The stuff of nightmares

“Be careful!” I called out. “Please don’t do that. You could get hurt.”

It was like I’d done so many times before, watching this kid clumsily climb up trees or perched on the highest possible playground surface. Except this time was different. We weren’t at a park or playground and what he was doing didn’t make any sense.

He was across the street on the top ledge of a five or six story building, holding his body up with his arms and doing some kind of break dancing superhero moves with his legs. The street was packed with people, some of them also calling up for him to stop, and I couldn’t seem to make my way any closer. Every once in a while, my four-year-old daughter would dart across the street and almost get run over by a car.

I was trapped in this dreamscape of paralyzing panic, not able to rescue either of my kids. Then it finally happened; he slipped. He caught hold of the ledge with one hand for the briefest of moments and then I saw him fall.

I screamed. I can still hear the raw, scratching shrieks of, “My son! My son! My son!” I ran to him, pushing through enormous crowds, screaming over and over again. Finally, I made it to where he landed on the concrete and there was a flash of his splattered head and that must have been too much. My subconscious short-circuited and I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking in the morning light, the sounds of Saturday morning cartoons drifting up the stairs.

It’s been three days and I still can’t shake the terror. I’m not sure if I ever will. But my son is fine. All my kids are fine. I can go up to their rooms where they lie sleeping and snuggle up with them, holding them safe in my arms forever more. Except then I need to put them on a school bus, and send them off to grow up and go places without me, and make the kinds of mistakes that I made with nothing but a prayer — a desperate, aching prayer — that they too might be lucky enough to survive those mistakes.

Because not everyone is so lucky. Parents in New Brunswick just lost their 18-year-old son to a drinking game. A fucking drinking game, can you even count the times.

I’m just coming up for air these days, after nearly a decade poised to pounce on babies, toddlers and preschoolers. In those early weeks, the simple act of feeding them and listening to them breath through the night was a constant vigil. Then there were beds to roll off, stairs to fall down, toxic chemicals, choking hazards, sharp objects, traffic to avoid and getting lost at the mall.

But somehow we got through it all and now it’s like there’s an evil joker laughing at me. “Oh, you thought those were dangers, did you? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

We try not to think about it too much because our hearts can’t take it. The loss of a teenager, a young person on the cusp of adulthood, so close to having got away with it all. Because isn’t that really the only way any of us ever make it this far? We were lucky enough to get away with it.

These are the deep tragedies of this life, that burrow into our souls and become part of who we are. Countless accidents, overdoses, bad calls, suicides and unjust forces of nature steal some of the brightest lights from this earth. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can only hold a place in my heart for those who will forever grieve: my dear cousin Daisy who lost her only son; Sue and Dave, and Michelle and Amanda who mourn their son and brother; and all the rest.

In the darkest corners of our subconscious, I think we have all been there. Yes, we can imagine all too well.

Now off to count my blessings and hope for a dreamless sleep.