Week 2

June 5, 2026

There was no warning, no buildup, no moment to prepare just the instant shift from a life that made sense to one that never would again.

I remember standing there, realizing the world wasn’t going to stop, even though mine had just been torn apart.

People kept moving, talking, breathing, as if nothing irreversible had happened. And I stood in the middle of it, knowing I’d crossed into a reality I never asked to enter and could never leave.

One of the many heartbreaking realities of losing Ryan is knowing that Buddy will never see his boy walk through the door again. Buddy wasn’t just a dog to Ryan—he was his brother, his constant companion, and one of his most loyal friends. Their bond began when Buddy was just a puppy and grew through every season of Ryan’s life.

Every time I look into Buddy’s eyes, I think about the excitement he would feel when Ryan came home. The way his whole body would light up, his tail wagging uncontrollably as he ran to greet him. There was never a question about how much he loved Ryan.

Now, as we grieve this unimaginable loss, Buddy has somehow become one of our greatest sources of comfort. The same dog who once waited so eagerly for Ryan is now the one lying beside us, licking away our tears and offering quiet companionship in the moments when words fail. He doesn’t understand where Ryan has gone, but he feels the loss too.

When I look at Buddy, I see a reflection of the unconditional love they shared. And while Ryan can no longer walk through the door to greet him, Buddy continues to carry a piece of Ryan with him every day. In caring for us through our sorrow, he reminds us of the loyalty, love, and gentleness that made Ryan so special.

June 6, 2026

I'm struggling to write this in the past tense, because it still doesn't feel real.

One week ago, I lost my son. My only child. My light, my love, my pride. He was 21 years old, and he was one of the most compassionate, kind, and caring human beings I have ever known.

He had this rare and natural ability to make anyone he was with feel truly seen, not just noticed, but *seen*. That was just who he was.

I cannot make sense of this. It's all a nightmarish blur...

Yesterday marked one week, but I genuinely cannot tell if a day has passed or a year. The hole in my soul is so deep, and the pain and sadness so all-encompassing, that I don't have words for it. I'm not sure words exist.

I am grateful, so grateful, that I am not the dad who held back.

I hugged him, kissed him, and loved on him without hesitation, in public or anywhere else. And he never pulled away. (Even in those awkward middle school years lol)

We told each other "I love you" every single time we spoke, and we meant it every. single. time.

Our lives will never be the same. I know that. I also know that I need to express myself, to write, to share, to grieve out loud, and I hope you'll bear with me as I do that in the days and weeks ahead.

Someday, I hope we can walk tall with this pain. Today is just not that day.

June 8, 2026

In 10 days:

I received a frantic phone call that changed my life forever.

I filled out my only child's death certificate information.

I walked through a funeral home and discussed details of my son's services and internment options

I wrote my son's Obituary

We chose, printed, and framed the picture for display at his services. (Larger than life - because that's Ryan lol)

In 10 days, my world has been turned upside down. These last 10 days could have been 10 years or 10 minutes or even one long day. Time stands still AND moves at light speed all at the same time.

I've never sobbed so much and felt such deep pain. I feel numb and incredibly deep sadness at the same time, almost hollow.

This morning, I've spent the last 2 hours writing my son's eulogy/tribute to be read at his Memorial on Friday. This broke me... again.

Tomorrow, we are receiving him at the airport (from Little Rock)

Thursday is his wake/viewing

Friday is the Memorial.

That will be the endcap - 2 weeks to the day from when I received the devastating news of my son's fatal car accident. Two weeks of sheer hell.

Although I am broken and lost, the loving support provided by and given to Robin, Mom, and Pam has been life-saving for me.

The kindness of family and friends and people I never met, sharing stories of how Ryan impacted their lives, provides a level of comfort that is hard to properly express.

I don't know how I'll make it through this week, but I will. Minute by minute - hour by hour.

June 9, 2026

We all know about the "stages of grief."

When my dad passed away 21 years ago, I went through 2 stages: Denial, and stuff everything deep down inside until it finds its way out in the strangest ways.

It took years of therapy to work through that and based on my current situation, I haven't finished that process yet...

This feels much different. I can easily identify the stages now.

But here's the thing... they aren't "stages" like one after another in some kind of order. They are seemingly random and all over the place.

This morning, in a 5-minute span, I experienced (in this order):

Acceptance

Anger

Depression

Denial

Depression

Anger

What in the actual fuck?

It's like my brain and emotions are completely out of sync.

Like my brain is so traumatized, it "forgot" what happened.

Then it remembers, and I relive the entire nightmare all over again.

This happens 20 times a day.

Losing a child is unnatural. A parent outliving their children, at any age, is simply against nature.

Losing your only child is another level entirely. You lose everything you were looking forward to.

Walking next to your son, holding him up when he needs strength, and letting go when he needs a life lesson.

Ryan was right there, getting ready to embark on his next chapter.

