It was a Thursday night, seven years ago. Micah was working on his regional choir audition with his friend. Finally given a clean bill of health by the orthopedic specialist that morning, Micah was ready to get back on the ice for practice that night.
I poked my head into Micah’s room, told him that I was heading out to the pre-tournament meeting for the Cactus Cup, mom would take him to practice, and I’d meet him there. I told Micah I loved him, and headed downstairs for my car.
Those were the last words a conscious Micah would ever hear from me. That was the last time I got to look him in the eye and tell him that I loved him.
Two hours later, my world came crashing down around one phone call.
It really hurts to think about how my extended hockey family, including the person that drove me to the hospital moments later, is now gone.
It hurt to tell my child, Micah’s surviving sibling, earlier this afternoon that it sucked that so many of the people that were part of Micah’s world on January 14, 2016, were no longer a part of mine on January 12, 2023. Some chose mom over me in the divorce. Some faded away over the years. Some were brutally honest, telling me they could not look at me without thinking about Micah’s death. Some were users–seemingly only interested in Micah or myself until I had nothing further I could do to help their children’s hockey careers. Some live far away.
I sit alone. I write. I try to breathe.
I think about what I have lost. I think of Micah, my son. I think of everyone that he knew, everyone that he touched. I wonder if they still think of him, seven years later. They never got to see him graduate from high school, drive a car, go to college, get a job…grow older and mature…
Some things don’t change with time. I don’t miss my son any less. The pain hasn’t receded or dulled. Every morning, I wake up and think of Micah. Every time I put an event on my calendar as “family,” I think of Micah. Every time I watch, scorekeep, or announce a hockey game, I think of Micah. Every time I see a play or musical, I think of Micah. Every time I listen to music, I think of Micah. He is always in my thoughts. He is always on my mind. He is always here.
Today, I think about the cruelty of people that abandon people in pain, that cut off and leave behind people who aren’t convenient to travel the roads of life with.
Far too many people around us focus on nothing but themselves. They try to elect leaders that want to “other” people who don’t agree with them. They pass bills in their legislatures out of hate and spite for people who are different, not because it will make everyone’s lives better, not because it will improve our country as a whole–but because hate and fear are great motivators to encourage people to keep them in power. Through their rhetoric, they motivate people to use violence to reach their goals. They begin moving down the path of convincing their followers that those who are different are not people at all. They’re satanic. They’re evil. They do not deserve the same rights as everyone else.
This hatred and fear tears families apart. I have witnessed with my own eyes and ears parents that cast out their own children for daring to be themselves–because who they are is not acceptable to their parents. Their love is seen as an abomination. They themselves become the abomination in their own family.
I write this tonight in pain. I keenly feel my loss. Our loss. I feel lost. I feel alone without my son. I feel grief and sadness. I feel the strain of hopelessness.
For the first time in eight years, I will not spend my Martin Luther King, Jr. Weekend at the rink, helping run a youth hockey tournament. I will spend my Friday in quiet reflection. I will visit Micah. I will keep busy over the weekend announcing tennis and hockey.
I will mark the occasion. I will mourn. I will continue into the eighth year without my son.
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve started discovering what it means to suffer from secondary trauma, also known as compassion fatigue. Whereas I could normally go into my office and simply tackle whatever issues were thrown at me–be they from the Department of Child Safety, the County Attorney’s Office, the Attorney General’s Office, my clients’ parents (or their attorneys), or even my clients themselves. Suddenly, I found myself frozen. Paralyzed. I could not put together the next thing I needed to do–I was just overwhelmed.
I suppose I should count myself lucky that it took eight years of teaching plus seventeen years as a public attorney before this really hit me. Not only have I spent 25 years working with primarily children, but also along the way dealing with my family’s mental health issues–most notably my son’s death by suicide in 2016. Still, with very few exceptions, I have been able to bite the bullet, grit my teeth, and soldier through. Micah died? Took two weeks off for bereavement leave–and then right back to work. Even the time off was largely spent dealing with the administrative end of losing a child–insurance, funeral, obligatory police investigation (as it was a suicide), and just trying to make sure my family was able to keep going themselves. I buried myself under a to-do list that allowed me to be too busy to worry about my own grief or mental health needs.
Therapy? Sure. Tried that for a few sessions–thought they were actually going pretty well. That is, they were until the therapist essentially ghosted me. You read that right. The therapist and I set a fourth session, which I got a phone message a week later cancelling because of a conflict on his schedule. When I tried calling back to reschedule? No answer. Left messages? No response. Sent emails? No response. I chose to see that as a sign that maybe I didn’t need therapy any longer…
With therapy gone, I turned to this blog. Just look back at 2016 into 2017–I regularly conducted my own keyboard-based therapy sessions. I turned to finding friends online that I could talk to–safe people who didn’t know me in real life, that I felt a genuine connection to. Some of those people are undoubtedly reading this blog now. One of those people is now my wife.
I just plowed forward with my existence, always keeping myself busy enough to stave off the breakdown, hold back the dam of tears and emotions. People closest to me knew–had to know–that there was a lot of pain held back inside, redirected into other areas.
