His Daddy's Hammer

 My younger son, Benjamin, was only seven (well, almost seven…actually still six) when Ken was diagnosed with terminal cancer.  In the span on one short week, he went from having a Daddy who would play and ride bikes with him, take him camping at the local flea market, and let him ride in the bucket of the backhoe (only when Mama wasn’t looking) to having to watch his Daddy fight for his life and wither away from a horrible disease.  It was a HUGELY scary adult thing for such an innocent and carefree little boy to try to endure.  It changed him… immediately and tremendously.

When someone in a family, whether a parent, grandparent or child, is diagnosed with a terminal illness, that family’s entire world immediately changes.  Emotions are heightened, schedules are changed, the phone rings incessantly, hospital stays, doctor appointments, treatments, medications and medical equipment become a part of the “normal” routine.  The family’s vocabulary even changes – they suddenly have to become fluent in medical terminology and the language of diagnosis and prognosis (it really is a language all its own … you have to listen for what the doctors DON’T say in order to interpret fully what they do say).

This is the world my tiny, dimple-faced boy and his brother were thrown into.  I was so busy managing Ken’s healthcare and helping him fight that Jesse and Benjamin were often pushed aside.  We were tremendously blessed with family and friends who tried to “pick up the slack” and help us with the boys, but it’s not the same thing as being comforted by your parents.  I soon noticed a marked change in Benjamin’s behavior.  He stopped talking and interacting with people and he began to deal with stress through physical movement.  He would run up and down the hallways, spin ‘round and ‘round in a circle in the floor, climb anything climb-able (and usually jump off).  I came into his classroom one day and he was reading his assignment, sitting in his chair, which was UP ON TOP OF HIS DESK!!  My initial reaction was to snatch him down and fuss at him, but his second-grade teacher, a dear, kind, compassionate, grandmotherly woman, shook her head slightly and continued their lesson.  When she finished, she came over and told me that she didn’t care if Benjamin sat on top of his desk, or stood on his head in the aisle… as long as he was listening, he could do whatever he needed to do to relieve his stress.  That teacher was an angel sent from God to help my child through that terrible time in his life.

Ken fought hard for two years.  Benjamin’s level of physical activity grew to a fever pitch.  It got so bad that Ken would snap at him about it.  He couldn’t help it… he was in such pain at the end.  Before his illness, Ken would never have been harsh with either of our boys.  But cancer makes you do things that aren’t in your nature.  Benjamin began to avoid Ken.  He would stay in his room or stay outside if his Daddy was awake.  It broke my heart then, and it still breaks my heart now, when I remember.

After Ken died, Benjamin would rarely talk about his Daddy.  I think, in his own way, he was trying to protect me.  If he didn’t talk about it, maybe I wouldn’t cry so much.  As the years passed by, I began to wonder if Benjamin really remembered his Daddy at all.  He was such a baby when it was happening.  I know that I don’t remember much from the time I was six or seven.  And the whole two years was so sad and stressful.  Who could blame him for not wanting to remember?  When he was younger, I would ask him if he remembered things that happened before Ken got sick.  He always said “yes”, but I wondered if they were just borrowed memories – you know, things you think you remember, but it’s only because you have heard other people talk about them.  But I figured that borrowed memories are better than no memories.

Now that Benjamin is grown, he has finally admitted to me that he has little to no actual memory of his Daddy, and my heart hurts for him.  But he has begun to talk more about him.  He has taken to wearing a beanie (toboggan) that was Ken’s.  He is built so much like Ken and his mannerisms are the same, so when he wears the beanie, though it makes me smile, it sometimes takes my breath away. 

Yesterday, Benjamin came to me, holding one of Ken’s hammers and asked me if he could have it.  He works in construction, so I asked him if he had lost his hammer.  He said “no”, but he would still like to have Ken’s hammer.  I said, “But Baby, that’s your Daddy’s hammer.  He used it… touched it with his hands.”  Benjamin said, “I know… that’s why I want it.”  I can’t really explain how it felt, seeing my son holding his Daddy’s hammer, and knowing that he wanted it to help him remember.  I pray that when he uses it, he will feel his Daddy’s strength, his determination, and the love his Daddy had for his family.  Ken would have wanted him to have it.