesday
Time, in my mind, was swirling. It seemed that the hours in the day were not in the right order and I could not keep up with what was going on. So many things seemed to be happening out of order. Nothing made any sense. I prayed for strength and for peace. I decided that my son’s funeral had to be on Thursday because it was significant to us as fans of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Arthur Dent could never get the hang of Thursdays, and I had to fit all this confusion into something, so I fit it into a book that Stephen and I both love.
Later I found myself at the funeral home looking at financial paperwork and then picking out a coffin. When I walked into the showroom, I cried so hard that it was impossible for me to see for a time. Finally, when I could, Lyea and I agreed on the right one. There was no time for an insert to go in the top of the coffin for the service, we would have to make our own, but we knew what we wanted to do. We picked out a burial liner as well. The coffin had a techie feel to it and the liner had a rough surface that looked like a gaming background. It was the last one they had, that style is no longer made…I felt good about that for some reason.
We were told to come back later in the day because Stephen would be ready for us. When we did, Vance took us to see him. It was my love for my family, anchored by my daughter that kept me sane when I saw him. I had to endure this for her and for them. There he was, in the coffin we had selected wearing the clothes we had picked out. I wanted to see him clearly, but the tears blurred my vision, I wanted to touch him but I could not move, I wanted to tell him I love him, but I was choked almost to the point of losing consciousness. The absolute horror of the past two days seemed to diminish into the realm of discomfort at the site of my son in that coffin. Finally, I was able to look. Finally I was able to hug him. Finally I was able to tell him I love him and will always miss him. His hair was too neat, I messed it up the way he wore it. His head was at too steep an angle, I had Vance lower the pillow. We began putting his things where the insert would have gone in the lid of his coffin. His favorite drum sticks he used playing Rock Band, some of his techie pins, a few playing cards and so on…a concert ticket he had bought but was beginning to fear would not get to him in time…it had arrived Monday, the day after he died. My daughter came to see her brother, all I could do was hug her and try to help her through it as she was overcome by the site of her protector. Other family members came by and wept but I could not do anything for them. Stephen’s Spanish teacher from High School was the first non-family member to come see him.
There was so very much to do and I hadn’t a clue how to proceed. My friend Kelly was designing a memorial poster for Stephen with a gaming theme and Lyea and I had decided that the pallbearers would be wearing gaming shirts. In middle of all of that, Lyea suggested that we should make Arctic Arena shirts. I was angry with her when she said it. I told her that would be a promise to Stephen that we were going to open the new gaming center he and I had been planning and that we were in no position to make such promises, but as I was denying it, it was forming in my head and in the same breath I told her that was exactly what we were going to do. I decided to commit to opening Stephen’s gaming center at that moment, a huge decision but one I knew I would honor. A few hours later, Kelly designed shirts with a logo and we were getting them printed up. Everything was happening so fast…we were just flying away from the last time I saw my son smile. Shortly after I got home, I had my first waking terror. I don’t know what else to call it, I have never felt anything like that before. It was pure fear, pure horror, absolute raw emotion that lasted only a moment but devastated me. When it passed I was confused and exhausted. It was early Wednesday morning and I had to be ready for Stephen’s viewing that night. Stephen died 3 days ago.
Wednesday
I woke up Wednesday morning. I had finally slept for a few hours. The poster was ready to be printed, so I took it in to be done. The shirts were probably going to be ready on time the next day. I remember thinking about everything that had happened and what a miracle it was that everything was coming together.
Lyea and I went to breakfast with my step-dad. He wanted answers and was ready to get an attorney to follow the case. I told him he would have our support, but not until Stephen was taken care of. With that established, we began a very long day of getting ready for a public viewing. The minister came to the house to speak with us, we had to organize the funeral and with a great deal of help from him, it came together. I learned that my son’s case was being considered criminal. Criminally Negligent Homicide seemed such an unworthy description of what had transpired, but I was glad to know that things were moving along. I visited Stephen a couple of times before the official visitation, then at 7 that night it began.
There were already many people there but so many more came. I was grateful for all of them, but I didn’t want them there. I can’t explain it, but there were only a few people I actually wanted to be there. My closest friends are mostly co-workers and the people from Fort Hood, and I wanted them there. I wanted my immediate family there, I wanted the minister there and I wanted Lyea there. I should have focused more on the gratitude I felt, because when I slipped, I actually had someone leave the funeral home for being obnoxious. She was being obnoxious, but I should have let it go. Stephen is not big on large crowds, he’s more comfortable sitting off in a corner with a good book, and I believe that is what was driving me to want most the people there to go away.
Once the viewing was over at 9, we had a large table at Pasta Fina, Stephen’s favorite restaurant. They were kind to us and let us keep them open almost an hour past closing time, and I will always be grateful for that. Those conversations were varied but each one of them helped me get closer to reality. I finally felt that things were going as well as they could. When I got home I put the leftovers in the fridge. Stephen always ate any Pasta Fina leftovers right away, and it hit me so hard then that they were not going to vanish once I put them in there. Sitting there in the door, as I closed the fridge, were a Dariy Queen Chocolate Shake and Blizzard. It was early Thursday morning. Stephen died 4 days ago.
