Seeing Pablo

I know my son Pablo very well. Do I have to say I knew him? I am not capable of saying that today, so bear with me. I will continue speaking about Pablo in the present tense, because he is with me all the time, everywhere, no matter what.

I saw Pablo every day of his life, unless I was out of town, which was sometimes.

I saw Pablo.

Pablo saw me.

Pablo saw all of us.

He was the kind of person who looked you in the eye. In the eyes. Both of them. At the same time.

Today, I looked at the IN box in my email program, and saw a note from Scott Henriksen, a dear friend of ours, and the dad of Pablo's friend Eli. Scott is a cinematographer, and therefore has a camera with him at all times. He's just that kind of guy. Scott has documented the lives of our circle of friends since before I was in our circle of friends. Scott has photographed and video'd the children of all of us. I love beautiful photos, and so having Scott's photos of Grady and Pablo has been a real gift.

What I saw in Scott's email was completely unexpected: he'd found photos of Pablo that no one has ever seen. And, for all my love of Scott's photos and how they've become the memories of our world of friends and kids and holidays and stuff, three of the photos (the best ones) were not taken by Scott. The photos were taken by Scott's nine-year-old son Eli.

Here's the note Scott sent:

Hey you guys. I got some film back from the lab yesterday and I found some Pablo pics that Eli shot when he grabbed my camera at Tracy's birthday party at Mexico City. At least I think it was Tracy's birthday. We were all together anyway. There's some pics from Pablo's bday that were on another roll too. I love them. I hope you do too.

I clicked the link, typed in the password, and sat, stunned and in tears. Tears of joy. Tears of sadness. Lots of tears. Weeping wall.

Clicking on the first image, I saw Pablo looking at me—straight into me.

But then I realized, he wasn't looking at me at all. This is a photo of my son looking at his friend Eli. I'd been around Pablo and Eli a million times, running, screaming, going mental. I'd been around Pablo in many ZIP codes, many cities, many states, doing this very class of behavior—kid stuff. But I'd never seen Pablo looking at one of his friends.

So, nearly nine months after Pablo's death, I am seeing him in a way I'd never before seen.

Remarkable. Simply remarkable.

This photo was taken at the restaurant Mexico City in Los Feliz. Pablo and I had just gone to the Steven Alan store down the street and bought that shirt and bowtie. I have the exact same shirt, in Papa size. I almost wore that bowtie today—it's Friday Tie Day here at Dangerbird.

Here's another great shot, clearly framed by a kid shooting a kid doing kid stuff:


And this one, I recall, was Pablo hitting the wall, wanting to go home. You can see in his eyes how tired he is. Knowing what we now know, we can only imagine what was going on inside his little body. This was only a couple weeks before he passed away. I can see the tumors taking away his smile and his energy, and it makes me angry.


Here are two photos that Scott took at Pablo's sixth birthday party at Silverlake Park. It was Sunday June 21 2009.

That's Eli on the blanket.

Another birthday party shot: Pablo's on the far left

Thank you Scott.

Thank you Eli.

You are great friends and we love you.

Driving In Stereo

The photo of Pablo that's been on the front page of Pablog for months was taken in our friend Michael Ross' golf cart in Palm Springs. Pablo loved going to Michael's sprawling house in PS. It was a giant play land to him. We loved waking up early and driving the golf cart down the road to the Ace Hotel or Koffi. The thing goes, like, 8 m.p.h. max, and Pablo loved every sub-speed limit bit of it. And he loved to drive in stereo. We left a CD in it back in the 0-6: Silversun Pickups 'Lazy Eye' acoustic. A totally random disc to shove into the Craig stereo in a maroon golf cart. And it apparently stood the test of time. Nobody ever took it out. So every time we were in PS, we cranked it.

Jo Ann shot the golf cart pic. It's a mother's view of her son in full bloom of boyish beauty and vibrancy. Nobody else could have captured Pablo's energy the way she did. No one else could have created it either. While Pablo was alive, I liked to change the Pablog cover image every couple months. It was a fun thing to do. Now, I don't think we'll ever change out Jo Ann's golf cart photo. Pablo's smile in that shot will fuel all the days I have left on this earth. That one smile. So much energy.

Michael loves the photo as much as we do. And he did something amazing with it. He had it turned into a memorial plaque which is now affixed to the golf cart. That's the story of the photo of the photo above. Can't wait to run into a Pablove friend at the Ace or Koffi. Then we can show it off....

