Game On Aisle 12

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Left to right: Christopher and Nico at Pro Bass Shops

December 19th, 2012

I get so angry at times, about my life when I take the time to sit back and contemplate about my losses. I mean these losses aren't like a sports team that loses a Super Bowl or World Series game where you have to wait an entire off season to redeem yourself. There is no next year when you experience tragedies in your life. I just can't revamp my life and turn it into championship season the following year. No, when that buzzer goes off and life ceases to go on, it is truly a finale.


My feeling of anger surfaces in the weirdest places too.

For instance, I’m in a grocery store and my anger lies somewhere in-between aisle 6 and 7: The frozen dessert section. I think this overwhelming feeling occurs because I see food Mimie (my wife) and I shared together. The feeling of loss manifests itself from deep in my stomach, and it’s not a tummy ache caused by the excess of ice cream.. The pain of loss causes my brain to reminisce about the happiness ice cream brought her. And boy I get upset. I can only shake my head and wish for a better out come, but I realize my reality, and I know I can’t revamp this team.

When you’re with someone for a long time their food, becomes your food, and vice versa. So, when I see the Rigatoni in the pasta aisle 4 of our local grocery store, my inner voice begins to laugh hard. I think about how we had just talked about the lack of rigatoni in my life. The thick square pasta, hollowed in middle, is delicious. It just makes me so damn mad I don't have an interest at looking at it anymore. Where is there a time-out when you need one. I wish a scientist could invent a pause button for a real life situation.

I work my way to the potato chip section, aisle 12. I was never a person who picked at chips because of boredom, but Mimie on the other hand, loved the salty chip as a late night snack. I use to brag that I could "only eat just one." I wasn't the type who craved the thinly sliced .007 inch chip. I didn't crave the potato that was deep fried in oil at approximately 375 to 400 degree Fahrenheit. I didn't notice the lightly brown salted rough surface, as being any type of delicacy. Not that I would know much about chip making.

I shake my head when I look at the plethora of chips before me resting on these grocery shelves and I fondly remember her telling me, "There is nothing like a chip from a freshly opened bag. Of course I'll grab a bag of Lays and I will savor the first bite, while riding the bench by resting on my couch. I'm not a couch potato, one that’s subjected to eating chips while watching a big game, I just want to find some comfort.

I push the shopping cart to the cereal section, aisle 6. I quickly take notice of the Special K with Red Berries. I recall how I didn't like the cereal when she first bought it. I thought the freeze dried strawberries were a little too sour for my taste buds. But now I am gravitating to the box with the large K on it. I enjoy it so much, with a packet of Splenda sprinkled on it. Mimie enjoyed it while she shared a bowl with my youngest son, Christopher. I think it's time to have a super big bowl with my sons.

I mosey on over to the meat section and bypass all the red beef while heading to the boneless chicken breasts section. We ate mostly chicken, but every now and again she would surprise me with a large steak. She would always cut it in half and give me the large portion while she would nibble on a small portion of her own. I wasn’t too picky about the type of meat she served and she always had it ready to eat when I got home, like a hurry up offense of a football team.

I then move over to the frozen food on isle 14. I want to choose pre-made pasta in a bag. The thing we loved about this type of frozen meal is that all you have to do is place the contents of the bag into a skillet and the food cooks up real quick. I think it’s better and faster then any thing Rachel Ray cooks up in her 30 minutes.

I look through the different flavors and take notice of the ones we both liked when I realize the bag reads, “dinner for two.”  I know my sons (Nico the oldest at 4 and Christopher, the youngest at 3) won't eat any of these, so I call an audible, or change of play, and I just move past this section all together.

I go to aisle 5 and pick out some diet soda. I pick the Coke Zero. I laugh when I see the Dr. Pepper. I fondly remember how I always thought that only girls drank Dr. Pepper. My wife loved it and she would stash it in the house so she could get her fix when she desired it. I never understood why she put it out of sight. She never had to worry about me sneaking a can or two. I think I'll buy the 6 pack for tonight. I’ll place one soda in the batters box so it will be ready to drink when I want to wash down my chips.

