ENVY

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “Envy” as “The feeling of wanting to have what someone else has.” Yeah, that just about nails it. It’s one of the “Deadly Seven Sins.” It’s a lot like jealously, with the added element of desire. The strong desire to have what they have. It goes beyond thinking, “Wow that’s cool, I wish I could have that.” It actually bleeds over into a real want and need to have what you can’t have. I am not proud to admit that since my son, David, died four and a half years ago, envy and I have become well acquainted.

Every time I see a picture on Facebook of one of his friends, living their lives, growing up, becoming young men or women, it jabs at my heart like a hot poker. It’s not that I begrudge any of these wonderful young people their good fortunes and successes. No, in fact it’s the opposite, I celebrate their achievements, and probably cheer more for them than the average father of their friends. But in the same moment I feel pleasure at their triumphs I hurt. David’s face runs through my mind. I look at how time has transformed these fine young people, how they have matured and changed, and instantly my mind wonders what David would look like now. Would he still be playing football, or baseball? Would he have mastered the piano that he was so driven to be good at? Would his grades have continued to be at the high level they were when he died? I am envious of those who get to see their children grow, because I will not get to see one of mine do the same.

The crazy thing is, I don’t only experience this envy when looking at other people’s children. When I come across pictures of David together with his sister Abby, who was two years younger than he was, I inevitably see how much younger Abby was then. I can’t help but wonder at the same moment how time would have changed David? Abby is now 2 years older than David was when he died, and seeing pictures from even last year, it is obvious how much time has sculpted her as she has grown. When I compare how far she has come since she lost her brother, instantly the envy attacks me. But this begs the question, “Envious at who?”

It’s quite obvious to see that in the case of other people’s children, the envy is directed at those parents who still have their kids, who still get to see them grow and become the people they are yet to be. Even though I am happy for them and enjoy hearing their parental pride as their progeny grows, the envy is there. I never let others see it, I swallow it and hide it like so many other nasty emotions this tragedy has nurtured. I realize these are not constructive thoughts, but they are my burden to carry, one of the peripheral damages of losing my son. So, what of the envy I experience when I look at Abby then? Who is that envy directed at if I am the parent, and I still have her? It took me a bit of soul searching to figure this out, and the conclusion I have come to is paradoxical. Simply put, I am envious of myself. Not the me of today who is moving forward, working with others who are grieving, and living a full and busy life. I am envious of the man I was before David died.  I am envious of the man I was when I didn’t have the specter of the universe’s cruel nature burned into my soul. I am envious of a man who had two children, perfectly matched, who loved each other. I am envious of the man who was fortunate enough to be ignorant to the realities of life, death, and grief.

When I look at pictures of myself from before David’s death, I see innocence in my face. An unaware countenance that allowed me to live life freely without the constant images of loss flooding my everyday. Back then; when I told David or Abby to be careful as they went out to play, it was a general warning so that they would be cautious as to not hurt themselves. Today, when I utter that same phrase to my daughter, an image of David dying, and all we have endured, runs through my head. Those horrific images and recalled emotions have become commonplace. They happen several times every day. They have robbed me of a level of comfort that I will never know again. The man I was then was lucky. He had a charmed life. He had two children he loved dearly and reveled in watching grow. The man I am today, wounded and aware of the world’s chaotic nature, is envious of him, and I always will be.