MAYDAY

It’s the ninth again. The months pass quickly—if you’re counting, and for some reason, I am. It’s been 33 months since the passing of our son, Quint. He died on August 9th, 2022, during the Mountain phase of Army Ranger School in a colossal storm that swept across the top of Mt. Yonah in northern Georgia.

The loss feels both new and reborn each morning. The forms and shapes vary as much as the shells on the beach. Some are perfect and whole, vibrant with the subdued pastels of the setting sun, while others are jagged, broken, and razor-sharp. I keep them all in my collection of memories.

Some mornings, he is my first thought as I continue to ask, “Why? How can this be?” It’s as if I’m still stuck in the early, piercing stages of grief and denial. On other mornings, the awakening is gentler, kinder—if that is possible. I may start my day, have my coffee, and get ready to go to work as if everything were normal.

I get into my truck, which used to be his—a 2009 white Toyota Tacoma he nicknamed “Taco.” His rearview mirror accouterments greet me as I climb in. I’m not a fan of things dangling and swaying from my rearview mirror, but these will never be moved because he put them there: his black and orange 2014 Commencement tassel from Hendrix College; the tail feather of a turkey; and a faded red, white, and blue Christmas tree air freshener. (I’ve replaced it once, being careful to find the exact replica at my local AutoZone.)

Tears well up as the realization slowly re-dawns that I will never hug him again on this side of heaven, that no new memories will ever be made, and that I must keep the ones I have vivid in my mind—or they too will fade away. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I write: so that when my mind is dulled by age, dementia, and the passage of time, I will be able to read and remember anew.

The month of May is a juggernaut. Once we get through the 9th, his birthday falls on the 15th. He would have been 33 this year. Then we face Mother’s Day, followed by Memorial Day a week later. It’s like being in the surf, confronting a rolling set of tall breakers. One hits you full in the face. You get knocked down, tumble underwater, and as soon as you surface, sputtering for air, the next one knocks you flat, leaving you eating sand and spitting out salt water again. There’s no respite as you try to cope while managing all the regular demands of life.

No, time does not heal all wounds—not when it comes to grief. That is a lie. It’s kind of like the saying I recall from my childhood: “Sticks and stones will break your bones, but words can never hurt you.” Another lie, enshrouded in a proverb that’s supposed to help us grow and mature as children. What adult came up with this age-old, hurtful, so-called “wisdom?” No, I will carry this sorrow with me until I, too, depart the physical bonds of this earth and am carried up into the heavenly realms.

However, the nature of grief does change and morph over time—I will give you that.

Grief begins sharp and jagged, cutting deep into the body and soul. You can see the blood flowing out of the gash, but you don’t feel the fullness of pain yet because the body “protects” you through shock, denial, post-mortem decisions, and disbelief. You are a dazed zombie walking through the apocalypse of a sudden and unexpected death.

I will never know how we managed to write an obituary, sign for an autopsy, greet the casket as it was unloaded from the plane, make burial decisions, plan a memorial service, collect tribute pictures, accept phone calls, visitations, and notes. But we did. Yes, you are surrounded by friends and family who come alongside you in amazing ways—but only parents can do certain things. It is a singular, solitary journey.

Early grief is like a roaring river in early spring, the snowmelt waters ripping through narrow gullies and twisting turns—torrential and relentless, sweeping up everything in its path. You struggle to catch your breath, to come up for air, bracing yourself for the next boulder, the next turn, being pulled under by subterranean whirlpools. It’s a fight to survive, to see the dawn of another day.

Weeks later, the shock anesthesia administered by the body wears off, and sharp, biting pain sets in. Tears fall more freely, sleep becomes fleeting, and the finality of death begins to sink in. The realization dawns that you will never celebrate another birthday with him—no more vacations or days at the beach. I will never see him get married, become a father, play with his grandchildren, hug him, go on adventures with him, learn from him, laugh with him, or hang out with him.

These are hard days and long nights.

Now, almost three years later, the loss remains pervasive, but it has changed. Our raging river has left the highlands and is spreading into the plains. As it snakes its way into the broad valley, the gradient lessens. The floodwaters still retain their volume, but they move more slowly as the river widens and shallows.

Grief, now, is not as sharp, but it permeates every molecule of your life. You carry a piece of him everywhere you go, in everything you do. Grief is a constant companion. You may not like it, but you realize it’s never going away. So, you learn to coexist and stop struggling against it. You are now reluctant companions for life.

I search for him in the clouds, the breeze, the stars, and my dreams. Sometimes, I feel his presence, but mostly, there is a void of silence. I pray for more tangible encounters; yet, like my spiritual life, I must step out in faith, assuming that he exists in a realm far beyond my natural senses of sight, touch, smell, and hearing.

How do I access and discern that spiritual dimension that our mortal bodies naturally struggle to bridge? I continue to seek, pray, and attune my ear to listen—not for loud, brash supernatural encounters, but for that still, quiet voice of peace, presence, and gentle knowing.

Perhaps I have been searching for tangible, outward signs when my focus should be inward—exploring the depths for answers that may already be nestled within my soul.

Be still. Breathe. Listen—cultivate silence. It doesn’t come easily to me, but I must pursue it with purpose and intention. Then, like Elijah after enduring the storm, I may hear a gentle whisper. I will draw my cloak over my face and stand at the mouth of the cave in awe and wonder and wait for the Lord to appear.

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountain apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind, there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.
—1 Kings 19:11–13

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Tab Taber is a Gold-Star Dad–father of SSG George L. Taber V, a Green Beret Medical Sergeant from 7th SFG who died during a violent storm on Mt. Yonah while in the Mountain phase of Ranger School in August 2022. Tab journals to process his grief and to recollect memories of his son. Occasionally he shares his written thoughts with The Havok Journal and on Instagram @gltiv. He retired from the Military (8 years Marines;15 years Army) in 2014 and now resides in NE Florida where he runs a 4th generation wholesale plant nursery. He can be reached at tabtaber7@gmail.com.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.