Playing God of War As A Grieving Parent
My son Jonathan would have liked God of War. I can imagine him smirking the first time Kratos throws his frost-infused axe, then summons it back to his hand, ready to throw it again, slash a nearby foe, or just strut around frozen Midgard, looking cool. I suspect Jonathan’s jaw, like mine, would have hit the floor when first wielding the fiery chained Blades of Chaos. I was not prepared to see those things in motion, having never played the previous games.
I tell of what Jonathan would have done because he is no longer with us. As I write these words, two years have passed since the day he died unexpectedly, a young teenager cut off from his dreams and plans, friends and family, the time we should have shared.
In the months that followed his death, I had to take great care when subjecting myself to anything unfamiliar. I felt raw, exposed, and easily triggered, like my whole being was on edge. I couldn’t handle anything that made light of death or put children in distress for a laugh. I switched off the movie Airplane midway through, at a scene in which a young girl struggles to breath. I felt physically ill and deep loathing for this oft praised movie. That evening I’d needed a moment to rest and heal. I’d thought laughter would do me good. But I couldn’t laugh. Not at that.
It wasn’t necessarily the presentation of death—or even the death of children—that I couldn’t face. Around this time, I also read Harrow the Ninth, the second book in Tamsyn Muir’s Locked Tomb series. The novel is all about grief and coping with loss. I adored it. It took those themes seriously. I found it healing.
I deliberately avoided playing God of War during this time because I knew the story features the relationship between a father and a son. I didn’t feel I could enjoy that story just then. What I didn’t know until I gave the game a try months later was that its story is centered on grief. It begins with the funeral. Kratos, the game’s playable protagonist, along with his son Atreus burn the body of Faye, wife and mother to each respectively. Faye had wished her ashes to be scattered at the highest peak in the nine realms. Fulfilling that wish drives the plot from beginning to end.
But theirs isn’t the only grief at work in this mythical world. During their adventure, Kratos and Atreus encounter Freya, a mother who would do anything (and has!) to protect her son. We also meet that son, Baldur, who resents his mother’s intervention and grieves for what it cost him. Baldur is also the game’s chief antagonist, setting up the likelihood that this story will end on a note not of healing and peace, but of greater grief and pain.
It was good that I’d waited. But I’m also glad that I took a chance on it. In many ways, God of War reflected my own journey processing Jonathan’s death.
And, as I expected, watching Kratos and Atreus together did remind me of the times Jonathan and I shared. Lessons I taught him. His excitement when showing me something he could do for the first time. Games we played together. And our arguments when both of us were beyond frustrated with each other.
My grief has been something like the ashes Kratos carries with him — always there, a weight never fully unfelt even when more pressing matters demand my attention. Grief reminds me of the past, but also drives me forward, toward the hope for healing and maybe, somehow, reunion.
Freya’s fear spoke to me as well. Often since Jonathan died I’ve felt afraid, not only that something terrible will befall my other kids, but that Jonathan himself is somehow still in danger. It’s as though I dread that what has already come to pass has yet to happen. I sympathize with Freya. Like her I fight a battle I’m doomed to lose. I can’t save my son. And that scares me, strange as it sounds.
Without giving away too much of the game’s ending, I note that, like Kratos and Atreus, I too learned more about someone I loved after they had gone. I didn’t experience anything as revelatory as what they did, but I felt like I got to know Jonathan a little better as we went through his belongings. Papers he’d written for school. LEGO creations he’d built. Small things all, but significant nonetheless.
I wonder now what Jonathan would have made of the relationship between Kratos and Atreus. Would he have related more to the father or the son? Would he have judged Kratos harshly for keeping the truth that he’s a god from Atreus? Would he have sighed when Atreus eventually let that knowledge go to his head? What memories of loss would their grief have brought to Jonathan? If I’d incessantly called him “Boy” in a deep voice, how far across the room would his thrown shade have thrown me?