About two weeks ago, it came to a head. Ever since February, my caseload at work changed from representing children in delinquency cases to working with kids with significant mental health issues, almost always in the care of the Department of Child Safety. I love my kids/clients. I have had several that I wish I could take home and adopt myself. Many of them have had to struggle not only with their own mental health issues, but often an unforgiving, all too often less-than-caring adolescent behavioral health system. I have several kids who had been adopted–only to have their adoptive parents decide to return them to DCS years later. I have kids who are trapped in the system without a home willing to accept them. I have kids who have been physically abused, sexually abused, ignored, trafficked, abandoned… I spend half or more of my week in behavioral health staffings for my clients. Hours every week going into the field to see and talk to my clients where they are. Finally it just wouldn’t get shoved down and ignored any longer. Fortunately for me, I have a very attentive and caring supervisor that demanded that I attend to my own needs for a few days…
Don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love my job. I have not been happier to work with a group of clients in my entire legal career than I am right now. But trauma is cumulative. Take my own…add my family’s…add my clients…and you find me where I am now. Struggling.
I am currently in the middle of taking a couple “mental health” days to try and get a reset. My problem is, I have become so accustomed to answering trauma with “things to do,” that I still really don’t know how to unplug. I’m trying…with some success.
So here we are on World Mental Health Day. Complete coincidence that this is when my mental health days should happen to hit the calendar. Spent a few hours this afternoon binging A League of Their Own on Amazon Video. Made dinner. Ran some errands. Tomorrow, I’ll try and spend a few more hours doing nothing overly important–except, well, I have an important meeting for a committee I’m on trying to help LGBTQ+ children find their way in the child welfare system…and then, I have a special training for the new scoreboard and related systems at the brand new ASU ice hockey arena. Maybe I’ll squeeze in a little relaxing time around those events…
Meanwhile, I have so many things I want to talk/blog about. The upcoming election? My Chicago Cubs? Life as a public address announcer trying to make his way around his very demanding (but, as I said, fulfilling) day job? Technology, and my apparently ongoing journey from PC back to Mac again? I guess I’ll spin the wheel and see what comes next–after I get this chance to breathe.
Been a long time, I know. Without directly looking, I would hazard a guess that it’s been well over a year since I posted anything to my most-dormant blog. That said, over the past few weeks, I’ve felt a building urge, a need, to sit down and put thoughts in words.
A quick review of the past seven years of my life looks like this:
January 14, 2016 – Micah committed suicide.
January 15, 2016 – Micah passed away.
Later that January, we held a funeral for Micah. Over 500 people are estimated to have been at the cemetery.
2016-2017 – I continued working at Micah’s hockey organization…but it became painfully obvious that I simply could no longer do this.
2016 (-2021) – I continued working with the state roller hockey organization…until they decided that my services were no longer needed.
2016 (-2021) – I got a dream gig as the public address announcer for an AHL hockey team…until they decided that they wanted to go “a different direction” after five seasons of positive reviews, fan support, and consistent performance (did not miss a single home game over five seasons).
2016 – My first marriage got a lethal blow from the death of my son, but it would take until August 2019 for that to come to a head, and February 2020 for the divorce to finalize.
March 2020 – the world changed as we know it.
2020 – After six years handling primarily parent appeals from orders terminating their parental rights, my sanity required a change–and I shifted back to representing children in juvenile court.
May 2021 – I remarried – a wonderful, kind, loving woman.
February 2022 – My child moved in with us.
February 2022 – I get the opportunity to focus my legal practice on representing children in the custody of the Department of Child Safety.
June 2022 – We were finally able to buy our own house.
So, it all sounds like a happy ending, right? I have my child back with me. I have an amazing wife. I have a job I truly love that makes me proud of who I am and what I do. (Not that all my previous legal work didn’t do those things to some degree–but not like this one does.) We have recently purchased our first house together (and decorated it in ways we both truly love and appreciate, including a Star Trek-themed “Command Deck” office).
As wonderful as things should be, I feel dragged down by loss: loss of my son, loss of serious connection with my surviving child for over two years, loss of connections to Micah’s world, loss of my dream gig… Over the past few weeks, the building losses have really started to take a toll.
For years, I had worked as an integral part of the state youth roller hockey Board of Directors. I did the jobs that no one else wanted to do. I helped run the website. I helped arrange officials. I handled player and team registration. I worked on insurance verification. I would lend my scorekeeping and public address announcing abilities where they were needed/requested. I took care of awards. Heck, Micah’s name was on the annual Outstanding Goalie award (at the suggestion of others after his passing, not my idea). The tournament director and I suggested that perhaps we should take over day-to-day operation of the league, as many organizations seemed to prefer letting others handle the actual running of the league. Little did I know that would create a tide that would, in short order, wipe out my entire role with the league. From league administrator to “registration specialist” to–no longer involved at all. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe this was Micah’s gentle way of telling me that he was no longer playing roller hockey, so maybe I should refocus my energies elsewhere…with the 2021 COVID-redesigned AHL schedule about to begin, maybe it just meant that Roadrunners PA announcing should be enough.
Sure, when the Roadrunners decided, in late September 2021, eight days before the first preseason home game of the 2021-22 season, to send me an email telling me that I’ll “always be a part of the Roadrunners family,” and they will “always be grateful for my time and dedication” to the organization, but that they had decided to go a different direction that season, I was pretty crestfallen. This was my dream job (well–almost my dream job…the Chicago Cubs haven’t called yet). I had not missed a game in five seasons–including the COVID-warped 2021 campaign–despite having a daily 200-mile round trip drive from home to Tucson Arena. I had worked successfully with three different game presentation directors. I could always be counted on to stick around for auctions, be on time for pregame meetings, draft announcements on the fly to help problem solve, help handle crisis situations. Somehow, this earned me four months of being told that I had nothing to worry about…the job was mine…they were just looking for a backup…until they weren’t. My drives to Tucson were no more. I would get over this. This door closed, so that another one could open, perhaps?
