January 10, 2013
The Ties That Bind
My aunt called over the holidays. She’d invited a few of my cousins over for a “ladies’ night” and wondered if I could make it. I was looking forward to seeing everyone for a happy occasion. It seemed many of the circumstances bringing us together recently had been tinged with sadness.
My cousins and I arrived at my aunt’s home with a flurry of greetings. After shedding boot and coats, and sharing news of grown children and photos of grandchildren and great-grandhchildren, we settled around the kitchen table.
I sat quietly for a moment, looking at the faces of the women gathered there, remembering our shared past. I felt the tug of connection that had been missing for so long, lost in the busyness of raising my own family and the isolating blanket of grief I’d wrapped around myself. I loved those familiar faces; they made up a large part of my life. Yet for all their familiarity they’d changed, not so much from the passage of time, but from the lives they’d lived and all they’d seen. And I realized we’d entered a new season of our family life, together.
Spring
When I was born, our family was in the midst of its springtime– seven brothers and sisters (of which my mother was the youngest) their spouses and children (thirty-one kids between them). We saw each other often back then. When we got together, it was always a party and I don’t mean a Norman Rockwell-type party. I mean the dad’s in the basement, drinking beer, watching a ball game and playing Euchre. The mom’s at the kitchen table, after preparing enough food to feed a small Polish city and putting it out on a wood-covered pool table, munching on special mom goodies, and gossiping (in a nice way, of course). Then there were the kids— unsupervised, unchaperoned, unfettered and best friends. We were in heaven. Life was good.
Summer
As the thirty-one cousins grew up, the family remained close. Maybe not quite as close as we had been when we were younger, but we still got together often and when we did it was still a party. And those of us that didn’t play Euchre with the dads were still unsupervised, unchaperoned and unfettered. But now most of us were old enough to drink. That made for more “fun”.
We cousins began to get married, standing up in each others weddings, with the new spouses becoming a welcome part of the chaos that was our family. And as the summer of the family wore on, babies came and families grew. And we didn’t see each other as much as we had in the early summer. But when we did, it was still a party.
Until one of the uncles died, sending a chill over the summer of our family. And yet even in that death we were together, many of us blessed to be in his hospital room with him when he drew his last breath in this life.
Summer was the era of “Girls Gone Polish”—the cousins and the aunts and the music. The highlight of our summers was the outdoor concert. We’d arrive an hour early to get good seats on the hill at Meadowbrook Music Theater, coolers packed with the usual goodies and exotic drinks like “Sex on the Beach” or “Fuzzy Navels”. I sometimes think we didn’t go as much for the music as we did for the autographs. Can anyone ever forget surrounding Roy Orbison’s bus until we got the zillion autographs we were after (a shout-out here to Aunt Dolores) or, if the bus managed to elude us, scouting out nearby Marriot hotels in search of autographs? Have the Righteous Brothers ever forgotten the late night phone call to their hotel room asking them to send down their autographs on the hotel napkins?
Autumn
Autumn came suddenly to the family during an unexpected snow storm. That was the day the youngest cousin died in a tragic car accident on an icy road. That was the day my brother John died.
John had a great love for the family; he was one of those that was always at its heart and core. And even when most of us were too busy to attend this or that graduation or get-together or party, John was there. The death of a beloved cousin, and the youngest on top of that, was painful for everyone. Even so, somehow it made me different from them; I didn’t fit in anymore. I was afraid John would get left behind and I couldn’t bear that. So, I took him to all the family functions with me, and I’d watch the festivities from a distance, with John.
As I sat at my aunt’s table, gazing at the faces it suddenly struck me that each woman sitting there had suffered her own heartbreaking loss since John’s death— the loss of a mother, a sister, a brother, a husband, a father. Yet, I saw a strength and beauty emanating from each of those women that had been lacking in youth. The love we’d always had for each other had deepened and matured. I took a deep breath and settled back into my chair, so grateful for the comfort of being with my family again.
It was a bittersweet moment, because I realized summer had passed and winter would soon be upon us. But I was thankful for our autumn, the most vibrant season of all.
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April 23, 2012
Dear John, I Still Miss You
Dear John,
Another year has passed. It’s been seven since I saw you last. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. When you died my biggest fear was that I’d forget something about you and our last day together; I wanted to remember every tiny detail always. The other fear that haunted me was that one day it would get easier and I wouldn’t miss you so much. So I’m grateful for the memories I have and I’m grateful for the bittersweet ache they leave in me.
I’ll be honest. I don’t dwell on you anymore. That makes it easier. For the first year, I hugged close everything that reminded me of you: photos, videos, memories and especially music. But I can’t hug those things anymore because they’re too sharp and they cut through the scar tissue that took so long to grow on my shattered heart. Sometimes when you flit across my memory I find myself shaking my head just as I did after you died, because I can’t comprehend that you are gone from here.
