Grief is an interesting monster. One that feels comfortable in the dark or the sunlight. It can rise up to stand as tall as a giant but be light on its feet. Moving so fast you can’t hold on to it, yet still in grief’s shadow. Or the monster can shrink down to sit in your hand, but be so heavy that you have to use both hands to hold it. Its weight making your knees bend, taking all your energy just to stay upright.
I am sad.
I am sad because of the passing of my mom. And I know part of the lingering feeling is that we will have the memorial for her in September, when all the family can be there. A milestone in the grieving process has not happened.
But there have been other milestones that have fed the monster. She passed away just a few days from her birthday and a few weeks before my parents’ 52 anniversary. Life moments that should have been celebrations.
I am sad.
I am sad because death is the end of the story. Even while my mom was in the hospital, there was hope, there was the idea of tomorrow. So many things that were possible with tomorrow. There isn’t now. There is no tomorrow. There is no today. I used to send pictures to “Mom and Dad” on my phone. Now, I send them to just “Dad”.
That’s why I am sad.
The monster attacks without warning. I never know the monster’s size or its intent. I only know that I am sad.
While we were in Wyoming we got rained on while the sun was shining.
The family was leaving the hotel. We stepped out onto the sidewalk under bright sunshine, then we were hit with big drops of rain. Enough to get us wet, but not soaked. My three daughters, who have never been to Wyoming, darted to the car laughing.
They had never seen a sunshower before; where wind carries rain from miles away. For a moment we were caught in a storm while the sun was shining.
I laughed as my girls clamored about what had just happened. But as I started the car, hitting the wipers, I thought the moment was a perfect metaphor for the day, for life in general. At any moment rain can appear, a storm, even if the sky stays clear and sunny.
There is a moment in the book Tuesdays With Morrie that captures this idea. Morrie is leaving the hospital after being diagnosed with ALS and the sun is shining. He shares how he was angry at the day for being so beautiful while he was facing devastating news. How could the world be so wonderful while he was dying?
I understand Morrie better after these last six months with my mom’s battle with cancer and her death. As my wife and I made quick trips to see her, I would feel the tension between the beautiful skies and the fear and worry of my mom’s health. On one trip my wife and I went downtown to get a coffee. It was a beautiful day. The baristas were wonderful. The coffee good. My wife and I sat enjoying a mint brownie. But we talked about what the future could be like without my mom in it, what would dad do, and when we should bring the kids to say goodbye.
Sunshine and storms. Smiles and tears. Wonder and fear. A life.
Seriously, this may be the most organic blog post ever. As I write these words, I do not know where my thoughts will take this blog. You have been warned.
I am sitting in my chair, rolling with my “Deep Thought” playlist and Pearl Jam’s song, “Just Breathe” is playing. I am trying some new coffee, which isn’t too bad. And I am lost.
Ohhh, “Bad Man’s Song” by Tears for Fears just started playing. Love this song! You should check it out.
OK, back to being lost. Besides on what to write for this blog post, I am feeling adrift at the moment. Part of that feeling stems from visiting my dad back home. The energy in the house was missing my mom’s gentleness. Her soft laugh. There was an undertow in the house as if life was trying to find a way to fill the emptiness in the house, but it didn’t know what to fill it with.
Life continues going no matter what happens to us as people. My mom died just a few days before her 69th birthday. Earlier this month was my parents 52nd anniversary. My dad has major holidays coming up. But even harder milestones will be the first University of Wyoming football game, then the start of basketball season. Let alone, drinking coffee alone each morning.
This life is an amazing gift but comes with responsibilities that challenge our very being. The first is that we are responsible for the quality of our happiness. Even when others try to destroy us, tear us down. Even when the randomness of life breaks us. We are still responsible for every breath we take. It is a heavy load to carry, especially if we run from it. Which I fear too many people do in so many different ways.
But to move through hardships, you have to move into them. And that means feeling the pain, screaming at God, crying when a song moves you to. I had never hugged my dad as he cried before until this visit. The moment needed to be felt, instead of running away from it.
We then drank coffee together in the kitchen. Yes, there was still an emptiness in the room, but we helped life fill it with love and the pictures he showed me of last fall when they went hiking. There was my mom smiling on a bridge in her University of Wyoming gear.