With the 2022-23 collegiate hockey season getting ready to begin, it seemed a good time to get in a little “Spring Training” myself. I reached out to the local hockey officiating organization and made myself available for this weekend’s state travel hockey league preseason tournament as a scorekeeper. I was scheduled for a dozen games over the weekend. Fantastic!
As I prepared for the upcoming weekend games, I got a phone call. I had not heard from my remaining youth hockey family about the upcoming MLK weekend hockey tournament that I had acted as scheduler for over the past seven years–not since the end of the previous tournament. I had sent a couple of emails, but not heard a word–until last week. “Sorry David, but we’ve decided to go a different direction with scheduling.” Now, in all fairness, I don’t know whether this was a simple decision to use a technological solution for scheduling, or whether it was a measure of “So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.” But it still felt…
Friday came, and I went off to the rink to scorekeep youth hockey games. AZ Ice Gilbert was my destination. AZ Ice Gilbert was Micah’s home rink for much of his time in youth hockey, including the last four of his last five years. Ghosts, you know, don’t really die. They don’t really go away. They linger. Six and a half seasons later, they were still there…in the scorer’s booth, on the ice, in the stands. I saw them in the familiar faces around the rink. I could feel them every time a kid wearing number 37 skated by. Tears welled up in my eyes. My head and heart felt heavy.
I made it through the games I was scheduled to scorekeep. As always, once the games started, I was too busy to feel–anything. Once I left the rink, however… I thought about Micah. I thought about the last time I saw him. I thought about how, with the possible ending of my time working with the youth hockey tournament, pretty much my connections to Micah’s world have now been lost: no more working for a youth hockey organization…no more working in roller hockey…no more youth hockey tournaments to help run… Even the thought of how the loss of the Roadrunner gig might have been related to Micah somehow filled my head.
Perhaps this is Micah saying, “Dad, I want you to turn the page. I want you to put all the youth hockey stuff behind you, and do something new. Do something for you.” I don’t know. What I do know is that right now, I’m feeling the weight of all that loss, accumulated over the past two years, crashing down at once.
All is not lost, I tell myself. I have gained things too. After I lost the Roadrunners job, I did get my foot in the door at Grand Canyon University for PA announcing. After my schedule cleared, I was able to dedicate more time–the entire regular season–to being the ASU Women’s Hockey scorekeeper, DJ, and PA announcer. I was able to secure a new PA gig as the primary PA announcer for ASU Women’s Tennis, with a significant portion of Men’s Tennis as well. I have been offered a chance to go back to where I started in hockey PA announcing, taking over a significant part of the schedule for ASU Club (ACHA) Men’s Hockey. I’ve seen a few hints that suggest that ASU and GCU may both be calling on me for more NCAA PA work this school year than in the past.
I have a wonderful wife. I have the best relationship with my child that I’ve had in years. I have started to build a network of amazing friends through my various fandom interests. Heck, I even enjoyed working for the Las Vegas Star Trek Convention last weekend–something I hadn’t done in seven years.
Maybe it’s time to try a new direction for my side interests. Anyone know of a good agent for voiceover talent?
When it’s all said and done, I still love the feeling I get when I walk out of the ice rink–ghosts or no–and have parents tell me how much hearing my voice adds to their enjoyment of their kids’ games.
But for some life events, seven years, seventeen years, forty-seven years…will all feel like yesterday.
It was only yesterday that I sat at Micah’s bedside, holding his hand as he drew his last breath. Fifteen years old, oh so close to his sixteenth birthday, and I would never get to hold his hand again. I would never get to take him for his driver’s test. I would never get to see him accept his high school diploma. I did not get to take him out for his 21st birthday. And yet, it was just yesterday that I lost him…
Many things have changed over the past seven years. Marriage. Divorce. Marriage. Professional goals came and went and came again. Stresses. Successes. Stresses. A pandemic that changed so much of the world we live in. Political leaders who allowed the underbelly of society, raised on hate, misogyny, antisemitism to come into the mainstream.
Some things have not changed. I am still an attorney dedicated to making life better for children. I am still a Cubs fan. I still enjoy science fiction in the form of Doctor Who, Star Trek, Star Wars, and other related media. I still enjoy technology, often on the bleeding edge.
I miss my son. That will never change.
Every once in a while, I can feel Micah’s influence in little things around me. The number 37 pops up in surprising places. One day in late 2021, I was mass deleting junk emails, and just happened to stop on one announcing the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s first, post-pandemic Overnight Out of the Darkness Walk. Six months later, I walked 18 miles through Manhattan from 8:00pm until 5:00am. My feet hurt, my angles and calves were sore, and I was tired–but some new-found friends, and Micah’s breath in my sails, got me through a chilly night and to the finish line. As tired as I was, Micah sent me a thank you, in a complete stranger who offered me a ticket to see SIX on Broadway that same Sunday afternoon–just a few hours after completing the Walk. And once again, Micah buoyed my aching feet to get to the theatre in time for the curtain.
More than that, there have been little pushes where I just felt as though Micah was leaning over my shoulder, saying, “Dad, it’s okay if you let this go.”
At the time Micah died, I was involved in many Micah-adjacent activities. I was on the Booster Board for his school choir. I was the co-director of the statewide travel ice hockey league. I was on the Board of Directors for the statewide roller/inline hockey league. I was the public address announcer for ASU’s ACHA (club) Men’s Hockey teams.
