Preface
On December 15, 2018, my youngest son, Chandler, was hit by a car while riding his bike to work. He sustained multiple broken bones, a severed thoracic spine, and severe traumatic brain injury. . . .
After 18 days that seemed like several lifetimes, on January 1, 2019, Chandler took his last breath. He was 25 years old.
When you lose someone you love, it’s like you’ve been thrown overboard into a tumultuous storm. You wave your arms thinking someone will pluck you out and whisk you to safety. But you soon realize it’s just you. It is personal. Specific. You have to figure out how to weather this thing. There is a safe shore somewhere, but you can’t see it.
The only way to get to the other side, if there is such a thing, is to go through. There’s no shortcut or detour. It’s just…through. This book is my “going through” process. It is my day-to-day journey of figuring out how to go about my days, knowing that my son Chandler is not here any more. It is my journey of finding a new normal.
In the days following Chandler’s death, every movement was a monumental task. So the first step in my journey each day was simple — first, brush your teeth.
After Chandler passed away, I learned that he wanted to be a writer. I knew I had to keep writing. I decided I would write every single day for the first year. This was my process for healing, for honoring Chandler’s life and his dream, and for coming alongside so many other grieving individuals as a trusted companion on their own journeys.
The essays you are about to read have not been edited or revised since they were originally written. To change their content would be to alter the real-time chronology of my grief process. Your grief process will be your own. I do not offer these essays as a “how to” formula for finding your new normal, whatever that means for you. I offer them because, for me, hearing from others what their grief looked like one week, one month, six months, or a year later gave me hope. That is my desire for you — that even as you resonate with the acute pain of fresh loss in the beginning of First, Brush Your Teeth, you will see glimmers of hope. And that if you choose to skip forward halfway, or all the way to the end, to read one of the daily writings, you will glean more hope — that perhaps a day will come when the exquisite pain of your loss will not define every minute of every day.
I consider it a privilege to come alongside you on your journey.