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It seems that when one is faced with the task of making sense of a loss that a lot of well meaning people appear to give their support.  The empathy and sympathy is appreciated, though it’s tough to express.  It’s as if suddenly the right words are ripped from the mind, leaving a void of confusion.

Poems, stories, quips, quotes, they all show that someone cares and is trying to cheer up the person who has lost their direction. What’s really strange, is that while these kind words all are an ointment to help, they are also like ripping off a scab, exposing a healing wound, to apply the ointment.

The words from those just learning of the loss are the hardest. A crack in the shield forms every time the story is told. Some days the shield is fully pierced.

When you learn of someone’s loss, please, do not try to find the right words to say.  Never, are the right words going to come, for it is not words that heal. The healing will come from within. Tiny moments of joy linking together, bonding with the new self. 

Don’t tell someone to appreciate the good times. They already do.  It’s the good times that formed their current structure. Telling this gives a state of confusion, unable to determine if the appreciation is enough or even sincere.

Don’t tell them to think of what they already have.  Yes, these people and things won’t lose any importance. When there is a loss, there is an empty seat at every table, it’s not removing a chair.

Don’t tell someone that it could be for the best.  No. Right now it can’t be for the best.  In fact, right now, it feels more like that it just can’t be even real.

Don’t tell them about a loss you experienced. Hearing about someone else’s pain is salt on the wound. No matter how splendid of a moral to the story you have, it doesn’t make it better.

We understand that you are trying to be helpful, trying to work through your own heartbreak, and that you care.  Thank you for caring.  That’s all we want.  Offer an open ear, but don’t get upset should it not be called upon. To know that we can talk to you is itself comforting.

For those that have spoke to me or others in the past and tried to find the right words: we carry them with us now, but they don’t hold us back. We appreciate your intent.  Thank you for caring. Honestly and sincerely, thank you for caring.

Last month I tried to participate in 30 Days of Biking from April 1 – April 30.  But, life with a nearly two-year-old and a 35-week pregnant wife can be rather hectic.  As the days went by, I occasionally found myself doing an 11:45pm ride around the neighborhood to keep in check with my commitment.  It was a fun couple weeks until everything changed.

We had been planning a homebirth for our daughter’s arrival.  We did lots of research and found a wonderful pair of midwives. We made a list of the various things that needed to happen once my wife went into labor.  Shortly after 4pm on Friday, April 23, I came home from a make-up session for a class and was already late for work.  My wife had a few contractions that she thought may have been the beginning of labor but they were inconsistent magnitude and irregularly spaced apart.  We decided that it would be best if I went to work since such an occurrence could go feasibly go on for days.  As nearly always, I took the bike to work. I sent her a message when things slowed down at work asking her what was going on.  She confirmed she was in labor but told me to finish out my shift.  Later, she picked me and my bike up from work so we could go shopping for an “It’s a Girl” lawn sign and an anniversary card for my parents, whose 28th anniversary was the following day.

After a wild chain of events during the remainder of labor, our beautiful daughter Daisy was born on April 24, 2010 at 4:16am. She weighed exactly 8 pounds and was 20-3/4” long.  It was such a weird feeling to have a second child be born.  I remember the feelings of “Wow, so this is what it’s like to be a dad” from when our son James was born and the blissful gazing at him.  With Daisy, it was different, the “Father of two” feeling seemed so sudden, as if it were unexpected. I was overcome with pride, both for my wife’s strength during labor and for the sweet little baby clinging to my finger.

Just a short week later, all of the wonderful feeling of this new life entering the world needed to be set aside for all the strength and courage I can muster.  My dad, Ingo, is probably the single biggest influence on my life.  A man of great character with a love for simple pleasures, family, and friends. Full of advice and wisdom without a hint of being condescending.  I received a call from my wife that I needed to find out what was going on with my mom.  I called her and she told me to get to her house as fast as possible.  I’ll never forget the look on her face when she asked her neighbor and the police officer to tell me of the worst news I have ever heard.  As they stammered to explain and find the right words, the officer said: “He’s gone.”  My heart fell. My breath left me. All I could do was hug my mom and compose myself knowing that right then she needed me to be strong far more than I needed to express my sadness.  The next 12 hours were a whir of family and close friends coming over to just be with us.  I had our van, so friends of ours garnered car seats, and our midwife gave my wife and our kids a ride over to my parent’s house.  My dad went turkey hunting with his good friend and while they were walking to go set up their blind, my dad tripped.  His gun fell from his hand. He died almost instantly.

My mom was understandably too shaken to bear the news, so her father brought me to my dad’s parent’s house. The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was to tell my Opa that his only son had died.  A strong-hearted man who has been witness to a lot of loss said, “I thought I had seen everything, I haven’t seen nothing” as he sat back taking in my words, visibly quite shaken.

It is still too soon to know of any other arrangements.  I will be spending a lot of time with my mom over the next few days, weeks, months, and years.  I know she needs me right now about as much as I need her.

I am extremely saddened by the loss of my father. He was a great friend. Dad, I miss you. I love you.  Thank you for being an incredible father to me. I’m proud that we named James Ingo after you, I hope he grows up to be every bit as caring, funny, strong, smart, and helpful as you have always been.

I was a little surprised to see that Lance Armstrong went on the Tony Kornheiser show in light of the statements he made on Twitter. I mentioned in my last post the vile comments Mr. Kornheiser made declaring that motorists with a cyclist in their way should “run them down.” Never mind that Tony’s daughter purportedly is a cycling commuter.

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Many of you probably recall the Deminski and Doyle Show’s cyclist hate episode last year. On the bright side, WCSX has cancelled their show. Unfortunately, another radio personality has piped up in DC spewing more disinformation and hatred on ESPN980, “Home of the Redskins.”

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Rumors have been plentiful and the official announcement of “soon” left little to the imagination for a time when Google would officially announce a “Bicycling” option to the very popular Google Maps. Now, it’s here!

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The bike shop that I work at part time, American Cycle and Fitness, posted a new section on their website called Sweet Rides. It hasn’t been fully developed yet, but the plan is to have customers and employees alike submit their rides and a little story about why they are wonderful.

I’m proud to say that my Fisher/Xtracycle is the first to be featured! Check it out, Sweet Rides

After my son was born in May of 2008 I decided to commit to my bicycle as my primary transportation. I’m glad I made that choice. Read the rest of this entry »