What It's Like Without Pablo

Once in a while, I look back to the post from exactly one year ago. Today is one of those days. It's Christmas Eve, and I don't know what or how to feel. Well, I know that my insides feel like the pin has been pulled out of the grenade and nothing feels good. My brain is telling my emotions to get used to this. 'This' being Pablo's physical absence from our lives. That push and pull leaves me feeling...nothing. Guarded. Protected. Flat.

I just miss my son. Badly. Deeply.

A year ago today, our house was filled with hope and joy and gratitude. Most of all, it was filled with Pablo. And his five-year-old Xmas excitement. Today couldn't be more different.

Here's my post from last Christmas Eve. The brightness in Pablo's eyes might just be the perfect antidote to how low I'm feeling today.

We're flying to New Orleans tomorrow—our first family trip to Jo Ann's hometown in over two years. Another first. We'll be surrounded by family and friends. In fact, we're staying with Gretchen and Jon Drennan and their three kids. So we'll have no choice but to mix it up and keep our heads above water.

I'm wishing you a happy holiday season. Whatever you celebrate, we wish you all the best. Please hold Pablo in your heart tonight and tomorrow!

Cancer Kid Carlo Visits Dangerbird HQ

Don Moffett Stands Up To Cancer With Pablo

Slowing Down

It's raining in Los Angeles. There's something about rain here in LA that I love. It equalizes everything: the smoggy sky gets a scrubbing, the trees get a drink, and, in a perfect world, traffic slows down and chills out. I always feel that rain (and snow when I lived in Milwaukee) puts everyone on the same level, regardless of what's going on in their lives. For some reason, that comforts me. I like it when we're all together.

I am tired from a hard week at the office and from yesterday's 20K time trial on the bike. I am came in third place at the race. Gave it all I had, and then a bit more. And, boy, do I feel it today. Didn't feel this tweaked at any point during Pablove Across America. I think it has to do with the fact that, waking up this morning, I have no major goals in front of me for the rest of the year. What a f***ing relief.

My focus for the next three weeks is family—Jo Ann and Grady and our extended family and friends. But mainly Jo Ann and Grady. Everyone says that the holidays are the hardest part when you lose someone—a child—and I know this must be true. So far, every day has been what I'd characterize as 'hard.' A deep, dull sadness swells up inside me seeing Christmas-themed decorations and trees and Santa stuff all over town. I breathe in, I breathe out and I think of how happy Pablo was this time last year. I remember how happy Pablo was all the time. What else can I do?

As you can tell from the infrequency of my posts since returning from the road, my writing is slowing down. Riding across the United States for six weeks, and racing yesterday makes the words 'slowing' and 'down' seem very attractive. For the past 18 months, there's been something to say every day, so I've posted every day. Lately, when I get that writing feeling, I put it into my book proposal. That's now finished and out to publishers, and I'm still not compelled to write blog posts every day. I want a quieter life for now. I will continue to post, but far less frequently.

Gratitude: I appreciate the time you've given to the Pablog, and how you've passed it on to friends and folks in your own blogospheres. You are our community, and the Pablog is our meeting ground. Thank you. I'll see you soon. Very soon.

Peddling for Pablo

ABC News launched a longer version of its Pablove story today. Check it out: Peddling for Pablo

Vote For The Pablove Foundation!

Please take a moment to vote for The Pablove Foundation. Chase Community Giving is doling out grants to charitable organizations based on a show of community support. All you have to do is click the button below....

ABC World News Person of the Week: Jeff Castelaz

Click here to watch the ABC News dedication to me and The Pablove Foundation. A tribute to us all in our focus on pediatric cancer.

Thanksgiving

Pablo and his plate at Thanksgiving dinner 2008

Good morning. It's been a long time. We turned the Pablog into a television station for the past seven weeks. It was fun to speak and not spell all my thoughts and feelings. Mostly because I knew the writing would recommence right about now. So, here I am, sitting in the living room, where I was a year ago on this day, with my laptop in my lap. A year ago, the early morning sounds of Pablo filled the air: his footsteps as he ran up the stairs to find me, his voice speaking to me, the escalating melody sound the television makes as it fires up, and, of course, the start of an episode of 'Sponge Bob' and the inevitable request from the TV room, 'Papa, I'm hunnnnnnnnngryyyyyyy!'

