A different boy

The Joseph we got back after the funeral was not the same boy we had before the accident, or even before the funeral.

He couldn't be alone. He couldn't let his daddy out of his sight. He wanted to be able to see us at all times, if not be in constant physical contact with us. And worst of all, he would not sleep.

For a month, the little boy who would cheerfully go to his bed and lay down suddenly wanted nothing to do with his room. He started slowly destroying his mattress, picking it apart and ripping out the stuffing. He would cling like a koala, screaming that he wasn't tired, until he literally passed out from exhaustion, usually long after 1 or 2 a.m., and waking back up after just a couple hours. And if he woke up, he NEEDED to wake us up, to make sure that we would actually open our eyes.

He talked about Grandpa constantly, like he was just downstairs in his apartment. But he wouldn't go down there. He was clearly aware that Grandpa was gone, but trying to pretend that he wasn't. Grandpa became, for lack of a better term, his new imaginary friend, present in every conversation, but never seen.

Except when something happened that frustrated him in any way. It didn't matter if Dino Dan wasn't on when he wanted to watch it, or he spilled his milk, or I picked out a shirt he didn't want to wear. Anything that went wrong pushed him into inconsolable crying jags, with shuddering, ragged sobs of "I miss my grandpa!"

And I missed my happy, goofy little boy.

I understand how grief and loss can define a child. My father died when I was 15 months old. My mother has pictures of me waiting at the front door when I was 3, still thinking he would come home, just like he always had at exactly that time of day. My mother finally moved so I wouldn't have that door to wait by every day. I don't remember my father at all, but the pain of his loss has been an omnipresent part of my life. I didn't want that for Joseph.

Enter the counselors.