What a day

The forecast called for rain. The morning started out sunny and bright. As usual, I spent Saturday morning at my synagogue, with this particular weekend being the celebration of the end of the Jewish holiday of Shavuot (the holiday marking the day the Jewish nation received the 10 commandments on Mt. Sinai). As I mentioned previously, my birthday was May 31st, but by the Jewish calendar, I was born on the last day of Shavuot. Returning home from synagogue, I couldn't wait to remove my shaggy beard. Although I don't make a habit of shaving on a daily basis, I am not particularly fond of beards. The custom in my religion is to not shave or get your hair cut during the seven weeks between the Passover and Shavuot holidays. We had an appointment later in the afternoon to speak with someone about a rental property and figured the interview would go better if I looked presentable. So I didn't wait until sundown to cut off my unruly beard. It was only a few hours early - who would know!

As is our custom, my wife and I eat Saturday lunch at one of our favourite restaurants, and while we were there, the weather turned nasty. A torrential downpour began while we ate, but it slowed to a manageable shower by the time we were done eating. Stepping out of the restaurant, I glanced down to see a rain-soaked yarmelka. There aren't that many Jewish people in Windsor that go around with yarmelkas in their pockets, so I instinctively knew it had to be mine. A quick check of my pocket confirmed my suspicions. I picked it up and placed it in a blanket in the car. I've worn that yarmelka to prayers every day since the death of my father, and I wasn't ready to let it go. My plan was to dry it out at home and keep wearing it.

My step-daughter and her husband have been living in a small two-bedroom upper-duplex apartment for more than three years. Since they moved there, they added another beautiful baby to their growing family, and had been living in crowded conditions ever since. They've been trying to find a new place for over a year, but with the baby growing, their search took on new urgency. For the past couple of weeks my wife and I have been using the internet to search for possible properties (they wanted to find a house - not an apartment or duplex - with a fenced yard for the children). Miracle of miracles, we found an ad for a 3-bedroom home for rent that was big enough, clean enough, in a good neighborhood, close to schools, with a nice back yard, and within their price range. On Friday night, we contacted the owner of the property, and had agreed to meet her on Saturday afternoon with our daughter to look at the property.

There is an annual "Art in the Park" event in Windsor, and it was scheduled for Saturday afternoon. Because my step-daughter and her husband live near the art gallery, they have found from past experience that this is an ideal weekend to set up garage sales. The foot traffic of people looking for eclectic wares on their way to/from the gallery seems to work to their advantage. When my wife and I arrived at the house to pick up our daughter, we found them both out there with a number of their friends manning the sales table, huddled under tarps and umbrellas, enjoying the day.

As we drove off with our daughter, I asked whether she had authority and agreement from her husband to put down a deposit on the property should she find it to her liking. She indicated that she'd need to talk it over first, so I suggested it might be a better idea for both of them to see the property together. We doubled back to pick up her husband, and went off to view the prospective place.

To make a long story short, they both loved the place and put a deposit down on the spot. On the way back to their house, we were all so excited as we talked about what preparations would be necessary for the move, and how wonderful it would be to finally be in a home of their own.

When we got to their home, the sale was proceeding. The girls were playing on the porch and the babysitter reported that their youngest had remained asleep since being put down for the usual nap. My daughter went to the bedroom to wake her baby for his feeding only to find him face down in the crib.

Her baby had only learned within the past week how to roll over. And he chose that very unfortunate period to practice what he had recently learned. It cost him his life.

I can't describe the piercing scream I heard, even from the front yard, and the wailing that soon followed as daddy rushed up the stairs to find his only son unconsicious. The paramedics arrived in record time, but as I was to learn later, their frantic removal of the child with an IV, breathing mask, and blaring sirens was only an act for the benefit of the parents and the little ones. My step-daughter and son-in-law held out hope, because they felt their baby was still warm and could be saved. For anyone with medical training, it would have been obvious from the baby's colour that things were beyond miracle cures.

So here I sit, numb. No parent should witness the death of their own child, much less a grandchild. My wife asked me not to blog about this, so I didn't, yesterday. Today, I need to. It's my first point of release... the beginning of my grieving and healing process. Our kids are too grief-sticken to deal with the mundane details of funeral planning, so my wife and I are making arrangements. Overnight, our other children drove to town in the company of my step-daughter's "real" dad. We'll all be there to comfort her, but one wonders how you can really heal from such a wound.

As day turned into night, the rains came with a fury I haven't seen since ... the night my father died.

May they both rest in peace.