The First Dance Show You've Missed

Hi Mom,

K danced tonight. Dad and his sister came up. I didn't think about this until later, but I left a seat in between Dad and I for J, because he was going to be late. But he just slipped in after it started and sat in the back.

Meanwhile, I had set my coat and Kate's roses in his seat. A dozen little pink roses. They sat there for the whole dance show, between me and Dad. So I like to think that you WERE there tonight, sitting in that seat between me and Dad, wearing your favorite pink and beaming with pride and love at your strong, graceful, beautiful granddaughter.

I miss you.

Mondays Suck

Hi Mom,

I was fine for most of the weekend. We spent it with Dad. Fun but nothing crazy. A few errands, meals, of course, a movie... There were a few moments of sadness. Even church with Dad was OK, despite so many coming up to ask how I'm doing and share how you had touched their lives.

But then there was Monday. I felt miserable all day and Monday afternoon, I just lost it. In my office a little bit, then on the way to my car, and some on the way home (interrupted by a couple of phone calls).

Of course, THE MAYOR was out staring at me as I parked at our condo. I know we love to make fun of nosy neighbors, but Mom I swear this guy just sits outside watching everyone come and go. He doesn't even have a yard there. It's just a little patch of communal grass where he plops his folding chair down. It's ridiculous! Anyway, here I am pulling up with tears streaming down my face. Great. At least it was dark. I finished out Runnin' on Empty in the car and pulled it together. I've been listening to that song a ton these days. The entire album, actually.

"Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels
I don't know how to tell you all just how crazy this life feels
Look around for the friends that I used to turn to to pull me through.
Looking into their eyes I see them running too."

I love these lines. Jackson Browne is talking about life on the road, but these lines are just as applicable to life in general. Everybody's running on empty. Nobody has real answers because there aren't any. We're all running on this hamster wheel of life toward our inevitable end, and we help each other along the way the best we can.

In our lives, every day...no, every MOMENT matters.

Your death has brought that sharply into focus. And while I'm thrilled with many areas of my life, a lot of things are getting a serious look. Thank goodness H is the voice of reason. "Now isn't a good time to make major life changes or big decisions," she gently nudged. And she's right. My co-worker Jon (also a guitarist) took a slightly different angle on that:

"Don't make any major purchases right now, like guitars or anything!"

Hehe. He knows me well. I told him I'd buy whatever I want! And then closed about six browser tabs open with various guitars and amps on them. Hey, I was just looking!

I remember when Grandpap died and I came out of a fog after a few months and rededicated myself to do things I loved. To make sure I was maximizing every moment that I could. I feel the pull to do that again, only this time it is a billion times stronger.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Right now, I lack motivation. I'm still heavy with sadness. It feels like I weigh 500 lbs.

There was a guest preacher at your church Sunday, and he was kind of interesting. Very dynamic. Had some interesting points and logic...some of which I didn't really agree with, but I always enjoy hearing different viewpoints that are well-reasoned. Afterwards, I passed him on the way out and said thank you & that I enjoyed his dynamic speaking style. He looked me in the eyes and said, "There's something about you..like you were analyzing things as I was speaking." I laughed and said, "Yeah well, that's what I do!" I also shared that I had just lost you a few weeks ago and that I was in a very introspective place. Kinda funny that he picked up on that from me. I never did have a good poker face. You know.

I gave up on the Mayor leaving his post, so I scurried to the house, put my stuff down, and got a wonderful hug from H. She's so amazing. As I was changing, I happened to see your house key, with "Mom & Dad" written in your script on the keychain. The one you gave me just in case. The one for the new door you guys got just last year. The one I never needed until you were gone.

And I started to cry all over again.

Your granddaughter is driving

Hi Mom,

K got her driver's license! The test was actually Monday the 2nd. And we had that moment again where she drove away for the first time by herself. Without me in the car with her. And I got a little lump in my throat.

I remember when her older brother drove off by himself for the first time. It surprised me then, too, the hugeness of the moment.

They're growing up, Mom. What a bizarre feeling. They've been dependent on me for their entire lives. And now, they hate me. Haha kidding! Well, OK maybe sometimes...

Kids need you and need you and then they don't quite need you as much. And then they need you a little less. And less. And less often. And it really is tough to let them go. Not because you don't want to. I think it's more because it's not easy for us to loosen such a close bond.