Shortly after Micah died, it was announced that ASU was making the jump from club to NCAA hockey. While I thought my many years as the reliable, professional voice of ASU club hockey would get me a definite invite to move up with the team to the NCAA level, reality was not nearly as kind. Initially, I thought Micah was telling me that, since he was gone, I didn’t have to spend so much time around hockey. A few months later, when I was a finalist for the Coyotes PA gig, and was instead offered the inaugural job as the new Tucson Roadrunners PA announcer, I thought maybe Micah had reconsidered based on how much I loved public address announcing.
Maybe that was just a reprieve… Within the next few months, I would walk away from the state travel ice hockey league after getting fed up with the entitlement of a couple select organizations. I would walk away from helping with the day-to-day operations of a local youth hockey organization. I would step away from being a team manager for a youth hockey team. By the time Spring 2017 arrived, all that remained of my Micah-related connections was the state inline hockey league, the Roadrunners PA gig, ASU Women’s ACHA hockey, and being part of the Cactus Cup MLK Weekend Hockey Tournament family.
In 2020, as the pandemic raged, I found myself on the outside looking in with the state inline hockey league. After eight years helping run the league, they suddenly decided my services were no longer needed.
In 2021, after a pandemic-shortened and altered AHL season, the Roadrunners decided to “go another direction”, letting me go eight days before the first home contest of the 2021-22 season–by email. (Based on the interviews done to “show off” the new Roadrunners PA announcer, it looks like the decision may have been made a couple months earlier, and it was decided to simply string me along until the time was right to pull the trigger.)
The Seventh Year began with the annual Cactus Cup MLK Weekend youth hockey tournament, aside from a few random youth hockey scorekeeping assignments, my only remaining link to youth ice hockey. These people had made me part of their family. I was the scheduler for the tournament, taking the jigsaw puzzle of 100-130 hockey teams, eleven sheets of ice spread over eight facilities, special requests, Coyotes ticket requests, and making it all into a working schedule of up to thirteen divisions, over 225 games, over four days. On top of scheduling, sometimes rescheduling on short notice, I also helped run rink operations for the tournament for upwards of 30 hours of the tournament weekend. Again, most importantly, I felt like a cherished part of a family.
Until September.
After a few unanswered emails asking the status of the upcoming tournament, which sheets of ice we have access to for January 2023, there was finally a phone call. One phone call: “Sorry, we’ve decided to try something new this year with scheduling.”
I was, I think, understandably upset. However, I decided to simply say, “Oh. I see. Thanks.”
I sent a couple emails to someone on the tournament committee to ask about whether I should still hold my schedule open for MLK Weekend to help with rink operations. Eventually I got my answer: NO. “We won’t be needing you.”
All that’s left now of my Micah-adjacent life is ASU ACHA Men’s and Women’s hockey PA announcing. (I regained ASU ACHA Men’s Hockey announcing during this 2022-23 season.)
For years, I put my heart and soul into ice and roller hockey. I thought I had developed a family amongst the people I worked with (just look at some of my blog posts from 2016-2019). One by one, that family started to back up into the corn field, like the popular Homer Simpson meme.
There are still some remnants: a former game presentation director here and there, a few very special Roadrunner season ticket holders, a few parents that I worked with in my youth hockey days. But when MLK Weekend arrives, including the eighth anniversary of Micah’s death, I will not be at the rink, surrounded by hockey family, for the first time since Micah died.
I won’t be alone. I have my loving wife. I have my child, Micah’s younger sibling. I have some very special friends across the country–and the globe. But something will be missing…
That’s how I end the Seventh Year: moving on, again, from another part of my life with Micah.
Oh, I suppose it’s not the equipment that’s at fault here. I’ve been so busy with life’s many intricacies that I have all but abandoned my blog. So much has happened over the past eighteen months… I’ve addressed some of it in my couple random posts during that time, but those barely scraped the surface. Separation…divorce…engagement…marriage… Normalcy…COVID…semi-post-COVID… Appellate attorney…Juvenile attorney again…hat in the ring for both commissioner and city Associate Judge positions… Tesla…Kona…back to a Tesla… Mac…PC…back to Mac… iOS…iOS and Android…what might be next?
There have been some consistencies over the past couple years. Micah is never far from my thoughts. I’m still your friendly neighborhood PA Guy (although the teams may have changed a bit). Still clearly a tech junkie. Still clearly a SciFi geek–one very excited about one of his first and true SciFi loves hitting the screen in September.
Looking at how much I have to say, I suppose I need to pick a jumping-off point. Might as well start with the present: my recently concluded “quick trip” to Chicago.
Back in August of 2015, I started what could best be termed as “a habit.” I decided that I needed some time away, a mental health break, if you will. I picked up tickets to a couple Cubs-Giants games at Wrigley Field, bought a plane ticket, and snagged a hotel room “close” to Wrigley Field. No work. No responsibilities. Just me, Chicago, the Cubs, and a chance to breathe. Fast-forward six years and more than a dozen similar trips later, and I’m still taking these little escapes to Chicago.
This trip was less about a breather, and more about doing something that I had not done since living in Chicago, over 23 years ago: spending my brother’s birthday actually celebrating with my brother. Where, you ask, would we do such a thing?
It was an amazing afternoon–a little hot, perhaps, but still a great day for baseball. Little did we know then that this would be our last chance to see the core of the 2016 Championship team together, wearing Cubs jerseys. That core did quite well for themselves, with Bryant and Rizzo going deep back-to-back in the first inning, and the Cubs hanging on for a 5-1 win over the Diamondbacks.
