A Heart That Works

by Rob Delaney

I felt like a lava lamp; the bits of plastic gloop bubbling around in me were actually bits of a dark sort of peace with death, a harmony with the knowledge that my son had died and that my own death would see me walk through a door he had walked through. We would share one more thing together. And that would be fucking great.

Maybe it’s because I write and perform for a living that I can’t help but try to share or communicate the biggest, most seismic event that has happened to me.

the idea of wearing all black following the death of someone you love makes a lot of sense to me. For a while, anyway, I’d have liked you to know, even from across the street or through a telescope, that I am grieving.

I am skeptical of those who claim to know the reason one person got cancer and another didn’t—unless it’s one of those very obvious cases, like your drinking water came from a reservoir next to a factory being investigated by Erin Brockovich.

I hesitate to give advice, but I have to say that if you’re ever in a situation like the one in which my family found ourselves, do not forget to love, touch, and look into the eyes of every other family member regularly.

I’m not a fan of the “fighting” metaphor for cancer. I don’t think you fight it, or beat it. The effort I saw Henry expend, again and again, at the age of one, under such duress, suggests someone who could beat anything that can be beaten. Cancer’s pretty much going to do what it wants. Should it come for me, I hope I’ll just ride the wave.

If that’s not enough, another housemate from sober living was a very handsome and skinny junkie who used to play music with Elliott Smith. He said that part of his motivation for going to rehab was spending time with Smith, whom he viewed, even while alive, as a cautionary tale.

Maybe it’s like how I now love it when people bring up Henry. If they worry, I assure them they’re not really “bringing him up” at all; I was probably already thinking about him anyway.

The music Henry and I listened to together most, in an almost holy setting, was also a collaboration between a son and a father?

I must confess I now find it difficult to truly and fully relax around people who haven’t had some significant tragedy and pain in their lives. Just another one of the many things that make me a fun hang.

After he died, I had the odd sensation of somehow being older than my parents, or at the very least having seen something that they hadn’t, and it had changed me. I felt like no one, even my parents, who raised me, had anything to offer me that could light my path and show me a way forward. It didn’t feel like I could lean on anyone in a way that would truly, substantively help me. That was a very sad and lonely feeling, and while it wasn’t a correct assessment of my place in the world, it is what it felt like.

I walked them to school and approached their teachers, who could tell they were about to learn that Henry had finally died.

They helped underline for us that though we were awash with pain, we were making a good decision, based in love for our Henry.

When we found out Henry’s cancer had returned, Leah went off the pill and she got pregnant instantly. Henry was the first person we told. He knew he was going to be a big brother. What a good big brother he’d have been. He loved to care for little things. We didn’t tell anyone else; it was our secret with Henry.

Henry knew happiness and curiosity and love and brotherly squabbles every day that he was home. And that absolutely included his final days. His death was good.

I told the loud builders next door my son was lying dead on our bed and we had to keep the windows open, so please stop work for the day. They did.

So while I think that most people who say, “Everything happens for a reason,” can fuck off to a frigid cave, I am more than willing to extend my feelings around birth on to death, the other big thing we all get to do. We don’t know what will happen and it’s not our job to know. Just go for the ride, baby!