And so you wrestle with it. Give them some freedom, worry that it's too much, pull back, they get upset, repeat. But the trendline is headed towards their independence, and they eventually get there. I''m bumbling through it. It ain't pretty. But we're getting there.

I'm sure gonna miss talking to you about stuff like this.

The hard part about your loss as it relates to the kids is that I'm realizing there's not a lot I can really do to help them through this. I'm here for them as much as I can be, but they really need to process this themselves and grieve in their own way. Grief is personal like that. I just wish I could help them more. Lessen their pain.

Anyway, I know you're proud of K. She misses you so much.

I miss you, too.

Love,
R

There is a hole in my chest the size of a Buick

Hi Mom.

This morning, and for the past few mornings, there is a hole in my chest the size of a Buick.

I'm serious. How does it feel so big? It seems physically impossible for the hole to feel bigger than the physical dimensions of my chest, but it does.

It's there all day, but it is worse in the morning. I just don't want to get up. I feel like I could sleep for weeks. Not even my love for coffee is enough to pry me from the cocoon of sheets and blankets. My body feels like it is weighed down by a hundred anvils. It feels like I need a forklift to get out of bed. My limbs, muscles, and bones are dead weight. The heaviness is evenly distributed. It's as if the millions of cells in my body have individually become heavy, and the cumulative effect is an overwhelming heaviness and exhaustion.

My to-do list is sitting on my desk, untouched. Each phone call and errand feels like a monumental undertaking.

As a matter of fact, I know you're gone. But my mind is scrambling. I have no point of reference. The big pattern-detection computer that is my brain is frantically searching for a match for this. For some way to relate this to some other thing that it (and I) can understand. It keeps coming up empty. There is nothing. I feel lost. Adrift. Unmoored.

I've lost the North Star.

I'm so lucky and thankful for Dad, my family, and my friends. I know I'll get through this. I'm just at a total loss understanding what life will be like now. Without you.

We had so much left to do. I want the time with you back. I'm not ready for this. Dammit, we had too much to do together. So many trips. To the beach. To Sis's house. To get crab legs at that little restaurant on the bay. So much fun and so many happy times that will never happen now.

I miss you so much, Mom. You're the person I could count on to help me through something like this. But you're not there.

You're not there.

Phases of mourning

I’m noticing a kind of progression through phases of mourning.

At first, there was the complete shock. Like a bomb went off. The full impact, all at once. And total disbelief.

Shortly after that, my thoughts focused on how you died and the moment you lost consciousness. My mind needed to picture your last scene, and conjuring it up was very painful, but necessary. What were you doing? Where were you? What was your last thought?

I’m still in disbelief, but your absence has become a little more obvious.

In this current phase of mourning I find myself mourning specific things about you, and the comfort those things brought me.

Like your loving nature. Your energy. How you loved to shower us with gifts and love. Your wisdom and advice. Your endless support.

Just now, I was thinking about how much I’m going to miss your energy and how you kept us all tied together as a family. You kept us in touch, kept us seeing each other…and I started crying.

You kept this family running. I found myself replying to you as if you’d held me and reassured me that it would be ok. Like you did when I was a boy. Like you did anytime i needed as a man, too:

“It will all be ok, sweetie. Don’t worry. Don’t cry.”

“I’m trying, mom.”

Eulogy for Mom

This is the Eulogy I gave at your funeral. I wanted to have it here. I know you would've loved it.

*****

On behalf of my mom and my family, thank you for coming here today to honor my mom. I wasn’t really sure what to say. There’s so much I could talk about...her beautiful smile.., her infectious laugh, her warm hugs, her never-ending optimism...her youthful spirit, her devotion to family, her love of bling, and shoes, and bling, and shoes...her love of shopping…did you know that she loved shopping? I mean, my goodness, when the CEOs of Kohls and Chicos called to express their condolences, I thought MAN, that is next-level, Mom!

There’s her beloved Redskins...the fun sayings she had...I don’t know if y’all are familiar with the phrase, “Good Lordy, Miss Agnes.”

There was a consistent thread running through my mom’s life...a thread of love. She loved deeply and unconditionally. I mean, that’s why you’re here. She loved all of us, so deeply. She loved each of you. That’s who she was. Someone said, “She never knew a stranger.”