I can’t answer these questions. I can only wonder, only imagine what might have been. We used to talk about video games he played, often as I drove him to school. He didn’t like a lot of the turn-based RPGs that I grew up playing, but that was okay. We had enough common gaming interests to keep a conversation going. There were other games I wanted to share with him when he got older, but he won’t be getting older. I’m looking forward to playing God of War Ragnarök, but I won’t pretend that traveling with a slightly older Atreus won’t be a little challenging for me.
Of the many reminders we keep of Jonathan around the house, one of them is his profile on my PlayStation 4. It’s visible every time I log in to play, but like the ashes Kratos carries, I don’t always notice it. Like my grief it’s often in the background, present but not always fully perceived. But when my eyes fall upon it, I think of my son, the times we shared, and the fun he used to have playing video games.
A sad, lovely, and moving essay.Report
Thank you, Jaybird.Report
Hey man, thank you for sharing this.Report
Thank you for reading!Report
It’s kind of amazing the hidden triggers that exist in popular culture. I watched Spike Lee’s Crooklyn with my daughter not too long after my wife and her mom died. I hadn’t seen it in a bit, but remembered it as a great slice of life movie. Truly, one of Lee’s films that deserve more notice. What I had forgotten about was how the mom in the movie dies rather abruptly near the end. We got through it, but my daughter was a bit unhappy with my choice.
My wife died shortly after your son, and I wonder if the grieving every truly stops completely. I hope you and your family are finding the strength to both remember him (and your daughter) and live your lives fully.
(I still see Deann’s Netflix profile when I watch TV.)Report
Yeah, I’ve found a lot of images and ideas more triggering, both since Jonathan died and as I’ve just gotten older. Sometimes I feel I’m prepared for something, but then decide in the middle of it that I’m not in the right frame of mind.
You’re in my thoughts too, Slade. Thanks.Report
This essay has me thinking about signals of people I’ve grieved too. I have a corner in my house where I put up pictures and mementos of family members, whether passed on or still here. From time to time I meditate upon them, But that’s a thing I go mentally out of my way to see. More immediate are my mother’s paintings, which are at eye level (and bear her signature). And perhaps it’s because I’ve not yet entered into a new relationship, but many objects around my house, although no photographs and very few mementos are direct reminders of my former marriage, an event that still causes me grief from time to time despite having built a generally happy new life for myself since then.
But as you describe, encountering stories is a qualitatively different experience than a reminder of times past. Narrative conveys a richer emotional experience than reminiscence. And in nearly any society, it becomes difficult to avoid hearing and digesting stories in some form. To tell stories, to listen to stories, to learn from them and absorb their emotional power, is hard-wired into our minds. In some ways, the part of encountering stories similar to one’s own is that in stories we’re presented, stories like the one in God of War, there is ultimately a resolution and an end. Real life goes on, past points where resolution or closure would be reached in a narrative, and old emotions linger even when reason says they are no longer relevant. Because reason is wrong — they are still relevant, because they don’t go away and still grip us. That is what it is to grieve — the pain mostly recedes over time, but never all the way. It’s part of how we experience our humanity.
I wish you strength and love, my friend.Report
Well said, Burt. Thank you.Report
I was moved when I saw it on facebook and was even more moved to reread it here. Thanks for sharing Kyle.Report
Thank you, North.Report
Thank you for sharing this story. Thank you for sharing yourself with us. You and your family are always in my prayers remember fondly the time when you lived here.Report
Thank you, Susana. It’s been too long.Report
This deeply moving and well-articulated exploration of grief and healing through unlikely means is a testament to your strength as a person and a parent. I think most everyone can relate to surprise triggers of loss or trauma, and boy do I relate. The message here, of remembering, honoring, and letting yourself take comfort from familiar things—items, rituals, fantasy—and new things, like imagining Jonathan playing this game, is an important one.
Thank you for sharing and expressing your personal experience, Kyle. It helps others and I hope it helps you, too.Report
Thank you, Garrett. Appreciate it.Report