The cold of the sun soaked room, replete with mass produced prints of pastoral paintings; here a landscape, there an ocean vista with waves frozen, mid crash, against the rocks as if to make the sea that much more benign and ordered.

There, amid the smell of disinfectant, beeps of monitors and hushed voices behind patient’s charts; there I stood, numbness creeping radially from my gut to each limb and finally to my brain which sat; a heavy stone in my head.

There was no longer a rush of activity as there had been moments before. Before me, a broken child; paper skin, bruised and darkened by its premature traverse from womb to world. A life that should have outlived my own lay, deprived of oxygen and dying helplessly as I gawked, unable to lift a finger, exclaim a command, or defend him from the perils a father may expect. There was no car to pull him from in front of, no wad of food to dislodge from a frantic windpipe, no creepy person at the park to steer him clear of.

By the ancient code of social animals, I was entrusted with the safety of my progeny and could do nothing.

With such underdeveloped lungs there were no wires, no beeping machines, no rushing scrubs and lab coats. They checked his vitals, swaddled him, and handed us our son to hold for the rest of his life.

Another person appeared as if a vapor from the doorway; a man of indeterminate age bearing a plastic clipboard full of forms. What did we want to do with the body? The bod… what? He was just over… He had a heartbeat, a strong heartbeat. Really, I’ll show you the warm spot where he lay just over… was he still there?

Time imploded in my mind. Irretrievable past had rear-ended the present, galvanizing the two in a fiery, twisted heap in my cortex. Funeral? Didn’t you just hear me? Did I tell you I watched him kick like mad just last night?

And that was the day I lost my first child.

It’s been over 24 years now and I can still stand in that room if I close my eyes.

For a son of Brunswick and friend since our days in school, Eric Hodgdon, it’s only been about four years since the death of his teenage daughter, Zoi to suicide.

I remember the Facebook post announcing her death. There was no mention over the years of her having health problems but then again, many families keep such details to themselves.

I thought I should reach out to him — I had to say something — anything to him as a parent who suffered loss — as someone who deals with depression. I frantically searched for the courage to reach out.

Then, I felt like I didn’t have a right to. We weren’t best friends in school and we only moderately kept up with each other on social media. I guess I felt like I didn’t earn my way into the conversation — it would be an intrusion.

Then there’s the matter of what to say.

Most people fall back on, “I’m sorry.” It only took about a day to where that phrase made me angry. What were you sorry about? Was it your kid? Were you complicit in his death? To me it seemed as pointless as blessing someone who sneezes and I didn’t want to add just another “sorry” to Eric’s pile.

Eric’s spirit, through this horrific experience, has not only allowed him to stand up, walk and breath each day, but unlike the many years I held my loss inside, he’s using it to help others.

He has recently published a book, A Sherpa Named Zoi, and is speaking to people about grief, loss and finding resiliency.

In his story, he recounts his childhood as a Navy brat roaming the trails and trees around town. He goes on to tell the story of his new family and recounts Zoi’s last days to the moment he found her in her room.

It’s chilling — it’s honest and it goes on to map a course for pulling yourself away from the abyss.

We’ve since had an honest conversation about losing a child and how much he still misses his daughter. The connection between our experiences both brought up memories and made me feel I wasn’t alone in this journey.

Eric’s now working with grieving parents, spouses and veterans — as well as traversing his way down his own path.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast. He can be reached at [email protected].