She was never concerned with herself, she was more concerned with you. She had this sixth sense and could tell if something was wrong. Which, as a teenager I have to tell you was really annoying. Right, Sis? “Are you OK, sweetie?” SIGH, “Mom, I’m FINE!”

She loved this church so much. She loved her family, friends, her life...she loved the Lord. And when she loved, she loved completely. Love just kind of flowed out of her in all directions. As my wife said, she always erred on the side of love and generosity. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from, what you drive, what you believe...she erred on the side of love.

But there was one person she loved more than anyone: Dad, she absolutely treasured you. And you gave her such a wonderful life; And you’ve given us such a wonderful life. Thank you.

I got to grow up with that. I grew up with my mom’s loving nature as my frame of reference for life. I feel so lucky to have that. I mean, most of the world isn’t like that. The world can be a pretty cruel place. We’ve seen it just this week. But imagine a world where everyone is a little more like my mom. Imagine a world where everyone tries to err on the side of love and generosity. That’s the world I want to live in. That’s the world we deserve. The world we need. Maybe that’s a tiny taste of what Heaven is like.

I think it’s why her loss feels so huge, it’s because her presence was so large, her absence is a big empty feeling.

I don’t know if any of you watch the show This Is Us..but my mom loved that show. We used to talk about it after every episode. So good. In the season opener this year, there was something that Rebecca said to her son Randall about her late husband Jack. She said, “Your father wasn’t perfect either, but he was pretty darn close.”

That was my mom. She wasn’t perfect, but she was pretty darn close.

Love deeply. Err on the side of love and generosity. What a legacy. May that be our legacy, too.

I have to leave you with a story: You all know my mom loved shopping, right? Did you know that? I wasn’t sure.

Anyway, she was a pro at catching sales. She was a total pro. Of course, my dad says she’d always say, “See, look how much money I saved,” and his reply was to hold out his hand and say, “Alright! Where is it!?” Anyway, as we were making final arrangements for mom at the cemetery, Kesha who was helping us informed us that they were running a promotion and that we would save 10% on mom’s plot. I turned to my dad and said, “I can’t believe it. Even in death, mom caught a sale.”

We love you and thank you all.

Week from Hell

Hi Mom,

I’m fried. I feel numb. I’ve got nothing left. The family is still here supporting Dad, and I’m very thankful for that. But it has been so tough being out of myself for so long. I haven’t had much time to myself since you died. I’ve got nothing left. Even playing guitar is unsatisfying. I don’t really enjoy most of what I eat. I wake up leaking tears. I stare at my phone and everything I read seems pointless or silly.

It’s as if the meaning and purpose of absolutely everything in my life has been suspended. It’s all up for review. I guess death has a way of doing that…making you evaluate your priorities. But this goes so much deeper. My foundation has taken a direct hit. I’ve realized that I’m not just mourning you.

I’m mourning my childhood.

You gave me such a great childhood, mom.

You loved so much to give us gifts! Christmas and birthdays were awesome. It was really, really good to be a kid in my house! You were so good to me, Mom. You made me my favorite foods all the time…cheese toast for breakfast, grilled cheese (not too burnt haha) and tomato soup, raviolis whenever I didn’t like what you made (more often than I care to admit, and I’m still so terribly sorry Mom :P), and when I was sick, you never failed to deliver on Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup with saltines. Speaking of sick, you even let us take “mental health” days off of school regularly. You genuinely loved spending time with us, and it showed.

Mom, we were talking about memories and some great ones about Dad came up, too! Remember when I wanted a bow and arrow set, so he took me into the woods near our house and we picked out some branches? We made a set together with carving knives.

Remember when Dad let me build that wagon to deliver newspapers when I got the paper route, even though he knew it was going to take me hours to walk the route? He let me get started, then he came along with the station wagon and rescued me from my misjudgment. That’s been the case for my entire life. You gave me the independence along with the responsibility, but you’ve both always been there to help and guide me. Always. I’m thankful that I haven’t had to ask often. But every time I did, you helped. You guided.

Thank you.

We are going home today. I’m not working this week. I can’t seem to go very long without crying. Not a good look at work.

This week wore me out.

I love you.
-R