I never liked referring to my oldest son as John John. I would have prefered the nickname Jack to differentiate him from his dad, but Big Guy (as John’s friends often called him) would have nothing to do with the name Jack. So now, as I did in his early years, I will refer to him as John John to avoid any confusion.
John John and Gabbie met in their sophomore year of high school and have been together ever since. That they have been partners for so long, and that they were together in Denver, was an enormous comfort to me that night. I knew he would still be at work, and although his coworkers were his friends, Gabbie was who I needed by his side when my storm hit Colorado.
Each of my children had their own unique relationship with their dad, and each would grieve a different way. John John is my quiet guy, the thinker, speaks when he is spoken to and always a little chattier after a beer, a slight contrast to his brother and sister. John was old school so it was hard for him wrap his head around the lack of conversation (although, ironically, it mirrored his relationship with his own parents), but I assured him that John John always called us when he had something to report, touched in with text messages...even participated in a spirited family group chat. But in the month preceding John’s passing, I knew they hadn’t communicated.
I phoned Gabbie but she didn’t answer. Frantic, I called her mom, Pat, and explained what had happened. I asked Pat to try and reach Gabbie and to have her call me. It felt like an eternity, but a short time later Gabbie’s name appeared on my phone. I answered and sobbed as I told her about John and asked her if she could go to the brewery and call me when she got there. She was already one foot out the door.
About an hour later I saw Gabbie’s number appear on my phone. I gasped. The broken record went off in my mind, “Oh my God, how am I going to tell him? What am I going to say?” Gabbie was on the other end and told me that she was with John John. She handed him the phone and I delivered the devastating news. I could hear him, a slight whisper, “What?” So I repeated myself, my voice begging for forgiveness at what I had to say, “Oh, Buddy… I’m so sorry. Dad is dead. He shot himself.” In moments, I heard wailing from the other end. Similar to the words that I chanted as I retreated from the basement earlier that day, I heard him sobbing, “No, Oh God, no!”
My heart was breaking. He too had plans to see his dad on the ski slopes in early April, and was so proud that John was going to see him on the coaching side of the lacrosse field. I waited for John John to catch his breath and told him to book the first flight home. It would be 12 hours before I could wrap my arms around him. I could barely catch my breath.
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