We Were Robbed

I was recently delighted when I stumbled upon the etymology of the word “bereave.” It comes from the Old English bereafian, and it basically means “to be robbed.” Isn’t that great? It tickles me every time I use my son’s name as a verb.

We were all robbed. We were robbed of so much that it hurts to think about it, but think about it we must.

You were robbed of a lifetime filled with milestones and memories. You were robbed of your child’s smile and of hearing their voice. You were robbed of all the times they’d call with good news. You were robbed of consoling them when they had bad news. You were robbed of becoming best friends and just hanging out with them. You were robbed of walking them down the aisle at their wedding. You were robbed of your grandchildren. You were robbed of growing old with them. You were robbed of being their mom or dad. You were robbed of a fundamental piece of who you are.

The first thing I think about when I think about being robbed is Rob’s hugs. As I’ve noted, he gave great hug. For a wiry, little dude (picture a disheveled Kieran Culkin), he really leaned into them with all of his being. Our hugs, when I look back, were the physical manifestation of the tight grip he had on me. Sometimes we held on to each other, and neither of us wanted to let go, right up until the day before he killed himself, leaving nothing for me to hold on to.

Every now and then, I attempt to take back what I was robbed of with a day of magical thinking. You’ll see what I mean in a moment, but I highly recommend you give it a try whenever you feel the time is right. All you have to do is close your eyes and imagine your child. They’ll take it from there.

*

On a summery Saturday afternoon, I’ll hop on the 405 and pick Rob up at his apartment building in Long Beach. He’s waiting out front, smoking a cigarette.

“Yo,” he sleepily growls, getting into my car as we bump fists.

“Yo, soup dumplings at Din Tai Fung today?”

“Let’s do it.”

And so, we do. There’s the usual forty-five-minute wait, but we don’t care because it’s always worth it. I give the hosts my first name and phone number so they can text us when a table is ready, and then Rob and I walk around the mall, catching up on this and that.

“So what’s going on at work these days?” I ask, which is generally my first question. “Anything new?”

“The ushe. The restaurant was packed last night. I didn’t get home until way late.”

“Any good stories?”

“Some celebrity dude who I never heard of came in with a hot girlfriend and people were bugging the shit out of him, asking for autographs and selfies,” Rob explains as we walk past a Footlocker. “I had to tell them to chill the fuck out and let the dude eat in peace.”

“He must’ve appreciated it.”

“He did. He offered to buy me a pricey whiskey,” Rob says. “I told him thanks but no thanks.”

“Good for you. How long has it been now?” I ask.

“Closing in on six years.”

“Wow, that’s amazing!”

Rob just nodded. “You know, I still go to my home group in Hermosa Beach,” he says.

“You’ve been going there forever. Since you first moved to Torrance,” I say, momentarily flashing back to the day I took him to his first sober house.

“It’s still the best. It sometimes gets really wild, and some folks say some crazy stuff,” Rob continues, “but I love a whole lot of people in that room.”

“Have you spoken with your sponsor lately?” I ask as we sit down on the large, comfy chairs near the entrance to Nordstrom.

“Yeah, I saw him the other week, and we had some eggs at the Greek diner,” Rob says. “I hadn’t seen him for a while. He’s been real busy and having some problems with his wife.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you guys talk about?”

“It changes each time, but mainly just checking in with him kind of stuff,” Rob says while checking texts on his iPhone. “I’m still stuck on step 6. Too much God stuff for me.”

“I get it. I feel the same way,” I say. Then I get choked up for a second. “I’m really proud of you, dude. You’ve been through the wringer. We all have.”

“True dat.”

“Have you spoken with Zach lately?”

“Yeah, we text all the time. You know, he still sends me new music,” Rob says. “But not as much, now that he’s married.”

“Yeah, that’s the way it works. You’ll find out someday,” I tell him. “Speaking of which, you seeing anyone these days?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I should mind my own goddamn business?” I ask.

“Something like that.”

“Fair enough. When was the last time you spoke with Mom?”

Rob pauses for a moment and looks me in the eyes. “I think it was a few Sundays ago,” he says. “She had just come back from a walk on the beach.”

“That sounds like Mom.”

“Dad, you know I’m not really here with you right now, right?”

“I know, Rob. But can you hang with me for just a little bit longer? Until we get the text that our table is ready?”

“You got it,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Hey, that’s my line!” Rob says.

“Duh, I know. I say it all the time and every time I say it, I think of you.”

“Don’t get all weepy on me, Dad.”

“Okay, idiot!” I say and we both laugh. It seems just like old times.

“I’ll see you when I see you, Rob. I love you.”

“Not if I see you first,” Rob says and smiles before adding, “I love you, Dad.”

This time I just nod. “Those four words, those are the words, right?” Rob asks.

“Right,” I mumble through tears. “I just miss you so damn much.”

“I get it. Later, father.”

“Bye for now, dude,” I say before quietly mouthing, “I was just Robbed.”

Larry Carlat is the author of A Space in the Heart: A Survival Guide for Grieving Parents.