Shopping in the grocery store is just one little reminder for me of what I lost. And how life can change in an instant. I walk down these food aisle and fondly remember that we shared more then just are lives together but common interests as well. And now, the food just doesn’t taste the same.

I could rebuild this team but I am missing my key ingredient. I would do anything to learn from the seasons that have past and correct the mishaps that occurred that lead to a losing season. But I can’t. The only time-outs afforded in life have already played out and now I can only learn from replay in my mind. Unfortunately, a grocery store isn't in the field of play and now I am only left to try and clean up the mess behind me.

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The Adventures of Captain Imperfecto/Born Again by Christopher P. Fusaro is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Based on a work at christopherfusaro.blogspot.com.

Finding Peace with Loss Somehow

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Left to right: Nico and Christopher knocked out after a long day

December 17th, 2012

I just got through a long weekend stretch of working. It feels like I was on a 3-day bender. In 72 hours (Friday through Sunday), I crammed in 40 hours of work, mingled that with tending to my boys at night when I got home, and somewhere in there, I found some sleep for my weary body.

For the first time since I lost my wife, I wept for something else unrelated to my situation. I cried for those children and adults lost in Newtown, Connecticut, at the hands of a killer, a downright coward. I cried because I could see those children's innocence through my kids' eyes. May God console those parents and their children rest in the Kingdom of God. 

Their lively, busybodies, full of curiosity in all that life offers them, were cut short before it started. And now, I place myself in the shoes of the murdered children's parents by thinking of my own boys meeting such a horrible fate of a meaningless, senseless crime. I break down and cry, cry, cry. 

When I first became a police officer, it was hard to envision any kind of heartache that a parent was going through when they called me to the scene of their nightmare, especially at a young age. Their frantic search for their drug addict son or daughter who is lost somewhere in the mean streets of the underworld. A seedy part of life that society has spent generation after generation ignoring. 

I'd cut them loose, and they'll learn - I'd think to myself.

But now, I understand a parent's plight. Because, as a society, if we still thought the world was flat, I would travel to the edge of the world, knowing I would fall off until I found my own kids.

As a young adult, leaving my teens and heading into my twenties, I had just gone through the phase of bucking the system and fighting the authority that was my parents. I still lacked the maturity to understand what a worried parent goes through when a mom or dad loses their child to death or loss in the mean streets of society.

Now that I have matured physically and mentally, my clear thinking has allowed me to see the big picture of life and everything contained within it. I know the world outside the five-mile safety zone where I live and breathe. 

When I arrive at a scene and deal with a parent who has an unruly child, a kid that is missing, a toddler that is hurt, an infant that has died, or any kind of circumstance that is related to their child, I refer to them as "mom" or "dad." 

"Mom," I say as I place my arm around her, "they will be fine. We will find them."

"Dad," I say, looking into his eyes, "she will always be your little girl."

I want them to find comfort in the fact that I understand what they are going through. That I know the pain that is in their heart. They should know that I understand the tears of grief coming through their eyes, and I feel the pain that has rocked them to their inner core.

It's been a long weekend. My body is tired as I fight back the hours of lack of sleep the last three days. The minutes I wasted by remaining up beg me to let them back into my body so that I may find some rest tonight. But I don't want to sleep. Not now, not at this moment. I am watching my children sleep just a few feet away. 

The house is dark except for the Christmas tree lights blinking on and off. The light illuminates from the far room, and the brightness works its way through the darkness of the house. The multi-color lighting breaks through the darkness that surrounds my children, and light reflects off their faces. I hear them breathing, and I find comfort in the fact that they are resting. I imagine they are playing in a happy world somewhere in their dreams. 

I place myself in the parents who lost their children as I think of my own loss of my twin girls, Sophia and Gabriella. I have to believe that our children are sleeping well tonight. Their bed is in a celestial place where they find comfort and peace. 

Our children are in a place that knows no evil, where pain has no place, and where rest is a heavenly place to be. May peace come to us all. Not just today but in our lifetime.

769 words

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The Adventures of Captain Imperfecto/Born Again by Christopher P. Fusaro is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Based on a work at christopherfusaro.blogspot.com.