Thursday
Thursday morning I started working on the music for the service, and by noon I thought it was complete. I had an arrangement that would allow plenty of time for the viewing and his favorite song to play during the service. Vance told me when I took it to the funeral home that we would not get to listen to it all, a normal viewing only takes 8 to 12 minutes. I rushed back and re-built the play list and burned another . I didn’t understand how everyone could walk by and say their final goodbyes in 8 to 12 minutes. That was time for Con te Partiro and the Star Trek II version of Amazing Grace. Stephen loves Sarah Brightman and Star Trek, what a combination. Of course, nobody would be surprised, there is very little music Stephen doesn’t like. As long as it wasn’t rap, he was a fan. I was hopeful that it would take longer than 8 to 12 minutes, so I left the other songs, A New Ending from Star Trek Nemesis, Vivere by Andrea Bocelli and The Journey Home by Sarah Brightman on that CD, and The Animal I Have Become by Three Days Grace on another to be played during the service. Stephen’s eclectic musical taste would not be fully honored, but at least represented.
At the funeral at 2 that afternoon I told the capacity crowd about the snails and the hiking trip, about Stephen’s big heart and his desire to protect those close to him. There were so very many people there, but I could only see one of them because I had to speak mostly to the back door to maintain my composure, but my eyes wandered a few times to George, a man from work, sitting off to the right giving me an occasional encouraging nod. I invited others to speak and at first nobody stood, but in time they came one by one, until it was a stream of people telling us all how sweet Stephen was, what a great gamer he was, how helpful he was, what a great sense of humor he had and on and on and on. I was happy in spite of my sadness. Tears and laughter…Stephen would have approved.
I gave Stephen one last hug, I gave Stephen his gamer shirt from the Arctic Arena yet to be built in his honor, I gave Stephen one last kiss on his forehead, I made sure his hair was right, I told him how much I love him. I heard the last song on the CD playing. They closed the coffin.
At the graveside the pallbearers were all lined up in their Arctic Arena shirts and there was a very large crowd of people considering it was 101 degrees outside but I couldn’t focus on anything but the hole beneath his coffin. The minister accidentally called him Michael, a mistake common in my family, I remember saying “He’s Stephen, I’m Michael” as I had often done in the past. I just kept looking into the hole that had been dug for him. It was a long time before I noticed the burial liner we had picked out an eternity before sitting several yards off to the side. The sun shining off it made it look like a mountain covered in snow far off in the distance. People were telling me how sorry they were and then we were driving home.
My friend Dan had prepared a huge feast, so much amazing food and my friends from Fort Hood were there working on even more. I can honestly say that we truly celebrated Stephen that day. We ate, we talked, we cried and we laughed. Many of us sat on the front porch for hours and hours that night and into the next morning, remembering my son. Friday morning had come. Stephen died 5 days ago.
Friday
The second waking terror came this morning. It lasted longer this time, several seconds.
My living room is filled with flowers and plants. I am thankful for the mess. We are beginning the daunting task of filling out thank-you cards. A ridiculous tradition that I would not wish on anyone in my situation, but I will do it anyway. I will remember to tell the next family that I send flowers to that I wish to not be on the thank-you list. I don’t need or want recognition from someone dealing with such a personal loss, I just want to support them to the best of my ability.
I am struck by something I have not talked about here. Stephen was very creative with a camera and in other ways. One of his creative abilities was in writing. He was so well read that he had developed an interesting habit of making sure that things end his way. He loved the Harry Potter series of books except the last one, when he had read only a few pages of it, he decided that it just would not do, so he made up his own ending and never planned to finish it. He loved the Twilight series, except the last book, he didn’t like the way it was going so he put it down to make up his own ending. He read every Stephen King book (perhaps because of the drills from his childhood) and for some he had to make his own ending. The same with every J.R.R. Tolkien book and the hundreds and hundreds of others he read. I am thankful that Stephen never knew the ending to his story.
I am no longer crying so freely, I am excusing myself to my room once in a while to let the tears come in private. I think of Stephen constantly now, but in time I suppose it will be just several times a day. I know that it will never be less than that. I know that a day will never pass while I live that I don’t look to the heavens and tell Stephen I love him and miss him. I know that I have so much work to do in his name. I know that those responsible will be punished and I hope to have some sense of closure then. I know that Stephen is at peace. What I don’t know is how to move forward. I’m working on it. Stephen died 6 days ago.
Saturday
Lyea and I decided it would be good to get away for a few hours so we drove to Bangs, Texas to attend our 20 year High School reunion. When we walked in, there was a picture of Stephen along with his obituary I had written and a note asking people to donate to the Star Council on Substance Abuse. It meant a lot to me to see that. It also reminded me that we had more important things to do. We talked a bit, took some pictures and left.
As the night passed into early morning, I found myself thinking about what we had learned from the sheriff’s office and from others about the night of August 1st and the morning of the 2nd. I was in a daze thinking about what had been happening exactly one week earlier. I tried to take the bits of information I had and make them into an exact time line. I just kept thinking…at exactly this time one week ago Stephen was visiting his grandmother, he stopped by there after I left…at exactly this time one week ago Stephen was getting hugs from his cousins who were all doing their usual attack hugs where they pile up on him…my sister saw him on the road following someone to the party because he did not know where it was…he took a drink of something that did not taste like it had much alcohol in it…there was an incident in the front yard…on and on, all the little details filtered through and I just kept giving them times.
At exactly this time, Stephen died one week ago.
It was 4 days ago when I finished writing this down. This morning, my third waking terror happened. It lasted several minutes and I eventually made it from my room to the far end of the house where my ex-wife was sleeping in my daughter’s room. I had taken my pillow and I laid down beside her. I was shaking and sobbing, she asked what was wrong, I could not tell her. There were voices and visions and so much pain, misery, anguish…I wish there were words but there are none for it. She hugged me and told me everything was going to be all right. She was wrong. It will eventually get better, but it will never be all right.