We functioned. We remained committed to each other. But how was it that we felt so disconnected when permanently connected by a shared tragedy?

We allowed each other the gift of separate approaches to the same crisis.

Ambiguous disappointment often accompanies ambiguous loss. For so long we disappointed each other--drawing close when the other needed space, keeping our distance when the other needed closeness, misreading each other's cues about whether an incident was comedic or catastrophic in the other's opinion, misjudging which of our children needed us most at any given moment.

Until that moment, I had assumed my job--my role in the crisis--was to absorb the grief, anger, and pain building up and spilling out around Tammy and our kids. Absorb their grief so they wouldn't feel the full brunt. My job. But that night, I expressed my sorrow rather than trying to deflect or divert the hard hit Tammy had also taken. Judging from her response, it appeared more meaningful to her than the strength I'd been trying to portray.

In a time of grief, it's the symbols that cut the deepest--the single red shoe in a pile of dusty gray war rubble, the grease-stained recipe card in Grandma's handwriting, the flag-draped casket saluted at the airport, the first wildflower that pushes its way through the ashes of last year's forest fire, the guitar whose voice would never be heard.

It became all the more obvious that people--no matter their age or what brought them to that place--grieve in different ways and on different timetables.

When a loss is ambiguous, no public ceremony acknowledges the loss and its fallout, or honors the memory of the loved one. It was true for us. People still were unsure how to respond to the endlessness of our unique form of loss. Should they grieve with us or pretend life was fine now that Zach had lived through it all? Would we resent it if they didn't mention the injury, or if they did?