I’ll end with a song that played while I was writing… (Seriously it did!)
My mom passed away at home as dad held her hand on June 9. Just four days from her 69th birthday. She battled cancer for five months, but we didn’t know it was cancer until April. My wife and I made a quick trip home in April. I wrote a tweet to share with my Twitter friends that my mom was sick and that my engagement on Twitter would be erratic.
Over the last few months I gave quick updates for my friends and colleagues of my mom’s journey.
My wife and I again headed home on June 3 because my mom was in the hospital. Again, I sent a quick update for those who know me. I also recorded my poetry lesson for Move Me Poetry on the way home. I was scheduled to provide the lesson for Tuesday. My mom was released on Sunday, things were looking good. So we headed home on Monday.
My dad texted me Friday morning (June 9) that she had passed. I called my brother, called my two sons, and broke down sharing the news with my four daughters that afternoon. Then I tweeted the news on Twitter.
Why am I sharing this? Because something powerful happened.
As I am writing this blog, that tweet has been seen 15,684 times. It has been retweeted, liked, and commented on thousands of times. What happened? Why did this simple tweet make its way to so many people and why did they care enough to interact with me? I have some thoughts…
First, and the most important thing, is that some aspects of life connect us on an important level. Grief, heartbreak, but also joy and love are emotions and moments we all share. The stories are different, but at some point we have to deal with the loss of someone important to us. We all grieve, yes in our own way because of the uniqueness of our stories, but we feel that loss.
Some of the interactions with my tweet were of the stories of people losing their mothers, some just as recent as mine and others were years ago but they still missed their mom.
I tried (and I think I did) to respond in some way to everyone that left a comment or an emoticon for me. There were some small but powerful conversations because of sharing the pain of the moment.
For a few days, I have connected with strangers because we shared a common moment, understood a powerful emotion. For others, they simply wanted me (a stranger to them) to know that they understood and cared.
That’s a powerful thing. I wonder what this world would be like if we could do this in the real world, on an everyday basis.
The second aspect isn’t about the tweet, but the stories, including mine and my family’s.
I mentioned that people did share their stories, as best they could in the space Twitter gives us. And life is not that simple, and neither is death.
As a dad I broke the news to my children. The three oldest took it the hardest because they have had their grandparents involved in their lives for over 19 years. Summer vacation, Thanksgiving trips, graduations and other big moments.
My youngest three have had their grandparents in their lives too, but that relationship has been different and less interactions. (We now spend Thanksgiving at our own home instead of traveling.) I realized that they all had their own story with their grandma.
My dad lost his wife. He held her hand as she passed, married over 40 years.
She was one person, who played so many parts in different life stories… her death is just as complex. As is our lives.
My wife has said a number of times that life never lets you handle just one thing. It doesn’t. As my mom’s health declined, my oldest daughter was graduating and we had college orientations. My youngest had art camp the week of my mom’s death. We moved our oldest son to his new town as he starts his first year teaching, then moved my wife’s parents into assisted living and then headed home to see my mom the first week of June.
Life will not allow us to handle just one thing at a time, it is a complex mix of joys and heartaches. Stress and good music. Eating on the road and tweeting to friends. But it is also, just sitting, holding the hand of your mother, trying to give her all the love you were going to share with her in the future.
At the end of the tweet, which is now at 15,753 views, I wrote that we should say “I Love You” more, laugh more, and that life is a gift.
I hope that message goes viral for everyone today, and each day they are given to experience this life.
I spent most of my day with a dead radio. Not because it was stolen like in the song, but I’ll get to why I couldn’t use the radio in a minute. Driving in silence allowed me time to think about the crazy day I was involved in, and also some of the more abstract aspects of this life (just like the song). Warning, this blog post will be all over the place and take some time… just like life.
First, let’s begin with how the day ended. Besides me writing about it, the girls stayed up a little later than normal so they could play Super Soccer with their oldest brother because he was heading back to college tomorrow.
The living room was filled with laughter, and outbursts of “Kick it!, Kick it, NOW!” Both games went to a shootout, and big brother lost both games. His sisters were excited.