Me being the post-2018 version of me, I decided to start the day with a long walk: from my hotel in the Loop, in the heart of Downtown Chicago, to Wrigley Field, five miles away. Me also being me, I could not help but capture the walk in pictures…
Taking that long walk north (and, yes, my blister will also testify to the long walk back south after dinner with my brother), I let my mind wander. Chicago, for it’s many detractors, those who want to focus on the old media adage of “if it bleeds, it leads,” is an amazingly beautiful city. The juxtaposition of old concrete buildings, new steel high-rises, and then, in the middle of it, large swaths of green. Not just a tree here or a patch of grass there, but entire fields of grass, trees, places to play, relax, set a picnic in the park. Sure, Manhattan has Central Park, but Chicago has dozens of parks throughout the city. Respites for the concrete-and-steel weary seemingly in every neighborhood.
Every new block brought about a different memory of days gone by. One moment, I’m staring at a series of rowhouses on Webster, thinking about friends and relatives who have lived in similar homes on the city’s Near North, North, and Northwest sides. A few moments later, I pass by a stretch of green with a metal playground set, and I think about trips with my grandparents to Indian Boundary Park on the North Side. I remember going grocery shopping with my Grandpa Morrie and Grandma Sarah in Rodgers Park. I remember sitting on the sofa with my Grandma Tillie, just listening to music and having her tell stories of her youth.
I walk into the heart of Lincoln Park (the neighborhood), and remember living for a year in my tiny studio apartment on Deming, just a heartbeat away from the classic vinyl shops, a short walk from the lakefront. I shiver as I think about those cold winters when I had to decide whether to walk over and catch the 22 on Clark Street, or walk a couple blocks further over to the Fullerton “L” stop, and take the Ravenswood or Evanston Express downtown instead. I think back to those grocery shopping trips over to the Lincoln Park Market (now a Walgreens) just down the street.
A five-mile walk that, once upon a time, would make me weary and extremely conscious of my aching feet, seemed to just fly by as I floated from one memory of twenty-five years living in and around Chicago to the next. Every sight, sound, smell…another pleasant stroll down Memory Lane. (Okay, so by the time I finished the walk back to the hotel on Sunday night, perhaps the most tender thoughts were of my tender feet…but I digress.)
So many memories that we keep in our heads, in our hearts. Even after fifty years of gathering memories, the most important ones stay, just as vibrant as ever, and bloom and grow as we think about them.
A tinge of sadness, as I thought about how I did not get to share all of these memories with Micah, how I have not yet shared many of them with Avi. A mission now, for the near future, is to begin to share as much as I can with Avi. My desire, now, is to create new memories with Avi, with Deahanna, my wife, with my stepkids, with new friends, known and to this point unknown.
In the end, memories are what we get to keep, when all the “things” are gone…
Sometimes you find yourself missing. I don’t mean you get lost. We all get lost, even in this age of Google Maps, Apple Maps, and Waze. Make a wrong turn, don’t hear the directions correctly, mistake a “right” for a “correct.”
I’m not lost right now. In fact, for the first time in a long time, I feel found. I have an idea where I’m heading. My relationship with my daughter has improved dramatically. I’m engaged to a wonderful woman, set to be married in a few months. I’ve started my fifth season as the PA voice of the Roadrunners. I’ve returned to representing kids again, after ten years handling other matters, representing adults.
No, this week, I’ve been missing. Missing Micah. Missing pieces of my life that have set sail without me.
My emotions have been hair-triggered. Seeing a picture of Micah from a Diamondbacks game, years and years ago, stole my voice. For an hour, I could not speak. I could not think of anything else but Micah. I would close my eyes and see him in net. I could see him skating off from the bench to start a period. I could see him saying, “Check, Mic 19, Mic 19, check.” I could see him singing.
Earlier today, I spent time thinking about loss. There was a charity event in honor of a wonderful young girl who lost her battle recently with cancer, Leighton Accardo. Leighton was a bright, cheery little hockey player when I met her, and her mother, through my time working with the Arizona Hockey Union. She was a Mite after Micah was a Midget. Not long after Micah passed away, Leighton and her family got the horrible news. Five years after Micah lost his battle with mental illness, Leighton lost her battle with cancer. Maybe, somewhere in a happier place, Leighton and Micah are playing hockey together now. I can never know exactly what someone else feels, but I know that Leighton’s mother, Carly, and father, Jeremy, are now members of a larger family that no one wants to belong to–the same family that welcomed me, my ex, and my daughter, on January 15, 2016.
I thought about other losses. From the time Micah decided to try roller hockey, nine years ago, through just a few weeks ago, I was an active, vocal member of the state’s inline youth hockey league. Throughout those years, I served in many roles, from hockey dad, to Board member, to Vice President, to treasurer, to Administrator…to nothing. After leading and helping to organize and run two nearly impossible tournaments in the middle of the COVID Summer of 2020, I found myself on the outside looking in…and then, just the outside.
It wasn’t a smooth transition. It wasn’t a retirement. It was a cold termination. It was weeks of not knowing what was going to be needed, what was going to be expected of me. When I finally found out–it came as a shock. I went from being an integral part of the program to an independent contractor being given a single task to complete. No defined future. No guarantees of having any continuing role. The message was clear–I was no longer part of this program. My help was no longer needed. My time was no longer necessary.
This past weekend was the inline organization’s second tournament of the season. The past several years, I would have been generating wall posters, organizing the schedule, keeping track of stats and standings, getting medals ready, even, occasionally, scorekeeping and announcing games. This year, I just wondered how things went. I am now on the outside. I am not involved. I am not informed. Frankly, the way things ended, I am not (or at least do not feel) welcome.
