Friday's Child is Loving and Giving

At 4:40 PM (EDT) on June 1, 1990, Kenneth Charles Thompson entered the world, not screaming. In fact, not breathing. The delivery room doctor was panicked, the attending nurse was not. As parents, we made the mistake of paying attention to the doctor and began to cry. A moment later, Kenneth took a breath. A moment after that, the medical staff took Kenny someplace. For an hour, we were left alone without information about our new son. So we cried.

Finally, Kenny was brought to us, hair parted, looking all rosy and happy. And we cried.

Ken was unusually quiet. He hardly said anything for his first two years. He was clearly intelligent, but he chose not to speak. His first complete sentence, after some coaching by Dad, was said to Mom: I love you. Again with the tears.

On February 6, 2003, at approximately 5:45 PM (EST), Ken was a passenger in a car involved in an accident. He was officially pronounced dead late on the morning of February 7, 2003. We were crying again.

His last words spoken to me as I dropped him off at school that morning were "I love you, too."

We were in a room provided by the hospital, with food provided by The Gift of Life, when the official results of a series of tests were delivered. We cried – hard. Then, one by one, we left the room to gather at his bedside. Only two of us remained in the room, my brother-in-law and me. He said, "You have to be strong… for Billy." What he really meant was that he was uncomfortable with my tears. My son was lying dead two rooms over and he wanted me to stop crying. I didn't say anything to him but decided, there and then, that I would be strong enough to allow the world to see my tears shed for my son.

To this day, any tears I cry for Kenny stay on my cheeks and air-dry. I do not wipe those away. Anyone uncomfortable with that will just have to become stronger.

But between all those tears, we had so many happy moments. I cannot recount them all but, if you'll bear with me, I’ll mention a few (in no particular order).

Early in kindergarten, Kenneth started signing his papers as "Ken." Everyone called him "Kenny" but he preferred "Ken." We finally figured out that his preference had two characters less. He wanted it short so he didn't have to write so much on the homework.

When he was about 9 or 10, he and I were at a McDonalds. I was wrestling with a salt packet whose perforation was particularly uncooperative. I had the packet long-end down, so the salt wouldn’t spill out once the perforation broke. Ken told me to turn it over and try it that way, so the salt would provide support to the packet and it would break easier. That worked immediately. Ken was 9 or 10 at the time, I was 45 or so. He understood how things worked so much better than I.

Kenny was one of two grandchildren that my father-in-law trusted with his farm equipment. Ken was allowed to operate man-sized equipment at the age of 10. His older cousins were not. He was running 75 HP tractors, skidsters, lawnmowers. He had an instinctive understanding of machinery.

Imagine his rage when he was told he could not operate a simple golf cart because he was too young. We were at a course in Houghton Lake, Michigan, and I had to break the news to him. He was not happy (evidenced in the picture on the right).

However, once we were clear of the clubhouse, I let him drive. They were none the wiser.

Kenny had his own golf style, a combination of Arnie Palmer and Happy Gilmore. He wasn't good at the game but he loved to play with his brother and me.

Ken had a budding political awareness. He had seen a Saturday Night Live skit, portraying a debate between Al Gore and George Bush and, from that point on, whenever he saw Dumbya on TV he would yell, "Strategery! Strategery!" and then he would laugh. His was a wonderful laugh.

At his funeral, several classmates told us that, once he'd finished his assignments, he would help them with theirs. He would tutor them in English, science and math. We didn't know that he did that.

When Kenny was 4 years old, we were given tickets to a Detroit Lions football game. Annette, Billy, Kenny and I went to the Silverdome as a family. There, much to my surprise, Kenny cheered every time the San Fransisco 49ers did something right and booed when penalties were called against them. Here we were, in a sea of Honolulu Blue and Kenny was ranting like a 49ers' fan of old. His hero was Steve Young. He remained a fan for life. This picture is of Kenny on Christmas, 2002, wearing the Jeff Garcia jersey he was given that morning. He wore it whenever he could. Kenny was buried in that jersey.

On Monday, January 26, 2003, I attended a Boy Scout committee meeting. When I got home, Ken greeted me at the door. "Guess what I had for dinner," he said. Not knowing, I let him go on. "I had my favorite: mashed potatoes, corn, and filet mignon." He had found my stash of filets and cooked one up. He was a good cook and baker. We observe that day – the first of The Anniversary Dates – by having his favorite meal. By the way, he preferred mashed potatoes from a box. Filet mignon and Potato Buds. Quite the combo.

In the summer following his death, instead of going to summer camp with the Scout troop, I sent his favorite meal along. There were 48 Scouts and adults in camp, and each ate well and remembered their mate. I was told it was a moving experience. I am extremely grateful to the Troop for all they have done for me since Kenny died.

Kenneth's taste in expensive steak first appeared in 2nd grade. My children attended a Montessori school that held an annual Fathers' Night. On that night, dads attended the school with their children to see what the kids did during the day. Beforehand, I would always take my children to dinner at the restaurant of their choice.

Billy preferred Burger King. Becky always chose McDonalds. Kenny chose The Apple Orchard, a local mid-scale place. Ken and I were seated and given menus, he looked his over and pointed at the filet mignon, although he didn't know what it was. He did, however, understand that it was the most expensive item on the menu (so it had to be good, yes?). I had one as well.

But today is Kenny's birthday. Today he turns 18. He hated being 12, since he wasn't considered a teenager – even though he was over 10. It was patently unfair to him and he had a strong sense of fairness. So, in my mind, he has grown older every year. I imagine him as a young man, today, not the boy who left our side too soon.

For the first time since he was born, I will not be with him at 4:40 PM on June 1. Today is the day his classmates are graduating from high school. We'll be in attendance at the ceremony, missing our son but wishing his friends well.

He would want that.

Find peace, Kenneth.

Paul
Kenny's dad