I sat with my youngest daughter in the kitchen as they played. We had snack and played Would You Rather. I was asked if I would rather die by drowning or be killed by a giraffe. It was a rough game, but we added to the laughter.
I soaked up the moment and felt grateful for our home. The day did not start so smoothly.
My wife had an early, 6:15 a.m., appointment for a few medical procedures. I took the day off because she would be put under anesthesia for the procedures. We were ready to head to the surgery center at 5:45. My son was going to handle dropping off everyone at school, then he would go to work. I would be able to pick up my four daughters from school at the end of the day.
I go to start the van to warm it up… van is dead. No lights on the dashboard when I turn the key… nothing.
I grab the keys to my son’s car and take my wife to the surgery center. I drop her off to head back to the house. I have enough time to try to jump the van before the girls need to get to school.
Did I mention it was only like 4 degrees outside this morning?
I get the jumper cables attached, start my son’s car and let it charge for 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes… nothing. The van is still dead. I unhook the cables, it’s time to get the girls to school. I take them. There isn’t room for my son, so he stays home. I’ll be back to get him to work on time.
By this time, I am consciously making sure I keep my frustration under control. It’s not that I can’t feel frustrated, but I can’t let the frustration take over to cause the morning routine to be filled with negativity from me. The girls are already worried about mom, their schedule has changed, and they understand that dad is improvising because the van is dead.
I finally got back to the hospital. My wife was in the surgery room. The receptionist explains to me how the TV board will keep me updated. I watch as my wife’s patient number changes color (each color is a different step in the procedure). After a while, I was escorted back to the recovery room. Everything went well and we headed home.
I decided to try jumping the van one more time. It’s not as cold, I am not hurried, and there is more light. I make sure I get a good connection on both batteries (which isn’t easy to do with new cars, there are so many things connected to the terminals). Success, the van starts after 5 minutes.
Here is where I spend time with no radio. We have an XM radio. When the battery dies or is changed, you have to enter a code to use any part of the radio, even to play a CD. (Which we do have, the van is about 8 years old). We have the code written down, which I would find later. One of my daughters would get the honor of activating the radio! But that is later in the day after I pick them up from school.
As I run errands, I am alone with my thoughts. And my thoughts got deep when I learn about the death of someone.
We have been in the market for a new car, but it is hard to find a car that matches our needs and our price range. We had been working with a sales person Dewayne for a few months. He helped us when we replaced a car that hit a deer. I had last spoken to him in person in August about our car situation and what inventory the dealership was expecting. As you do with people, we talked about personal things. He let me know he would be taking some time off because he was having heart surgery to clear a blockage in an artery, but I should contact him in December.
Well, I didn’t call in December. I called today. The receptionist was taken aback when I asked for Dewayne. She informed me that Dewayne had passed away the first day he was home from the surgery.
The first day home.
Dewayne was not a close friend, yet our lives intersected. And was supposed to continue to intersect. He was helping me find a vehicle. We had shared stories and talked about how the pandemic was causing havoc in all different aspects of life. Dewayne had a wife and kids. He had a big laugh.
It’s a cliche, not to take life for granted. But honestly, maybe it should become our code to live our life by. What would we change if we treated today like the only day we have? No matter if it starts out with a dead battery, or your coffee order getting mixed up (yeah, that happened too). How would we treat people? How would we treat the people we love if today was the last day we would see them?
When you read this, it will be today. And today is the only day that matters, so decide how you will live it.
Yesterday, the family attended a family funeral. My wife’s uncle passed away last week from a number of health issues. He was 81 years old. His first great grandchild was there. She is 4 months old. However, his daughter was not at the funeral because she lost her battle with cancer earlier this year.
Now, stay with me here, this is going to get sad for a little while. I started to think about all the funerals I have attended. Thought about all the people I had lost in my life, and how each person’s death was different.
During her freshman year, a former student was killed by a drunk driver.
My friend and former principal suffered a fatal heart attack.
As I listened to the service, I pondered how fragile life is. We all know that death is part of our lives. We do not know how we will die. We do not know the day. But we know death is part of the deal.
I started to reflect on the state of our culture, on the state of our world, and I wondered how we ever let life get to this point. I couldn’t wrap my heart around what is happening in our world.
