No Knot
This is the end of our fifth year without Hans.
I don't feel as though I have anything profound to offer.
Just the desperation I feel missing him.
Just the love I have for him. For Zatha and Eric.
Hans had several nicknames. Hurricane Hans. Huff Hoot. Pistol Butt. Haunted Hans. Hanzo Baganzo. Hupple. Hup. Hansel. In high school, for some reason, teachers couldn’t understand him when he was asked his name and answered, “Hans,” so he started answering the question with, “Paul, my name is Paul.” (It was his middle name). I’m not sure I want to know what he may have been nicknamed at the Naval Academy.
Hans was plagued by chronic sinus infections when he was a toddler. It made him a little grumpier than most babies as he would bang his head to try making it feel better. After many attempts and different treatments to clear it up, we finally agreed to sinus surgery for him when he was two. It relaxed a little of that hurricane and huff hootiness in him. But it didn't stop his standard and emphatic double negative response to general questions when he was younger.
Hans, can you finish your breakfast?
"No not."
Hans, are you ready for bed?
"No not."
Hans, can you share your toy with Jay?
"No not."
His early grumpiness translated into a stoic facial expression as well. He rarely smiled outwardly, like his dad. Teachers thought he didn’t like them, or that he wasn’t paying attention, when really he was right on it. His perpetually calm face belied his cutting humor, just waiting for a chance to dazzle anyone who could appreciate it.
He was rather black and white about the world, and unequivocal in his views on everything from politics to education to kitesurfing to abortion to law enforcement to longboarding. He was fiercely loyal, though to only a few, and unwavering in his beliefs. Like most young people, he didn’t necessarily know what he needed to know, but whatever it is that he wanted know, he knew it well.
If Hans did not like something, he plainly let you know it. He felt no need to lie about how he felt, or to fake liking something when he didn’t. Most times, however, he would just remain silent, rather than get into an argument or discussion with someone about which they might have disagreed. Once we were in Annapolis visiting Zatha, Hans, and Alexis, and decided to have lunch at a local Indian restaurant. “I don’t want to eat here,” stated Hans, after we thought we had agreement on the sidewalk to go in. He lasted six minutes in the chair and then left. He walked up the street to the Peruvian chicken place where we all reconvened. He was pretty unequivocal in his views of certain restaurants.
He was also very hard on himself. When he wasn’t doing well in certain classes in school, he’d be very negative about it, almost doomsday-ish. After a few corrective measures, like studying a little more or in a different way, he’d rally and do quite well. He’d tell me that he should quit the Naval Academy before he got kicked out – all because of having a tough time in one class, Chemistry. But after using a study program that Eric developed, he actually got an A on the final. He did not like ‘not doing well.’
We all can get pretty negative at times.
But grief is not negative. Grief is necessary.
I am told that I shouldn’t engage in grief for too long or too strong. Why? Why is my grief considered an affliction? Do I need to stop grieving? Why do I need to stop grieving? I will be grieving until the day I die.
I’d consider myself a cold-hearted bitch if I didn’t grieve for Hans. I loved him so much. And from so much love comes so much grief.
The only way to get through life with a happy wappy smile would be to ignore it. I cannot ignore Hans’s life, nor his death.
Of course I am thankful for many things – that his organs were successfully donated, that I have Eric and Zatha, that I have my parents living with us, for family and friends. And I occasionally find joy in various things. People say life is all about attitude. But I refuse to will myself into being happy about his death.
All I need are friends and family to listen even just a little when I talk about missing Hans, to share even just a little about what they remember about him, or what they wish they’d known about him.
As we march through life without Hans, I have missed and am missing his milestones: graduation, engagement, wedding, grandbabies, new jobs, lots of fun. I get to count how many of his birthdays we’ve now spent without him. We miss him more and more as each day passes, not less.
There are many nights when I cannot sleep, thinking about Hans. I feel closest to him when I am outdoors, which makes sense, since he absolutely loved the outdoors. And I find myself, on those sleepless nights, warm or cold, outside, most often sitting or lying at the end of our driveway. Sometimes I go for a walk in the neighborhood, letting Eric sleep. And I cry so hard. Zatha calls it my "driveway mode." For some reason she doesn't like it when I go into "driveway mode," maybe because she doesn't like to acknowledge my supreme sadness because then she has to face hers?
When Hans first died, I’d say the words “I can’t.” A lot. “I can’t get up.” “I can’t laugh anymore.” “I can’t bring myself to go to that party.” “I can’t dance at weddings.” “I can’t do as much as I used to.”
But I can. I just choose not to. I don’t feel like dancing at weddings anymore (except my daughter’s). I don’t want to run for School Board. I don’t want to go to Christmas Parties. I don't want to continually fake happiness. It’s difficult to act silly and fun when I have a dead son. So I retreat.
Not everything about our lives sucks. There are still good things that happen to us. Bad things still come along. But all of it is much more difficult to deal with because Hans is dead. Even the good is difficult to enjoy fully, knowing he will not be there to enjoy it with us.
