Late in the afternoon of October 6th, 1998, I sat down to write. I was exhausted, as Roy had been born the prior evening. I needed to capture that moment, while everything was vivid in my memory.
This is part of what I wrote:
“When I first held Roy, I was very surprised by how well formed he looked. His hair looked good, and I was very intrigued how little his mouth was, and that it was opening and closing. I then saw that Roy was holding his head up and looking around. I was astounded, because he seemed so smart and so curious. Although I knew that newborns don’t really process things like adults, I was just so proud that he was so curious.
…
From time to time, Roy would start to fuss. I was very proud that I was able to calm him down by holding him close and making humming noises that descended in pitch.
After I had held Roy for a while, I was struck by a strange feeling. I felt like it was time to hand him back to somebody who knew how to take proper care of him. Unconsciously, it felt like I was holding something that belonged to someone else. However, it then struck me that I was his father, and that it was up to me to make a decision.”
A few hours later;
“I forget if I called my sister Wendy before or after calling the Godparents. Wendy practically squealed when I told her the details. She told me that as she was driving home, the full moon was shining especially nice on the ocean waves. She thought that it was our father looking down and smiling. We both got a little teary eyed because Roy’s grandfather had died only 5 months before he was born.”
When I wrote that, I assumed I’d share it with Roy later in his life, when he would cherish it. Or perhaps if I was lucky, I might share it with his own children – my granddaughters or grandsons.
I was determined to capture as much as I could of his life – a gift for our distant, shared future.
But here we are twenty years later – Those recollections, photographs, videos. They’re painful to experience. They now serve a very different purpose as we slowly come to terms with our loss. But more importantly, they’re an unambiguous reminders of the love he gave and received.
Roy was a vivacious force of nature from the outset. When he first learned to laugh, his clucking cackle was magical -- A rapid fire staccato – indescribably happy. I tickled and swung him around constantly, trying to elicit that exuberant laugh. Moments like those are the high point of a parent’s life.
And his hair! So incredibly light blonde, sticking straight up like a punk rocker’s. Billy Idol should have serious hair envy.
By the time he was three, Roy was obsessed with construction equipment. From his car seat in the back of our Jeep, he’d announce the name of every heavy machinery piece we drove past. Front loader… Backhoe… Bulldozer…
Roy learned to escape into movies and television early on. I grew to detest Bob the Builder and Thomas the Train. But we had our guilty pleasures. He and I watched the beginning of Terminator 2 over and over and over. He called it the “Bike-truck” movie because of the scene where a semi-truck pursued Arnold on a motorcycle through an LA aqueduct. He was obsessed with that movie, and many others over the years.
Roy’s mother and I separated in 2001. Roy was too young to remember us being together. I struggled in those first few years, trying establish a new life and a new identity while being the best single parent I knew how. What seemed like incredible challenges then are now times I wish I could do over, just to spend more time with him.
In time, I met Carrie who brought stability and love to my life once again. Shortly thereafter, the lure of a Microsoft career brought us to the other side of the country. I swore that we would do whatever necessary to see Roy as often as possible, and talk via phone as often as possible in-between.
For a while, Roy and I collaborated on an elaborate, never ending story during our phone calls. Made up on the spot as we went along, of course. Dragons, boats, airplanes and all manner of bizarre twists. I ended each call with a cliffhanger. When our next call started, Roy excitedly reminded me how the last call ended so I could resume where we left off.
We also had a sacred ritual, maintained all the way through our final phone conversation. As the call ended, I’d say “I love you the very most”. He’d reply “I love you more”. I’d reply “I love you more”. And so it would ping pong back and forth until one of us would exclaim “Bye!” and hang up. It was a small thing, but it was part of the bedrock of our father-son bond. I ache to think that we didn’t have one last chance to reaffirm that connection.
By the time he was six, Roy was obsessed with Legos and Bionicles. I could see he had a very creative, detail-oriented streak – Always looking to build something or take something apart. He was a natural with hand drawings and computer imagery. Carrie and I were frankly quite shocked at how talented he was.
With Roy living in New Hampshire, cross-country flights were a fact of life. For many years, six cross-country flights were needed for each of his visits to our house. Carrie earned countless step-mother gold stars during this time. All the trips she planned and flew with Roy to enable his visits are only the tip of how she advocated for Roy.
One of our sacred traditions was ending each Seattle visit with a trip to Burgermaster. I could never understand why he dipped his chicken tenders in his milkshake, but that was classic Roy.
I will always be haunted by the question “Could we have done more?” Maybe so. But I also firmly believe the traditions Roy, Carrie and I shared meant something to Roy, and that he knew how much we loved him, despite not being able to spend as much time with him as we’d have liked.
In his later school years, Roy gravitated towards math and science pursuits. I was extremely proud, and frequently thought of the many interesting professions he might choose.
Sadly, during his high school years, Roy drifted into apathy. We tried and tried and tried to help spark a passion in him. Something, anything he loved doing. When he graduated from high school, Carrie and I told Roy that we’d take him anywhere he wanted to go in the world. We hoped to expand his horizons and show him some fraction of what the world has to offer.
Unfortunately, what we thought was normal teenage separation turned out to be something much worse. It seems clear in retrospect that Roy experienced deep depression. Unfortunately, he was very good at hiding this side of his life from his family and friends.
When his inner torments lined up on a particularly bad day to drive him towards a fatal solution, we were all punched in the gut.
How could this happen? Why hadn’t I seen it? What could I have done differently?
And now – How can we help others in Roy’s situation?
In the immediate aftermath, the outpouring of love for Roy from so many people provided some measure of comfort. We really had no idea how many friends he’d made since starting college, and how many people’s lives Roy touched.
In impossibly sad situations like this, many thoughts cross through the bereaved mind. For me, one such thought was the desire to believe that Roy laughed and loved more often than not. That overall, his nineteen years here were a net positive.
None of us really know how long we have on this planet. So it helps to have an idea of what really matters. What constitutes a life well-lived?
- Love your family.
- Make friends who become your family.
- Help others.
- Experience joy
As I fought through the tears to assemble a photo history of Roy’s life, a certainty set in. Time and time again, in every photo, the love, laughter and joy he experienced are undeniable.
The way he leaned against me. His love for his family. His goofy antics. His radiant smiles.
These things are undeniably true.
That is how I choose to remember Roy.
He lived a life well-lived.
