I don't know Vicki Forman, although we have more than one one-degree-of-separation connection. She's been on my mental 'to do' list for some time; a number of people have told me I needed to get to know her, but I've just been too shy to take that first step. One of those people, my friend Kristen, even suggested to Vicki that she and her son, Evan, should join us at a playdate in park we had last Wednesday.
Evan died, unexpectedly, early Thursday morning.
When Kristen told me, I was shocked at how gut-punched I felt. I wanted to come here and wail about how unfair it all is, about how 7-year-old boys shouldn't die, not EVER, about how there have been all too many child deaths of late, about how I can't take it any more, about how much my heart just hurts these days. But it just felt like it was too much about me. This is not about me. This is about a family dealt a blow I don't even like thinking about, much less writing about.
Still, blogging is how I process, and my kind of blogging is inherently selfish. Besides, the idea of writing about anything else--how hot it is, the cute thing N said to me yesterday, our plans for the weekend--seems even more wrong than writing about the pain I'm feeling for a woman and a man and a sister and a little boy I've met only on a computer screen.
So there it is. I may have no right, I may not know these people. And yet...I cried.