The past few weeks have also been the beginning of the NCAA softball season, and for the first time in the past five years, I am not doing anything related to softball. My email to the powers that be has gone unanswered. Again, I am missing.
It’s time to be found. It is time for me to move on, and find new ways to spend my time, new causes worth my efforts. It is time turn my attention to tomorrow–but with a firm grip on yesterday, and the lessons that yesterday has provided. It’s time to show Micah a new me. It’s time to make those changes that Micah himself encouraged.
The hardest decision I ever had to make—so many things I’ve had to choose over 50 years on the planet—is not a contest. Five years ago, I had to watch as that decision set the end of my son’s life into motion. I had to watch as the doctors and nurses removed Micah from mechanical life support. I had to watch as Micah’s vital signs faded…until he drew his last breath.
This past weekend was the anniversary of Micah’s death. It was another weekend that found me burying my emotions behind any kind of “busywork” I could find. Up at 4:30am to get over to the rink to open up Day 1 of the Cactus Cup tournament at 5:45am. Between setup, scoresheet entry, and assisting coaches and managers get ready for their games, I even found a little over an hour to work on a couple of cases for work—on my day off. Saturday, Sunday, Monday — rinse and repeat.
Suddenly, my time at the rink and my busywork was done.
Suddenly, I felt myself slowly fading from distraction to distress. My mind went from the rink, 2021, to the hospital, 2016…and the funeral home 2016. My vision went from live action on the rink to the internal home videos of my mind.
“I like stopping pucks…and stopping pucks,” Micah once said in an interview at the rink. The kindest, gentlest kid… Sure, he had his quirks, he had his rough patches. Micah was human, like all of us, and had his “room for improvement.” Micah was special. Micah was mine, but he had a desire to be all of ours — whether on the ice, or in the concert hall, or on the stage.
Micah will now be all of ours, in our hearts and memories.
Five years ago this evening, I told Micah that I loved him as I headed out the door to the staging meeting for the Cactus Cup youth hockey tournament. He looked happy, as he and his choirmate and friend (girlfriend?) Natalie practiced for their upcoming regional choir auditions. I had no idea that it would be the last time I’d hear my son’s voice.
A little after 7, I got a text from my now-ex-wife, telling me that she had called upstairs to Micah to remind him to get ready for hockey practice, but had not heard a response. She tried texting him, but he did not respond to her text either. Since Micah seemed to respond to my texts with a little more frequency, I told her that I would text Micah. “Hey there Micah. Mom needs you to get ready for hockey. Everything okay?”
Silence. No response.
I tried calling Micah.
Silence. No response.
I told my ex that I was a little worried that Micah was not responding, and asked her to see if Micah would answer his door. She tried.
Silence. No response.
I told my ex that she needed to get into that room–no matter what it took. She got the door open.
Silence. Until the screaming started.
What she found in Micah’s room…how she found Micah…my daughter’s reaction, having come up behind her mother while she was getting the door open. Those are visceral pictures I will never forget. Sounds I can never un-hear. I still have nightmares, sitting on the phone, helplessly listening as my daughter described what was going on, continuously repeating that she did not want to be an only child.
My ex was able to perform CPR until the paramedics arrived. They continued with CPR until able to move him into the ambulance to take him to Gilbert Mercy Hospital. A friend drove me back from central Phoenix to the hospital in southeast Gilbert, where I arrived to witness what seemed like a dozen hospital staff members attempting to get Micah’s heart and breathing going again. They were able to pull off that minor miracle, and arranged to get a helicopter to take Micah to Phoenix Children’s Hospital and their pediatric neurology ICU. I got a police escort as I sped my way from Gilbert back to central Phoenix, where I met back up with Micah. It was 10:45pm, Thursday, January 15, 2016.
I did not sleep. I could not rest. I spent almost the entire next 24 hours standing by Micah’s side, holding his hand whenever I could, talking to him, encouraging him to be strong and squeeze my hand, or open his eyes, or give me any sign that he was improving.
He was not.
Finally, in the early afternoon of Friday, January 15, 2016, my ex and I consulted with the pediatric neurologist, who told us that Micah was showing almost no brain activity. Stimuli that would normally provoke some brain response from an unconscious child–provoked nothing. We had to make a choice. We chose to not force Micah to suffer any longer.
At 9:10pm, the doctor and nurses removed the machines that were artificially keeping Micah breathing, keeping his pulse stable. At 10:10pm, Micah was gone.
Gone.
My son, my first-born child, this GoalieDad’s GoalieKid, the sweet-sounding tenor, was no longer with us. My heart was torn, a large piece removed that could never be replaced. Where there was laughter, singing, the sound of pucks being deflected away or caught–silence.
I struggled — for days, for weeks, for months, for years–forever. In the years that would follow, I battled depression, self-loathing and blame, internal questioning–was it me? Did I become one of those parents that forced Micah into playing a competitive sport? Was that pushing what set his mental health over the edge, and cost the world a chance to get to know my son?
I still wonder today.
This evening is the five year “anniversary” of the fateful night of Micah’s suicide. My coping mechanisms have remained the same: I try to bury myself in busy-ness to hide the pain, to avoid the grief, to not think about the unthinkable. The harder I try, the less it works.
There are so many times in the past year that I simply wanted to sit down and write about Micah. Write about my experience. Write about my pain. Write about what this has done to me over time. But like the classic procrastinator, I always had an excuse. I was too tired. I was too busy. No one would read what I had to write anyhow. No one else cares any longer, outside Micah’s immediate family.