“Love is the only rational act.” Morrie Schwarts
Only the family attended the burial ceremony. I held my wife’s hand. My four daughters and second son stood around us. Family.
Life is fragile. Love is strong. The world may fall apart but love will stand and rebuild when needed.
I know I will die. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. Could be any number of ways. What I do know is that today I can love, and that makes sense to me.
This is the most important vector we travel. A vector is defined as a quantity that has magnitude and direction. Usually represented with an arrow. Our life is an arrow from point A to point B. It happens one day at a time. Many of us do not know where or when we will arrive at point B. But I will come back around to this.
Our life is filled with other vectors, other paths from point A to point B. Some of them are defined clearly, like graduating high school or college. Other paths have a point B that is difficult to know. Every relationship we are involved in has an unknown point B. Many times our goals or dreams have an uncertain point B. These vectors are intertwined into our daily life. Time is a constant for us… in a sense, the direction.
But a vector also reveals the magnitude of the movement. The power or effort we use to travel toward point B. Or my favorite definition of magnitude from astronomy; the brightness of a celestial body seen by the naked eye.
Our life is a vector. We were born (point A) and we will die (point B). Time is constant for all of us along this path. True, many of us do not know when we will reach point B, but we are in control of the magnitude of our path. We are in control of how much effort we put into a goal, into a relationship.
I was doing some digital cleaning of my files when I came across the rough draft of an old blog post. Due to job changes, most of my original posts are lost or in rough draft form. This post was not in the usual folder I keep for my writing so I was surprised to find it. It was written December, 1, 2010. I have made some small edits, but decided to post it as is. I hope you enjoy, “The Dash”.
Yesterday my wife and I attended the funeral of a family member on my wife’s side. We also went to the burial site ceremony. As the preacher talked, I could not help but to gaze at the headstone by my feet. The person was born in 1905 and died in 1988. Eighty-three years of life. Now; two dates and the dash between (Yes, I know the poem “The Dash”). I walked around after the services to look at other headstones. Some were so weatherworn that I couldn’t read the names, others had rings interconnected with wedding dates, and newer headstones had no death date. Waiting for the occupant to die so that the death equation could be filled in: Birth – Dash – Death.
It has been a hard 2010 for me. I have had friends move away, coaching positions removed from me, a handful of students who simply do not care but thought it was my fault for their educational experience.
I have had some great moments in 2010. Coaching a junior high girls basketball team that is simply talented. Receiving awards and opportunities to speak or present at conferences. Taking seven athletes to state track. Getting the opportunity to build a home. The continuing experience called Fatherhood.
2010 will be remembered on my headstone as a dash.
A dash. That’s it.
Life will go on without me when I complete my own death equation. Steve Jobs discusses this in his Stanford Speech:“…almost everything – all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure – these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.”
Pearl Jam also expresses this idea in a simple line from their song “I am Mine”
I know I was born and I know that I’ll die The in between is mine
But do we?
Do I?
Have I synthesized this information (reading strategy, I know. I am an English teacher)? Have I spent too much time in a bad mood? Have I spent too much time waiting for tomorrow to be better? Am I where I am needed and wanted?
Are you?
I have been shown this year, in different ways, that life goes on without me. At the funeral service, the message was centered on the idea that our lives are our sermon to the world. My life, my sermon, will be a dash on a headstone, but I hope it is felt in the hearts of my family and friends.
I cried today because of an email delivery failure.
I sent a group message about a guest blog post I wrote. I received the basic message for when an email account is no longer active.
The account was for my good friend Graci. I attended her funeral last Wednesday. She passed away from cancer. She would like the blog post I wrote.
This post is not going to repeat the cliche that we should live like everyday could be our last. This isn’t about making sure we tell the people we care the most about that we love them. These things are true. We know it. What we forget is how permanent Death is.
I will never again text Graci to have a good day. There will no longer be crazy life conversations in her office. She will not read this blog post. Death is permanent. That is why it is so hard to deal with. Graci’s funeral was filled with family and friends. She lived out her faith. She made people feel loved everyday. The service helped us celebrate her life, but death is permanent. Death removes all possibilities. That is what hurts. The lost chance to live like today was our last day.
It is all Connected 