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The Red Shirt Experience
Grief triggers that bring unexpected joy to mourning
When I first heard that my son had died, I googled his name to look for any information I could find. Since I’ve severed contact with my family (they probably think I’m dead anyway), I knew I couldn’t ask them for it. So, I located the GoFundMe page my daughter-in-law had set up. And an article from the news website in the country where he died.
This article explained that an American national had “fallen” from a third-story terrace and that he had died in another city about an hour later. This article contained a picture, like the ones you see in horror movies. The gory details were fuzzed out, but you could still see what had happened. I recognized my son immediately, though I still don’t know how. I took note of all the blood just underneath his head, and what he was wearing — jeans and a dark red shirt. The jeans are what probably pegged him as American.
I wondered about that shirt. What was its significance? I knew it must have held some meaning for him because over the years I’ve learned that’s how it works.
In 1981, there was a short-lived TV series that I watched — Jessica Novak. The main character was a TV news reporter, and there’s one episode that has stuck with me ever since. I think the title was “The Boy Most Likely.” This…