I forgot the biggest part of writing–promoting my own healing. It doesn’t matter if others want to read this, if they do or don’t read my words, if they care or not. It only matters that writing this helps me. If it can help someone else, that’s fantastic and amazing…but that’s not my immediate goal.
It sounds selfish. I hear myself saying the words in this blog entry, and think, “God David, you’re being so selfish. Shouldn’t you be trying to help other people? Shouldn’t you be attempting to help other families avoid the pain and suffering you’ve experienced–experience on an ongoing basis?” Maybe. But I need to get this off my own chest, so that I might breathe easier for the next couple days.
So much has changed since that fateful evening–those fateful evenings–five years ago. I was married; I am now divorced. I was in the solitary confinement of representing parents in appeals of the termination of their parental rights; I am now back where I started, representing kids in delinquency and dependency matters. I felt alone, for many reasons, and as though I had no one to turn to in my sorrow; I now have someone that will patiently listen, wipe away my tears, and tell me that my thoughts, fears, and emotions really do matter.
My daughter has grown from a not-quite-12-year old child into a nearly 17-year old young woman. While she has had her own battles, some with me, she has matured in ways I had only hoped would take place. Whereas five years ago, I felt like I had to be strong, and provide the backbone to keep my family going, today my daughter asks me if I’m okay, and if I need to talk.
I have watched, from a distance, as some of Micah’s old friends and teammates have grown from teenagers into young men and women. Micah, if he was still here today, would be turning 21 in just three weeks. He might be a junior in college. He might be working full-time somewhere, doing something he loves. Maybe he would be performing on stage somewhere in The Prom, or Hamilton, or maybe he’d be in London preparing for the world premiere of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cinderella. Maybe Micah would be the starting goalie for ASU’s club or D1 team, or playing in the Juniors somewhere. Or maybe he would just be doing anything that makes him happy–and, in return, making everyone that knows and loves him happy.
Right now, I can only hope that he’s happy–wherever he is. I hope that he’s hanging out with his grandparents and great-grandparents. I hope that he’s looking down on me, on his sister, on his mother, and smiling, pushing us towards the happiness we try to find without him. Maybe he’s met his future step-grandparents, and learned a thing or two from them as well.
Five years ago, over 500 people were estimated to have attended Micah’s funeral. In a sour mood, I told many that I would be surprised if most of those people were still around in six months, or a year, or two years. I hate being right.
I still talk to a few people from Micah’s hockey world, but not many. Some of you are undoubtedly reading this. I heard from some hockey friends how some of those same hockey world people would sit around at the rink and criticize my posts as I processed my grief after Micah died. No one forces anyone else to read these posts. If what I write makes you uncomfortable, hopefully you know well enough to stop reading. If this triggers you, stop reading and take a long walk, or a deep breath.
Since January, 2015, one by one, my connections to Micah’s former world have been cut. I was the co-chair of the state travel ice hockey league–a post that ended about a year later. I was deeply involved in the state inline hockey league–now, those days are a memory. I was still on the choir booster board for another several months–until it became too painful to walk into the choir room for meetings. The divisive, toxic political climate ended many “friendships” with people who I had worked with in the hockey world.
So, here I sit, five years to the day that Micah’s mental health overwhelmed him and forced him to take the steps that would end his life. Some things are better, some things are not. I will press on, move forward, and try to memorialize Micah in any way that I can. I will go to the rink in Tucson and announce Roadrunners games, always feeling like Micah is in the crowd. I will continue to hone my skills as a baker, making treats that Micah would have loved, constantly telling me that I should have quit being an attorney and just opened up a bakery. I will, every so often, pull out the old photos and videos of Micah, to remember the young man that I so love, and so so miss every single day.
And I will write. I will try to write to remember my son, and to attempt to continue the grieving process that goes on, and will for the rest of my days.
My friend, Dolly, came to me yesterday with a sign that Micah knows how much I miss him, and how much I need him.
After Micah passed away, my ex arranged a memorial activity for Micah, where we invited people over to paint rocks in Micah’s memory. We provided smooth river rocks, paint, brushes, etcetera, and asked people to paint rocks that they could leave in special places to remember Micah by–to pass on messages about his life.
Dolly and her daughter, Emma, attended this memorial activity. Her daughter painted rocks. On one of the rocks, she painted the words, “You Will Be Found.” This is a reference to the Broadway musical, Dear Evan Hansen, a story about a young man that crossed paths with another troubled young man that took his own life. In one of the musical numbers, Evan Hansen and his “friends” release a video, where Evan talks about how, when you need someone and feel incredibly alone, someone will find you.
Have you ever felt like nobody was there? Have you ever felt forgotten in the middle of nowhere? Have you ever felt like you could disappear? Like you could fall, and no one would hear?
Well, let that lonely feeling wash away Maybe there’s a reason to believe you’ll be okay ‘Cause when you don’t feel strong enough to stand You can reach, reach out your hand
And oh, someone will come running And I know, they’ll take you home
Even when the dark comes crashing through When you need a friend to carry you And when you’re broken on the ground You will be found
Dolly and Emma and their family recently moved from the far southeast outskirts of the Phoenix area into Mesa, much closer to our office. In going through their storage unit, in central Mesa, last week, out of the blue, Emma found this rock. She had not placed it anywhere near the storage unit in Mesa–yet there it was. Found.
