From my journal entries in 2017
Last Spring my younger son spent a few days at the Disney theme parks with his marching band. Picking him up from the trip and between the grunts attributed to adolescence and mouths full of food, I understood he spent a lot of time on roller coasters while in Florida. Because…he was fifteen. And not sleeping very much because…he was fifteen. And coming home sick because…he was fifteen.
I spend my days on roller coasters as well. It’s called grief. Sudden grief may be exactly like being strapped in. Climbing up at a laborious speed. Plummeting straight down at the tune of 150 miles per hour. Then there are the times in which the ride seems quiet, even pleasant. Like the calm before the really scary parts in a movie lulling us into a false sense of peace.
My older son and I stopped by the cemetery not long after this trip. It was an impromptu visit. We just happened to be in the neighborhood. While my son danced around the adjacent graves planning what to plant around Tony’s stone, I descended down a steep emotional roller coaster ride because someone, not me, had lain a flower at his grave. “I feel like I’m falling down on my job,” I said.
Back home I felt a sense of true peace. Maybe it was spending a few hours with my son. Making plans for the summer. Running errands. Sharing some time at the cemetery. Maybe it was also my moment of courage in which I shared with my son the verities close to my heart. “You and your brother will heal and live good lives. I will also heal and live a good life. Dad wants this, demands it.”
The truth also being that the beach and water we were on the day of Tony’s death was not adequately marked as dangerous. The universal signs of water safety posted in red, white, and black found on so many beaches across the United States were not there. The swimming buoys or lifeguard were not there. Another person died the same day close to the spot which took Tony. Another man died just a few weeks after. A young woman a few weeks before. My son saying the other man was probably a tourist, an unknowing tourist. Me agreeing. “I need to speak out. Children die in the Wisconsin River.”
“Young children can’t survive that river,” my son replying. Knowing this truth because he too had been caught in its grasp along with his brother. “You might just have to do that Mom,”
Jennifer Ohman-Rodriguez 