Today, is more than a year later. Today is the day when it's clear nothing will never be the same. I knew that when I went to sleep last night, and each night for the prior five months. This morning, I sit here and scroll through iPhoto and search for the photos of last year's Thanksgiving—the one with just the four of us and perhaps Polly. There are only a few pictures with people; Grady and Pablo commandeered the camera that day and snapped shots of food and other inanimate objects. I have come across those images a thousand times in the past 365 days. Today, when I want to find them, it seems impossible, so I let it go. I stop searching. Thanksgiving 2008 is there, I know it, and it will be there forever. Whatever forever means.

Last night after dinner, after being away from my beloved, ill-lit workshop for nearly two months, I was prepping my bike for today's ride. While I was away Jo Ann cleaned out the garage—a Herculean task for sure—so it was more than my long absence that had me feeling out of place in the workshop. After having my friend Chad Contreras, our mechanic on Pablove Across America, drive behind us for six weeks with a car full of fresh wheels and food and bottles, I was begrudgingly searching in the half-dark for the little bag that holds a spare inner tube, a couple CO2 cartridge and tire—the supplies needed to fix a flat. I miss Chad and everyone who worked with us on Pablove Across America. I miss Chad cracking jokes into the CB radio in my ear, and calling out each car or double semi truck that was approaching from the rear. And, of course, I miss Chad expertly replacing a punctured tire with an entirely new wheel as I stood there eating or wiping my nose. I got only five flats in over 3,400 miles, by the way. Mostly, I miss the drive and ambition of being on the road with a team of people, grinding down the miles each day in service of the Pablove purpose.

Finally, I found the little black bag and affixed it to the saddle on my bike. In the half-dark, I looked at the shelf above my fire engine red workbench. Something jumped out at me. It was a clear plastic package, the kind that is molded to whatever its contents are, and requires industrial scissors to open. I instantly knew what the package was and walked over to pick it up. The first thing I noticed was the receipt stuffed inside the package. The second thing that popped into my head was, 'Where has this thing been all this time?'

The receipt told me that I'd bought this item at 10:13 a.m. on Wednesday June 24 2009. It also told me that I had bought a clear plastic toy replica of a Colt handgun. Tears poured from my eyes. My gut seized up as it always does when I weep; air goes out but does not come back in. What I was holding in my hands was the package for the last gift I ever bought Pablo. I have no idea how it ended up on that shelf or why I saw it last night and not on any other night. I do know that I drove Grady to school for 8 a.m. on June 24. I do know that I rode my bike in the mountains for two hours immediately after. I do know I went to Sport Chalet with the express purpose of buying a toy gun for Pablo. And I do know that I cut the package open in the garage so I could hand him only the gun; the plastic BBs the gun was capable of shooting was not something we wanted to indoctrinate Pablo into. We were into Pablo shooting imaginary bullets, and so was he.

After hacking the package open in the garage, I shut the door and came in the house. The playful screams and hollers of two young boys filled the air. Pablo and his friend Mercer were tearing it up. I was happy as I walked in the door. Any time Pablo's play sounds filled our home was a good time. It meant he was feeling good. It meant his little boy-ness was winning. We loved that.

'Paaaaaabloooo!' I screamed, trying to get my voice into their mix. I called out for him a couple times. He ran over. 'I have a gift for you, sweetie.'

'OK, Papa,' he said. I remember this exchange as if it had just happened. 'What is it?'

From behind my back, I produced a clear plastic Colt gun. He grabbed it, pulled the trigger and turned toward Mercer. His face dropped. He pulled the trigger again. 'Papa, it doesn't make any noise.' He wanted the trigger to make a clicking sound, like his favorite six shooter that had broken the day before. I assured him the Colt was a cool gun as he and Mercer picked up the game they'd been playing. I knew he was disappointed. And I knew I'd get him a clicking gun the next day.

When I got home at 5 p.m. that day, Jo Ann told me Pablo was running a mild fever. I sat down next to him on the sofa. He showed me the promotional insert from the Play Mobil toy he'd just picked up on Larchmont. He pointed to the Sphinx image on the sheet. 'Papa, this is the one I want next.'

Within minutes we were rushing to CHLA. Within two hours, it would be clear to me that 'Papa, this is the one I want next' is the last thing Pablo would ever say to me.

We miss Pablo so much it makes the air go out of our lungs and the sound go out of our ears. We talk about him constantly. We search for meaning in everything as we reach toward acceptance. I learned acceptance from my son, and I will keep trudging toward acceptance for each day that I live. When I can no longer live, I suppose I will accept that too.