Two months away from transferring to the reserves. He'd signed up for school and signed a lease on an apartment in San Diego. The world was so wide open for him to take over his slice of it.

I couldn't wait to see it.

But now it's all gone.

Memories don't exist for something that hasn't happened yet.

I'll never be a grandfather.

I'll never get to say "He gets that from the Benke side."

I'll never get to share all the mistakes I made as a parent.

I'll never get a call asking for parenting advice.

I am grateful for the time We spent together.

But today I'm Fucking angry for the time stolen from me... stolen from Ryan.

I'm broken and can never be repaired. And although I don't see it yet, I'll rebuild. Somehow, someway, I'll rebuild myself and my identity.

Today, I'll just have to accept being hollow.

June 10, 2026

Our boy finally came home last night.

The flight was delayed by 2 hours. We waited in cell phone lot with a full police escort, the hearse, the funeral director and the Air Force honor guard.

The whole family waited together.

We're tired.

We're emotionally drained.

We're anxious for the plane with our boy to finally arrive.

Then it did.

As I saw the plane taxiing to the gate I felt oddly excited. It was a weird feeling. My brain was acting as we were picking Ryan up from the airport.

Then the casket came out and it literally felt like I was learning about his death for the first time.

My legs began to buckle and my heart broke into 1000 pieces all over again. I'm still shaking this morning- we all are.

The ceremony was beautiful but now it's real. The family gathered and just sobbed over the flag draped coffin.

It's like Groundhogs day, but the nightmare scenario version.

I don't how people get through this.

I have nothing left in me.

Tomorrow, we have the wake and Friday is the celebration of life service.

Today, I just don't have the physical or emotional capacity to move forward...

Hour by hour is turning into minute by minute.

I know we'll get through this some how. Right this minute, I have no idea how.

I'm grateful the funeral director recorded and took pictures. Had I not seen them this morning, I would have absolute thought it was a just a dream.

June 11, 2026

What a strange day.

Most of the day I was filled with dread.

I was dreading leaving our home. It's the safe bubble Robin and I built for ourselves.

I was dreading going to Ryan's wake and getting rock-solid confirmation my baby boy was really gone.

Grief has this weird way of making you think this isn't real. Ryan loved pranks and surprises. Maybe this was just another prank. Of course this makes no sense, but maybe, just maybe, that's what's happening here.

I was dreading seeing people. Anyone who knows me knows that's not who I am... I love being around people.

I was dreading seeing extended family members I haven't seen in years. They know me; I can't hide my pain.

I was dreading all of it.

Robin and I arrived at the funeral home and I was shaking. The Xanax was NOT working.

We met up with Pam and together rounded up the strength to put one foot in front of the other and go inside.

We walked in and across the room was Ryan, laying in a coffin, so peacefully.

My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. It could not compute.

This IS real.

This IS really happening.

He IS gone.... forever

I got a clear view from across the room and went right into the family lounge. I did not want to see him up close. I did not want that to be the last image of Ryan in my mind's eye.

The casket remained open until all the immediate family was able to go up to him for a final viewing.

As I stood in the lounge, my entire world was literally spinning around me. I had a hard time breathing. The reality was overwhelming.

I requested the casket be closed.

We sat down in the very front row and took it all in: the beautiful display, the slideshow, trying to ground myself in this new reality.

When I turned around, I was shocked. There were literally hundreds of people behind us. 150 seats full, and every square inch of the rest of the room and hallways packed with people.

Much of it is still a blur.

What can only be described as a procession of young men, Ryan's friends, dozens of them, walked down the aisle holding each other, crying, consoling each other. It was amazing.

The flag presentation ceremony was particularly difficult. Ryan's two closest friends - Air Force brothers - presented them. In that moment, they were doing their duty while mourning a brother. The strength they showed in their shaky voices holding back tears was amazing. We wanted so desperately to hug them, but that wasn't the time. The respect and love we have for Baes and Baltzer is immeasurable.

Pam and I spoke and decided to give people an opportunity to come up, if they wanted to, and say a few words.

Several family members and Ryan's friends came up to speak, and it quickly became clear... our boy had a profound impact on so many lives. It was awe-inspiring.

The sheer volume of people that shared this profound loss with us was overwhelming. Many of them I knew, many I didn't.

Standing there, looking at a room so full of people sharing so much love and support with us, gave me a newfound strength.

When I first walked into that room, it was like jumping out of a plane with no parachute. I felt like I was going to die.

In actuality, there were hundreds of people there to "catch" me, making the need for a parachute unnecessary.

I can't find the right words, but it was simply incredible.

I'm still far from being "well," but for the first time in two weeks, I can actually say I'm not worse.

Tomorrow is Ryan's memorial. I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm certainly not dreading it.

I can't fully express the gratitude I feel for everyone who has been there for me and my family.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. That village was out in full force, and provided us all hope that we can eventually rebuild our lives.