Memorial Day is an odd combination of memorial services for fallen soldier/military, and a day off to spend with family and friends. It's a tough day for me, not because of any direct connection to a fallen soldier (although my children's grandfather is buried at Arlington, having been killed in action in Korea when their dad was an infant) but because of my hometown's Memorial Day celebration.
My son really wanted to be in the military. Not only in honor of his grandfather, but in honor of his favorite aunt who proudly served in the Army. He was never able to take the final step to enlisting as his illness always got in the way of judgment and opportunity.
We honor our service members here in town. We celebrate their service and their sacrifice. It's a community wide event. My kids and I always participated in the local events. And so of course on this day I can only think about my son in the high school marching band, marching in the parade, or riding his scooter to the park for the city-wide fireworks show, or watching the Jazz Band from the high school and telling me how he was aiming to play bass in the band. Like the military, Jazz Band never happened due to his challenges.
Today, many years later, there is still a parade with the high school marching band, still a fireworks show where the kids show up with their friends and have a good time, still the Jazz Band playing to the crowds.
As much as I enjoy the celebrations, it is hard to not be sad. He was there. Now he's not. I am as alone and grieving for this loss as much as any parent whose child was lost in a battle far away from the hometown.
As I've written before, a Gold Star Mother (one who lost her child in war) is honored and revered. But a mother who simply lost her child to another type of battle is ignored. I am resigned to that, on every day except Memorial Day when I see his smile and golden hair either marching down the main street playing the marching band version of the french horn, or riding his scooter around the park while the festivities are going on. Today, on Memorial Day, I remember that I lost my son to a different kind of war -- a war of illness, of drugs, of evil nurses who prey upon the vulnerable.
His death as a result of a different war does not diminish my respect and honor for all the servicemembers who sacrificed. Any loss of a child is the deepest kind of loss. Whether by war, or gunfire, or evil nurses, or drugs, or stupid accident, it is the same outcome: days and nights of mourning, mostly in silent in a world that would rather not remember the pain of losing a child.
I'm grateful for Memorial Day, even with the pain, as it is a reason to publicly remember my son. As the military heroes are remembered, so too are our children we have lost from other, more local wars. Today, while at the park listening to the Jazz Band, I see him sitting beside me, sharing his aspirations, always wanting to move forward to new goals. He lost his life in the battle of life. Not while wearing a uniform, and so not put up on a memorial pedestal, but while trying to find his way despite so many obstacles. Regardless, like the soldiers in battle somewhere far away, he was still my son, his battles cost him his life, but still his life mattered. I will remember and honor that spark, that spirit, that joy that he brought to me and to so many others, for my entire life.
I close this post with his favorite parting phrase: Peace Out.
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