Statute of Limitations

Lucky for me, the world I grew up in didn't have video cameras in the hands of every adolescent. Lucky for me, I was raised by two loving but opposing sets of parent/step parents both equally inept at keeping pace with my bullshit. Lucky for me, I had some of the best running mates a guy could ask for. Guys to stand behind, in front of and along side of me - talking me in to the shit that I've atoned for well in to my adult life. Lucky for me, the statute of limitations has run out on most if not all the fuckery we found ourselves in.

And if I don't get my act together and write this stuff down - I'm worried there may be a statute of limitations on my grieving process too.

Ya see, I have buddies from the outskirts of a far northern border town. I, too, have buddies from both sides of the tracks in the Chicagoland suburbs. My upbringing was scattered across the redneck and B-boy spectrum and decorated with some minor successes as well as its fair share of childhood trauma. Bouncing between parenting households in the rural north and urban mid-west was just our norm. In 1984 my mom took us out of the Hood and into suburbia. It was there that I met John and Dave. 

Looking back, it's hard to say which of the two had a larger head. I mean seriously, their craniums were the stuff of legends. John's melon was almost always decorated with a curly coif of hair and Dave sported this REM, mid-80's, rejected comb-over. Either way, these were my dudes. We tossed a ball, served detentions and rode children's bikes together daily. We had sleepovers; shared lockers and chased girls together. John and Dave are the key witnesses in my Trials of Life as I am to theirs. 

I started this soliloquy with the promise of stories that could straddle to bounds of legalities. I no longer feel compelled to build stories centered on mild vandalism, insignificant thievery, missing persons reports and often overlooked and sometimes not so insignificant injuries. Suffice it so say, John, Dave and I amassed a childhood of memories that would make Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn jealous. For that I am forever grateful. 

I missed Dave's practice wedding because I was serving a sandbox sentence overseas in Uncle Sam's Motorcycle Club. I was invited but couldn't attend - it "just wasn't in the cards." Dave wrote me a letter and sent pictures. Years later, John and Dave travelled to Minnesota for that mild December day when Michele and I exchanged nuptials. They donated money to the local Native American gambling facilities and giggled a the sight of the Pump 'n' Munch. But they were here. A couple years later, Dave and I dressed up in monkey suits when Jen finally convinced Shay to marry her. We were lucky to avoid an ass whopping or even jail time that weekend all centered on public intoxication and urination in no particular order. But we were there. When Dave gave marriage a second chance, John and I were there. 

Into adulthood, our fascination with 20" bikes held. Big kid paychecks helped make some of those childhood dreams come true. John and Dave threw money back in to BMX. At the same time, I resurrected a teal colored ghost from the past. Just like that, a group of boys that grew up together were pounding pedals into the pavement and spinning circles on their little bicycles on the street corners again,  

Our kids - Mitchell and Bella, Emma and Logan -  they have Uncles - not only by blood or marriage but also by association. We've become "family".  And although time, jobs, nuclear families, and travel have sometimes separated us all - our connection has infinitely been there. Kamp Kirby rebooted things and served to build memories for a second generation. Our families seamlessly melded and again we shared holidays, vacations and other pleasantries. 

Everything was happening just like it was scripted...

...and then it wasn't...

In the middle of a snowy night on November 30th John called to tell me that Dave had done the unthinkable. 

 Suicide is what the death certificate states but we know that the actual cause of death was a broken heart.  

The beer swilling, ninja star chucking, cussing, burping, farting, hilarious, caring, understanding, compassionate and considerate big headed bastard couldn't take it anymore...nothing we could say to him, nothing we could offer him, no comfort for the outlook ahead compared to the pain inside that Fat Head of his.

In June 2015 we danced at his wedding and on December 12, 2021 we cried at his funeral.

In the 9 months since, John and I talked weekly, if not daily at times. Emma and I traveled to Illinois for Spring Break and Mitchell and John made it up for graduation in June. There wasn't a Kamp this summer. Dave ruined that. We've all ran the gamut of emotions from disbelief, anxiety, and depression to anger, mistrust and doubt. I've held my kids closer and leaned heavily on my wife. John did the same in his home. 

Since Dave's passing I found myself crying at the drop of a hat. A sad country song or a gangster rap song can have the same effect....I've prayed endlessly. Sometimes I've bellowed like a baby and other times just felt my breath taken away from me unexpectedly. I've laughed at the memories and questioned what we could have done more. We've had some real hard days and as time passes, things have gotten easier.

They say that suicide ends the pain for one by passing it on to everyone else. I can vouch for that. 

Like some small little Miracle....some proof of a high Power...as these words poured out of my heart and into this keyboard....my daughter just text the family group chat.

"Can we go to Chicago for Thanksgiving?"

And now I'm crying again...in real time. 

I guess there is no Statute of Limitations on Grief.