Thomas was a man of logistics. He was a structural engineer; his entire life was built on the principles of load-bearing walls, safety factors, and contingency plans.
When his father was diagnosed with a terminal illness, Thomas treated it like a project. He researched treatments, he organized finances, and he read every book on grief he could find. He memorized the “Stages of Grief.” He prepared his mother. He prepared his children. He told himself, I am ready for this. I understand the mechanics of loss.
The funeral was dignified. Thomas gave the eulogy without breaking down. He held his mother’s hand. He was the rock.
Two weeks later, on a mundane Tuesday evening, Thomas was driving home from work. The check engine light in his truck flickered on.
It was a minor annoyance. A sensor issue, probably. But as Thomas stared at that little orange light, his breath suddenly hitched. His hands began to shake so violently he had to pull over to the shoulder of the highway.
For forty years, every time a car made a noise, every time a pipe leaked, every time life threw a curveball, Thomas called his dad. His dad didn’t always fix it, but he always said, “Alright, son, let’s take a look.”
Thomas sat in the silence of the cab, the hazard lights clicking rhythmically. He realized then that he had prepared for the death. He had prepared for the logistics of the funeral and the estate.
But i don’t think that there is one single thing in this entire world that can pre-prepare us for having to live this life without our parents.
He wasn’t prepared for the silence. He wasn’t prepared for the sudden, terrifying realization that the safety net was gone. There was no one above him anymore. He was now the ceiling. He was the one his own son would call when the engine light came on.
The weight of it crushed him. He felt like a child wearing a man’s suit, masquerading as an adult while desperately looking around for a grown-up to tell him it would be okay.
He looked at his phone. He scrolled to “Dad.” He couldn’t call.
Thomas put his forehead against the steering wheel and wept. He didn’t cry for the dying; he had done that already. He cried for the living. He cried for the decades of Tuesday nights and engine lights and small triumphs and minor failures that he would now have to navigate without his compass.
He realized that you can study the map of grief for a lifetime, but no amount of study prepares you for the moment you have to walk the terrain alone.
Finally, the tears subsided. Thomas wiped his face. He looked at the check engine light.
“Alright,” he whispered to the empty cab, trying to mimic the cadence of a voice he would never hear again. “Let’s take a look.”
He put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the road, driving forward into a life he was entirely unprepared for, but had to live anyway.
