Note: What is it like for those parents of the slain children in Connecticut? Michael Gartner, one of our contributors, wrote this letter several years ago as a member of the Iowa Board of Regents, in response to correspondence the Board had received from an Iowa parent.
[I have your letter] to the Board of Regents, and I asked that I answer it on behalf of
my colleagues on the Board.
We are tremendously saddened by Tyler’s death, and we join you in your grief for Tyler
and in your pride in the life he lived.
I asked that I answer you because I, too, lost a son. His name was Christopher, and he
died on June 30, 1994, at the age of 17. He was a big, funny, healthy boy one day; he
got sick the next; and he died the next.
So my family has lived through what you, Tyler’s mother and his brother Joe and his
sisters Kaitlyn and Lacey are living through. The first thing I want to tell you is that you
will live through this. You will survive. You will survive with a hole in your heart, but you
will survive. And, eventually, the happy memories of Tyler will shove aside the horrible
memories of March 13. You will remember the times you tossed a football or went
hiking or changed a diaper or just sat and laughed and laughed and laughed. You will
remember how he learned to ride a bike or tie a tie or throw a ball. You will remember
his smiles and his kindnesses and all the reasons you loved him so very, very much.
And you’ll continue to love him just as much, probably more. He is not going away.
The day will come when there will be more smiles than tears when you think of Tyler.
The day Christopher died, I received a call from Tim Russert, the NBC newsman who
was a friend of Christopher’s. He, like all of us, was in tears. But he said the only words
that helped on that awful day in that awful year. “If God had said to you, ‘I’m going to
give you a big, cheerful, wonderful boy for 17 years and then take him away,’” Russert
said, “you would have made that deal.” He was right, of course. We just didn’t know that
was the deal, and neither did you. But now we look back on those years with great joy,
and I know that eventually you will be able to do the same with your son’s 19 years. I
assure you again that eventually – but it will take time, perhaps a long time – the happy
memories will outnumber the sad ones.
I read about everything you could read about the death of a child after Christopher
died. The most helpful book to me, oddly enough, was a book by a great author named
Reynolds Price, called “A Whole New Life.” He was struck with cancer of the spine in
mid-life and confined to a wheelchair. It was a tragedy, and he was depressed and
morose. Finally, he determined that he would never be who he was, but he should
decide who he was becoming and then be the very best new person he could become.
That was a great lesson to me: After a tragedy like this, a person is never the same.
First, you have to come to realize that, and then you have to decide who you have
become and how to make the best of that “whole new life.” It’s a long, long process, but
it’s important. Reynolds also wrote that the answer to “why me?” is “why not?” No one is
immune to tragedy, unfortunately.
Let me add something else, which you probably already know: People can be
insensitive. Many think that this is something you will “get over.” You won’t, of course,
and you don’t want to. You want to cherish memories, look at pictures, tell stories, talk
of Tyler. Many people will try to avoid the subject, which is too bad. You need to talk
about Tyler -- the way you wrote the beautiful letter to the Board -- to keep him vibrant in
your memory and in the memories of those who knew him.
It has been nearly five months since Tyler died, and I’m sure they have been months
of pain. I hope the pain is beginning to diminish. But I want to tell you that it won’t ever
disappear. Years from now you will hear a voice, smell a smell, see a shadow, and
you will be doubled over from the lightning-bolt that that voice, that smell, that shadow
strikes in you. But those also serve to keep alive the memory of Tyler, the great young
man who did so much and brought you so much joy and pride in his 19 years.
The tears will never go away, and they shouldn’t. The haze of these past few months
will lift, though. And the smiles will return. I know so.
Once again, my colleagues and I thank you for the kind and moving letter. You have
etched into our minds the story of a great young man. Thank you.
Sadly,
Michael Gartner
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