The Hardest Thing About the Hardest Thing

The Hardest Thing About the Hardest Thing

Mid-therapy session, I was hit with a sneaker wave of sadness. Tears poured down my face. I literally choked on the words.

I was in in the middle of a sentence about some other nonsense, I realized my connection to my boy was finite–exhaustive, scarce, and never to be replenished. I don’t know why I found it then. But I did.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself: I have honored my boy in too many ways to count—public eulogies, tattoos and graffiti, bike racks and playground donations, 52 separate adventures, “Shea stories” at bedtime with my girl. Stickers plastered everywhere. Writing, talking, saying his name. Workouts in his honor. Screaming “Woo-hoo!” And on and on.

Honoring him was important. It is important. Mostly, I’m proud of everything we’ve done. But in that moment I realized all the honoring didn’t bring back our connection.

That knowledge crushed me.

That connection will grow weaker by the day—like a spaceship slowly losing contact with Earth. The gravitational pull grows weaker.
Beep.
Beep…
Beep.
Harder and harder to recognize. More faint.

That’s what grief really is. Not just losing a person you loved, but knowing that person a little less every day, no matter how many ways you try to honor them, no matter how many times you watch the same videos over and over again.

I’ll always be able to honor him. And that will remain important and worth doing, always—because our boy is worth honoring.

But our connection becomes more… abstract.

Shea becomes more abstract.

His feel, his smell, his giggles.

His little toes, his “bro” energy, his smile.

The noise he made when he tried to hold in his laugh.

The way he said “Daaadddy” when I picked him up from school.

How he asked for me to come check on him in a little bit, every night.

Including his last.

Each a bit less real every day.

And on and on, every day, forever.

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Shea Thomas Callanan, our boy, passed away on October 12th, 2024 unexpectedly. His epilepsy did not define his life, nor will it define his memory. If you feel inclined, please support Shea’s Play Fund which will be used to make play more accessible wherever it is needed most.