But I’ve decided this won’t be a day for sadness. I went to Mass this morning and I saw S² eyeing me with concern. I smiled at him and told him truthfully that I just had a tickle in my throat (Easter flowers and incense can do that). Now I sit in the fading sun and think of you.
We’ve always shared a passion for reading, writing and music. When you were a toddler, you’d put on a pair of star-shaped sunglasses, sit at a little piano shaped box and lip-sync to Elton John’s greatest hits. We called you “Elton Johnny”. It was the only time Mom and Dad listened to Elton John without complaint, so we had you do it often. When you were a little older, we played school. I swore for years I taught you to read, but after trying to teach my own children, I wonder…
Remember the summer you were turning sixteen? Dave had moved to Cleveland for his new job. You and Mom stayed in upstate New York to help me sell the house. We were really into Pink Floyd that year and we discovered Wish You Were Here. I have a hard time listening to it now. You brought books about the band, which I read when you were done. Then we’d talk about Syd Barrett and debate about Roger Waters and David Gilmour while we worked on my yard. You did a lot of yard work for me so I told you I take you out to dinner. You wanted steak and lobster. Funny thing for a fifteen-year-old to want for dinner, but typical for you.
Remember that same summer going to the mall parking lot late at night so you could practice driving a stick shift before getting your driver’s license? We saw a UFO hovering above the woods next to the mall. It was amazing, but we never told anyone about it because we knew no one would believe it.
This is it but we didn't take a picture.
We both love Chris Cornell’s voice. One Christmas I shared his version of Ave Maria with you, but I don’t think you heard it over the football game. Then you shared Audioslave with me. After you died, I got your CD and listened to it constantly. I can’t listen to Audioslave anymore. That annoys me frankly, because I really like them.
But I can listen to “United States of Whatever” by Liam Lynch. You turned my kids onto it. After they listened to it a million times a day, it grew on me. Do you remember when we found the video? Wow. Liam was not the cool Eminem-type I’d imagined. But we loved the video and watched it a million times too.
And tonight, as I looked up the video to add it as a link to this post you, my little, beloved brother John, gave me a gift. A video I’d never seen of Dave Grohl, drummer extraordinaire (and my favorite), playing/pounding his little heart out with Liam Lynch on United States of Whatever. And I’ll go to bed with a smile on my face, which is a gift I hadn’t expected on this of all nights.
Skip ahead sixty seconds. The quality improves greatly.
PS-Is it mandatory for great drummers to chew gum?
March 1, 2012
The One Less Traveled
I know a man. He would say he’s ordinary, but I know he’s extraordinary. He took the road less traveled, and for me, it has made all the difference. From him, I’ve learned the truth about love and sacrifice and humility.
I thought I learned all about those things growing up. I’d learned about love from soap operas and reality tv. I’d offered sacrifices to my brothers– “You drank out of my can of Pepsi? Well, I don’t want it anymore. Just keep it.” I’d experienced humility in gymnastics class when I took an unanticipated dive off the balance beam while uttering a few choice profanities. When I got married and had children and I learned more about love, but I still didn’t understand it.
Then I met a man. He has a friendly smile and a self-deprecating wit that can convulse a crowd with laughter while pointing out with laser-like precision, the folly and humanity of each of us, himself included. But he never leaves it there; he teaches us how to overcome those things if we desire. He treats every person with respect, no matter how stupid I think their question or remark is. He controls his snarkiness with a skill I can only marvel at (not being able to control my own).
He always makes time for me and anyone else that needs him, or wants him, or dislikes him enough to want to tell it to his face. People come to him to be unburdened and he welcomes them day and night. (He meets less often with happy, contented people; they don’t need him.) At his feet, we dump our sorrow and grief and anger and confusion and addiction and ignorance and hatred. When I’m with him, I know I’m the center of his attention, no matter how full his inbox is or how deep the garbage around him. And when I leave, my burden is always easier to bear.
He spends his days knee deep in the misery that pools around him. I glimpsed it once, before he knew I was there. He was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, the burdens of other’s squarely on his shoulders. And when I sat across from him, I could see it in his eyes and feel it in the air. I knew he didn’t get enough sleep and went many times without a meal.
Many people love him, but aren’t interested in him or his life or what he goes through. And I wonder if he sometimes feels alone amidst the humanity pressing about him constantly. Sometimes, even though you know you’re not alone, loneliness wraps around you and through you like a shroud. And I know, although he hides it well, that he longs for a moment of solitude.
I witness others watching him the way I watched my brothers around my can of Pepsi, hoping to catch him stumbling or better yet, falling down. They’re so intent on him as he journeys down his narrow road, they fail to see how often they themselves trip over the debris littering their own wide road. He faces the animosity aimed at him from every direction with unflinching humility, but I wonder how it affects him when he tries to sleep at night.
I could not walk in his shoes; it’s hard enough walking in my own and they’re much smaller. But he treads with a joy and humor that belie the things he hears and witnesses day after day. I’ve heard people ask him if he regrets his life. A look of sincere astonishment crosses his face. Then he breaks into a smile that I’d call radiant if it didn’t sound so cheesy, and he says simply, genuinely, ”No. I love being a priest.”
