Twenty-Five Years On

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Last night, we were celebrating the twenty-fifth birthday anniversary of our first born. We all worked together to create a now traditional meal of our favorite things; spaghetti and meatballs, steamed artichokes, also cocktails and the wife created an incredible almond cake. Our elder living child, in residence for the year, was also present and we FaceTimed with the younger in Cincinnati.

We have a box of items from that time. Like a lot of folks, we hung onto things that made us feel connected to the boy we had lost. We don’t always go through them on March 20, but a quarter century is a benchmark of some kind. We looked through the letters, little baby blankets that had been knit just for him, programs and newsletters, the kitchen calendar from 2001. On May 29, his due date, with two different pens, Toni had first written “baby?” and later, “Memorial”.

My wife asked about a letter we had received back in the day, from a man who told us about having lost his son with the same name as ours twenty-five years earlier than that. I knew right where it was, not with these items. It was filed away in the attic with documents from those years when I was performing I Hate This (a play without the baby); drafts, programs, articles, and also correspondence.

I Hate This was first produced at Cleveland Public Theater in February, 2003, just a month after our first living child was born. It was only one weekend of performances, but the Plain Dealer ran a preview piece that ran up attendance. It also provided awareness of the production beyond attendance.

Playwright's Notes
"I Hate This (a play without the baby)"
Cleveland Public Theatre, 2003

The letter Toni had remembered was from a man who lived elsewhere, whose ex-wife had told him about this play, the details of which must have struck both of them as remarkable. Their stillborn child also arrived at 30 weeks, also named Calvin. The unwelcome advertisements, about which he said, “Tragically funny now, but it was certainly good at the time to have a target for all the rage I felt.” No cap.

He went on to share a personal story, which began, “I went to have lunch at Cal’s grave … when he turned 15 …” So, not twenty-five, only fifteen, at that time. But even that figure seemed absurd, so far into the future. Our Calvin would be fifteen in, what … 2016? That’s not a real year, that’s the setting for some pulpy dystopian tragedy.

It hit me so hard, reading that letter. This was not some passing phase, this unwanted corner of my life was never going to end. And yet, here we are. Life is good. And we keep on.