I’m going to miss swimming at the Bath Y. For more than three years, I’ve driven north on Route 1 to Bath to swim. Swimming has been one of a few things that kept me centered during the most difficult period of my life, both emotionally, and a year ago, when my SI joint flared-up.

For the past year, I’ve tried to swim three mornings a week. I’m usually there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I tend to arrive after 6:00 (the pool opens at 5:00 a.m.), which allows me to get up at 4:45, have a cup of coffee, watch the weather with Mary, and then throw my bag in the backseat and make the 12-minute drive from where we’ve been living in Brunswick.

My arrival usually corresponds with a “shift change” of sorts. The group that arrives when the facility opens is usually wrapping up and the locker room most mornings is full of talk and camaraderie. Having played team sports throughout high school as well as coaching, the energy in a locker room is a special kind of thing.

Auto workers leaving the General Motors Powertrain plant in Warren, Michigan (2008)

I’ve written about Richard in a previous post. He’s still coming. There are a host of other regulars that I see three times a week like clockwork.

When I first met Richard and shared my story with him about Mark in 2017, it was during that patch of grief where the need to tell others about your lost loved one was strongest. I was struggling with how to cope with grief and loss. Sharing this with people—even random strangers—filled some need.

A year ago, I stopped telling people about Mark. Occasionally the topic would come up, but I didn’t go out of my way to let anyone know that I was a father without a son. Suddenly, the script was flipped: sharing my woes of being a grieving dad was more work than it was worth. How many more times did I want to hear another perfunctory utterance like, “I’m so sorry,” or the other grating superficialities that I’ve learned are all-too-common.

Oddly, yesterday morning, I struck up a random conversation with a guy I’ve exchanged greetings with but little else. He’s a member of a contingent of 40, 50, and 60-year-olds that do a vigorous workout five mornings a week upstairs in the weight room. They are part of the “changing of the guard” I referenced above. They are always so lively and energetic in the morning. Often, I’ve caught myself breaking into a grin at some comment they’ve made, usually “busting someone’s chops.” It’s all in good fun, and I could tell these guys genuinely care about one another. At times, I was envious, wishing I was part of their group.

Exiting the shower, Eric and I began talking about people at the Y and how this particular location had something that other workout facilities don’t. He shared a horror story about a local racket club where I once took some tennis lessons. I was not impressed during my brief time there, so I wasn’t surprised. Would it be cliché to say that not much surprises me anymore?

For some reason, I’ve made several connections with returning vets over the past 18-24 months. Last summer, one of them committed suicide. Another acquaintance has been battling PTSD for the past year and isn’t doing well. I need to call him today.

Eric told me he’d done two tours in Fallujah. I told him about Mark. He told me that he could relate: he’d lost brothers on that distant battlefield. Few Americans really understand the toll that our never-ending wars take on returning vets and the fallout they and their families live with afterwards.

It’s ironic that Eric lives just down the road from me in Brunswick. I’ve biked by his house numerous times. I’m sorry I didn’t make an effort to connect with him before now.

Mary and I are in the midst of another relocation. This one offers a “fresh start” for us that Mark’s death never allowed Brunswick to be for us. Plus, the 295 commute every day isn’t a pleasant one for Mary. Heading south makes sense, especially since our lease is up at the end of the summer.

I’m going to miss the Bath Y. I’ll join a new Y in the city where we’re headed to. I’m sure it will be great. I hope I connect with a new Richard and this time, I’m going to make sure I introduce myself and cultivate a fitness friendship at least with the new Eric.

Mark shared with me how he’d read that cultivating relationships with other people was good for you, health-wise. After a tough year in 2014 after breaking-up with a longtime girlfriend, he’d become withdrawn for a time. I didn’t figure all of this out until after he’d been killed and I was reading a manuscript that he’d written back then.

The last two summers were lonely ones for me. People tend to forget about parents who’ve lost their children after the celebration of life. Some family members have been great. Others have been “meh” at best. Other than one true blue friend, most people are too self-absorbed to reach out and include me in their plans, or think that maybe I’d like to leave the house once-in-awhile.

Rather than dwell on the past, like Mark, I’m going to be the instigator in cultivating some new acquaintances. The place we’re moving to seems to lend itself to that. I’m looking forward to connecting with new people and some people I wished I’d been better at getting to know in the past.

I’m even going to make a point of dropping by Eric’s when I visit Brunswick. I’d like to learn a bit more about his story, as we only scratched the surface during the 10 minutes we shared in the parking lot.