Thank you, Emma, for delivering a message from Micah. ❤️
I have over a dozen false-start entries to my blog from the past few weeks. I have one I started to talk about our European vacation. I have several I started to express my concerns and fears (rational and not) about friendships. I have a couple dealing with my job possibilities–and not-so-possibilities. I have had so many moments where I felt the urge to write something, only to get a few paragraphs in and be drawn away by distractions or fatigue. Here I go again…
On the work front…
While I was away in Europe, I received a work email informing me that the office was planning to interview candidates for a new Mental Health Division supervisor position. I had known for a while that this was coming, but did not expect it to crop up so quickly. I talked to my director about the possibility of this position only a few weeks earlier, and that conversation had a very positive spin, giving me great incentive to get hyped up for the possibility.
Needless to say, despite the eight hour time difference between my Mesa, Arizona, office and my Brentford, UK, hotel, and my most accessible device being my iPhone, I spent the next 20 minutes–in the hotel room, in the elevator, and finally on the Tube’s District Line, crafting my official letter of interest for the supervisor position. I thought it turned out pretty good, very complete, despite the circumstances. After hitting SEND, I began the process of waiting…
Shortly after returning from Europe, I grabbed an interview slot, and gave deep, considered thought to what I could offer as a Mental Health Attorney Supervisor. I had two-and-a-half years experience in the division prior to my move to appeals. I work well with others (at least on a professional level). I communicate and organize (again, professionally) well. I have good ideas. I’m a hard worker. I’m dedicated. Heck, I was willing to drive across town for this position–from my home in the Southeast Valley to the West Valley, a 40-plus mile commute each way. In Phoenix traffic, that would have translated to a 70-80 minute one-way drive.
Interview arrived. Interview went well–so I thought, so I was told by a couple members of the panel. More waiting…
Finally, middle of last week, I got the answer. Not it. I was close. I forced a very difficult decision. I interviewed so well. I have so much promise…and for now, thanks for your time.
I’m not completely destroyed by this decision, mind you. There are distinct advantages to not getting the job. My commute remains a simple 20-or-so minute drive. My schedule remains very flexible for vacations and such. I maintain the option for the occasional telecommuting day. I don’t need to worry about weeknights when I need to be in Tucson around 5 (see flexible schedule). Despite all this though, I would be lying if I said falling short of the supervisor position didn’t still bum me out.
On My Fitness…
Still losing weight…albeit more slowly now. My weight has been hovering around 205-206 lbs each morning. My last WW weigh-in was 208.8 last Wednesday. No meeting this week, due to the holiday, but hoping to weigh-in next week for the start of a new 12-week session, at or under 205. I’m SO close to “one-derland” (being under 200 lbs). Not too bad, considering on October 17, 2018, I weighed just under 293 lbs.
For exercise, I’m now walking a minimum of three miles each morning, and riding at least seven miles (and up as high as ten) roughly every other night. Unfortunately, Phoenix-area weather is such that all riding needs to be between 8:30pm and 6am. No one (that I would consider truly sane) wants to be riding a bicycle in 110+ degree heat. At least I don’t… I also mixed in some yoga last night, and hope to start skating in a week or two, and playing hockey myself by this fall.
Next up for the fitness routine: joining a gym in three weeks, after my wife’s summer work trips have concluded…
Friendship
It’s been a very quiet place since our return from Europe. Very quiet. For the most part, I’ve moved away from spending lots of time on social media. I’m sure I have friendships there, but right now it’s just a confusing place.
Seriously. I’ve lost any ability to decide if I need to reach out to people, or if people should reach out to me. Frankly, few people reach out to me, unless they need something. And, honestly, I’ve started parting ways (read: blocking) people that only seem to crave my friendship when it carries fringe benefits (no, not THAT kind of benefit).
I know it sounds cliche, but I have given thought to taking an extended Twitter break. I’ve already sliced down my Facebook time signficantly. Right now, social media isn’t doing much for me. Sure, it’s nice to commiserate with like-thinking souls a bit, but I need more actual face-to-face time with friends nowadays. I need more actual friends that I can ask to hang out–or that will ask me to hang out. I need to know I have an extra concert ticket and have too many options, not wonder what the harm would be of eating the extra ticket.
Micah
Never far from my mind and heart – my son. I continue to have random flashes of images of Micah. When I’m walking in the morning, I’ll turn and see Micah. When I’m riding my bike, I’ll imagine Micah riding with me. When I’m sitting home considering the next thing I want to do, I’ll wonder what Micah would have thought, or done, in my situation.
When we were in Europe, I kept wondering how much Micah would have enjoyed something we were doing. Seeing Micah clown around near the Eiffel Tower. Picturing Micah running around the Louvre.
Even just this morning, taking my morning walk, the thought wouldn’t leave my mind: it’s been three-and-a-half years now since Micah passed. It will be four years before I know it. The hole is not healing…
From Here
I don’t know. After Thursday’s Independence Day holiday, I have four straight full weeks of isolati–work. First weekend in August, I travel to Las Vegas for Star Trek Las Vegas, biggest Star Trek convention in the country. A few weeks later, it’s off to New York City for my first visit to Citi Field for a couple Cubs-Mets games. A week after that, back to Las Vegas for one of Elton John’s final concerts. The following weekend, Chicago for another Odd Couple Reunion, and a couple Cubs games along the way. And capping off the “summer” travel season, my return to London for the Bears-Raiders game at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium because–just because.
Maybe I’ll be so busy that I won’t spend much time thinking about more somber subjects…
Life, Loss, Hockey and Baseball -- not necessarily in that order. 