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.Robert Frost
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April 23, 2011
Dear John, I Miss You.
Dear John,
I cannot believe it’s been exactly six years since I last saw you. I remember you were eating strawberry Cool-Whip, right from the container. Then you went to work in my van. I never saw you again. Well, seeing you in the casket doesn’t count, because it didn’t look like you; it wasn’t you.
I still miss you so much that I try not to think of you too often or listen to songs that remind me of you. How eerie it was (still is) that on the way to mom’s that day, you made me listen to that Bruce Springsteen song, Paradise. You said it was the closest description of heaven you’d ever heard. I listened to it a million times after you died. I couldn’t find heaven in it at all.
That’s why you were going to work that night. You wanted the extra money to go to the Bruce Springsteen concert. It’s all so clear still. I’m glad. I relived that two hour drive to mom and dad’s for months because I was so afraid I’d forget.
Remember that Bush song that played on the radio? Glycerine. I wondered what it meant and you expounded at length. I looked up the meaning after I got home. You were so full of crap; you really had no idea why Gavin Rossdale wrote it.
Remember the snow? I was so nervous. I hated (still hate) driving in the snow. You were kind of pompous because you were a truck driver. “I’ve driven over a million miles. I know how to drive in the snow.” Maybe. But driving in the snow is what killed you.
Mom's Birthday-Last Photo of John
The kids miss you. You were one of those uncles that let them play video games or watch movies that I didn’t approve of. Instead of paying bills, you showered them with gifts on birthdays and Christmas. You let them ride in your big truck, or drive Dad’s pick-up even though they didn’t have a drivers permit. You taught the two boys and Daughter³ to fight with lightsabers. You had always won battles against Son¹. I remember the day he won his first battle against you. He was so proud. You babysat and changed diapers, you listened to my older girls and treated them like grown-ups. They all love you very much and although D³ was only two years old when you died, she talks about you often.
The kids called you Uncle Zed. I think you really liked that name.
I never went through the anger they say is a stage of grief. I knew you were meant to go and that you were better off and much happier. I knew if I could just ask and it would bring you back, I wouldn’t. It would have been selfish to do that to you. You were one of those people who never really grew up and that made life here tough for you.
I wish I could talk to you though. I was so curious what you would think of Gavin DeGraw. Now I wonder what you would think of the Kings of Leon. I wonder what you would have thought of the last Star Wars movie. You were so excited to see it, but you died about a month before it came out. I thought it was good, but I cried because you weren’t there.
The hardest thing about your death was that you died alone in an ambulance. I wished I could have been there. One day, as I was praying for you I realized I could be there with you. I prayed so long and fervently that God would let you feel me with you when you died. He can do anything, and He is outside of time. I knew He would do that for me, because I wanted it so badly. Then I imagined holding your hand from the time you crashed until you died in the ambulance, and I kept telling you it was OK because your big sister was with you.
I’ve learned about death since you’ve been gone and hope. Your loss is infinitely unbearable, and at the same time because of faith it is infinitely bearable. The next time I see you, you can tell me what you think of Gavin DeGraw, Kings of Leon and Revenge of the Sith. I’m sure you’ll have much to say.
April 6, 2011
Requiem
Our friends’ baby died recently. He was only three weeks old. Words cannot express their devastation. Words cannot express my sorrow and love to them.
Yet words are needed in this situation to express the inexpressible. A warm hug and a sympathetic look only goes so far. There are many compassionate people who have the gift of comforting those who are grieving.
I’m not one of those people. I’m always at a loss for words when faced with someone’s heartbreaking loss. I find myself murmuring platitudes and looking at the floor.
My youngest brother died tragically six years ago this month. Before his death, I had never experienced the death of someone close to me. We were very close. I was his big sister and he was my baby brother, but as we grew up we also became good friends. His loss literally broke my heart. For months afterwards, people would ask me how I was doing. I knew their words masked the inexpressible. Still, there were times I wanted to glare and ask them how did they think I was.
I remember clearly that I wanted to talk about my brother. I was so afraid that if I stopped talking about him it would mean I had forgotten him. The most comforting words I heard in those awful months after he died were: “Tell me about your brother. What was he like?” Not many people asked.
Nor is it a question I ask others, so afraid the memory will be painful and not wanting to cause more pain. You would think after my experience I would know what to say to someone who’s lost a loved one and when to say it. Even now that first thing that pops out of my mouth is a clumsy, “How are you doing?”
I saw my friend a few days ago. “How are you…” I stopped. “I’m sorry that’s a stupid question.”
She was very gracious. “It’s OK. I know what you meant.”
“I would love to get together when your up for it, ” I told her. “I’d love to hear all about your baby.”
There were a few tears, but I knew I didn’t need to feel bad about causing them. “I would love that,” she said.