Zatha, who brings incredible joy to our lives, is broken too. But her resolve to keep going, and going strong, amazes us. Wise Zatha, who gives even me sound advice. Gentle Zatha, to whom everything and everyone is “special” – can’t throw away that old letter from a friend or t-shirt or childhood knickknack or that old water bottle from which Hans last drank because, “It’s special!” Sweet Zatha, who has the most difficult time saying “no” to anything or anyone. Badass Zatha, who trudges through the worst of many things faking a smile because she doesn’t want attention drawn to her. You will rarely, or never, see her cry – though she does a lot in private – missing her baby brother.
While on her last deployment she ran the 2017 Transylvania 50k (31 miles), a brutal, rainy, foggy, snowy mountainous race that took her through an elevation rise (and back down) of up to two miles, finishing in the top 39% overall – men and women (and there were very few women, in fact, so few that they don't even offer awards in that category) – in 10 hours and 27 minutes.
Back home she ran the 2018 Marine Corps Marathon, finishing in three hours and 51 minutes placing 2,355 out of 30,000, in the top 7% overall.
She was selected to attend Expeditionary Warfare School at Quantico, where she was promoted to Captain of Marines, and after completing the school in May, she will serve as an instructor and platoon commander at The Basic School.
Best of all, on May 5, 2018 she married the most wonderful person with whom to share her life, Matt Aiken.
Matt and Zatha started dating before Christmas 2013 of their senior year at the Naval Academy, where Matt was captain of the Navy football team. He only got to meet Hans once, very briefly, in the spring just before Hans died. I remember it well because it was the first time I’d met Matt too. They exchanged handshakes and, “Hey man, nice to meet you.” That was it.
Hans would have loved Matt. Matt likes to try – and gets good at – anything new, just like Hans did. Zatha has introduced Matt to longboarding, snowboarding, slacklining, and surfing. Hans would have had Matt kitesurfing with him too. And Matt is musically talented. Hans would have loved jamming with him – Matt on guitar, Hans on the drums.
Matt would have loved Hans. Zatha laments that Matt will never know her as the confident, contented sister of Hans. Never get to see her at her silliest with Hans. Never get to know her as her happiest self.
But Matt brought out her first “Hans” laugh. I worry about Z. She hasn’t smiled the same, hasn’t laughed the same, hasn’t been the same, will NEVER be the same since Hans died. But about four years after Hans died, and before he proposed to her, Matt was able to bring out the silly laugh that I’d heard Z share with only Hans. I knew then that he was the one for her.
Zatha and Matt tied the knot on the Battleship North Carolina in Wilmington, a special place for many reasons. Matt currently serves as a Lieutenant in the U.S. Navy, and after several deployments will next be stationed at the Pentagon. Many times when we had visitors, we headed for a tour of the Battleship. Hans and Zatha would roam its decks, being their typically silly selves. The two of them ran a race at the Battleship – Zatha the half marathon, Hans the 5k.
From the time she was little, Zatha had always wanted to wear her Grandmommy’s wedding dress. My parents were married in the Naval Academy Chapel (where Hans's funeral was held), with my mother wearing a dress that her mother had made with blush satin and antique lace from her grandmother’s dress. After Matt proposed to Zatha (another wonderful story of its own!), we turned to the incredibly talented designer, dressmaker, artist, and friend Cheryl Taylor of Atlanta to help recreate the dress for Zatha.
How do we give permission for people to celebrate when probably 80% of the guests had been to Hans’s funeral? Eric thought, "Go big. Go bold. No tears." He opened the reception with a “drum toast” about the heartbeat and rhythm of marriage, pulsing a beat on Hans's drums:
"Zatha and Matt, your relationship has its own special rhythm right now. That rhythm may change as your lives together change; however, underlying that rhythm is the steady heartbeat of your love for each other. It gives you the strength and the foundation to keep that rhythm going. Keep that heartbeat of love steady underneath, because sometimes the rhythm of life can be frantic. Matt and Zatha, may you cherish every rhythm of your marriage, keeping it strong with steady heartbeats, so that together you challenge life with love."
And you might notice several sweet shining references to Hans in their five-minute wedding video, produced by Light Cannon Films.
Grieving is a lonely business. No one can understand my grief for Hans because no one else had the same relationship we had. I don’t expect people to understand it, just as I don’t completely understand other people’s grief. Only one who has walked in similar shoes can have true empathy. And though it is common nature to judge – we judge everything to help define our own moral standards – my hope is that you can have just a little more sympathy for someone who is suffering through the death of a dearly loved one.
Many days I feel paralyzed, my mind spins, and I don't know what to do. Literally. When I am my most despondent I ask Eric, "What am I supposed to do?!" He tells me my job is to love. Love him. Love Zatha. Love Hans.
We continue trying to contribute positive things, made that much harder with the burden of Hans’s death. We try to be honorable, generous, and truthful. We try to keep doing good things.
I still suffer every single day missing Hans. I still feel homesick every single day. I still cry every single day. It is so permanent, so unfair, so wrong. But I repeat myself.
I am relegated to only being able to write about him, to sitting outside alone on those nights when I can’t sleep, trying to figure out if the cool breeze that just started flowing is Hans responding to my forever-asked question as I weep, “Hans, where are you?”
