"The Novena to St. Jude Thaddaeus must be said six times each day for nine consecutive days, leaving nine copies in the church each day. Your prayer will be answered on or before the ninth day. It has never been known to fail!!!"
The first time I visited St. Jude was Ash Wednesday of this year. Aunt Judy had just passed away from every cancer known to man. I went to St. Jude so that I could have an excuse to text her daughter, Jenny. I wanted to somehow make her laugh. I accomplished it by sending her a picture of my ashes. You would have sworn someone put them on with their elbow. "The true church invokes you universally as the Patron Saint of things despaired of."
It seems odd to me that you were a baby in your family. You were always so much of a leader, so much of the glue. And you were so tall. It was so easy to forget that these women you've always called "sweetheart," and made laugh like crazy, and took care of when things fell apart in their lives were your older sisters. But Judy was different for you. You leaned on her phone call after phone call while the rest of the world was sleeping. She read every page of your book and begged you for more. She somehow had earned the role of being your leaning post, while you were everyone else's.
I found myself in front of St. Jude again on your birthday this year. Sixteen days after you lost yourself so irrevocably that we lost you as well. St Jude Thaddaeus. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes. What would a man have to do to deserve the honor of sainthood and yet be remembered most for his despair? (If I were telling you this story in person, here is where I would take a hit off my imaginary joint and say "deeeeeeep.")
I went to St. Jude today. I decided to try the Novena. I'm not the best prayer; My mind jumps around despite my explicit wishes for it not to. Before I know it, I'm making grocery lists, having one-sided arguments with people, and checking my phone to see if the assholes I'm fighting with in my head have the gall to text me. And I have other concerns. Will it only work if I know exactly what I'm praying for? Because I don't. And do I have to choose just one? Because when I think about it, there are a million things I want. And not stupid things that can't happen, like you coming back to life. I mean, you were a great guy, but you were no Lazarus. I'm thinking more along the lines of being able to remember every funny memory of you, or having my kids know how awesome you were, or somehow finding out that you weren't in despair. That it's silly for me to be praying for a lost cause.
Eight days left. I'll let you know how it goes...
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
3 months
Grief is much different than I thought it would be. I feel like I've been giving more grief than actually grieving. Without a doubt, the angriest I've ever been. You know what people find attractive in a woman? Anger... Not to worry. I'm handling the mature way- taking it out on Brian.
You and I normally speak every morning at 7:45am on my way to workout. But this morning, April 20th, 2011, I decide to walk with Brian (who was on his way to work) further than normal, and I figure I'll just call you afterward. I can't finish my run and end up on the elliptical. I"m tired. My life is hard. In my defense, it is the super cool elliptical that let's you do stairs too, but I digress. I decide that because I wimped out on my workout, the day is a wash, and go to BagleStix to get a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel. I don't even do a whole wheat bagel. I get a plain one. I have my hands in the air and am waving them as if there are no repercussions.
I call you. No answer. Not a big deal. We just like to start our mornings with a few laughs. You"ll probably call me back at a time that will annoy me; like when I'm blow drying my hair. I won't answer and you'll leave a voicemail. Something like, "Oh, I'm Claire. I hate voicemails. Well, I'm dad, so I do whatever the hell I want."
As I am walking out of the bagel place at 9:11 am, I get a text from Brian. "Where you?" Weird. Brian emails during work. And never at 9:11. "On my way home from the gym." Yes, I purposefully leave out my breakfast. I'm a sneak-eater. There, I said it. Part of me truly believes that if no one sees me eat the bacon, egg, and cheese, the calories don't count. No response from Brian. I refuse to ask him why he asked. I have a history of freaking out over nothing. I'm going to change that habit. My resolve makes it three and a half blocks. I decide that maybe I can cover. "You are so weird sometimes." No response. "Is everything ok?" At this point, I'm in my apartment and it's bagel time. I don't even notice I haven't gotten a response. I do notice that there is a new episode of the Parenthood on the DVR. All I can think about is how I'm going to convince Brian that I didn't start watching it without him. I can only watch 15 minutes before I have to start getting ready for work, anyway. First bite is delicious. And this is the finale episode! Did that girl die in the car crash? The family is worried. And so supportive of one another. Second bite is better than the first. Door opens.
Shit! Caught eating my bagel and watching my program. AND not getting ready for work. Wait.
"Hey. Buddy. What are you doing home?"
He does not look good. Oh no, he got fired. He comes towards me. I stand up and hug him and he doesn't resist. This makes my stomach sink- Brian. hates. hugs. Oh no, he has end stage cancer. "I don't know how to tell you this buddy." Well, I sure hope you figure it out, because I have to get in the shower in three minutes to get ready for work. "Whatever it is, we'll work it out. Nothing we can't fix." I learned these words from my father. My 28 year veteran cop father. My hostage negotiator father. My endlessly loving, endlessly supportive, endlessly smiling, rock of a father. "I need you to sit down." Oh no, he got someone else pregnant. "You have to call your mom."
Oh, no I don't! That woman is already at work and she is busy. Besides, my mother and I have never been great on the phone.
"Why?"
"Something happened to your dad."
Mom's voice was very calm, very strong, and very sweet, but what she was saying was impossible. If anyone had asked me, "What's the worst thing that could happen?," this would have been my answer. "We lost him, sweetie." I look at Brian, who's looking at me with an expression I never want to see from him again. He knew. He knew when he came in. He knew when he texted me. He knew and had to try to tell me. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. And as hard as this moment is, I can tell he knows this is only just the beginning.
It's been three months. It's been three months and there's still so much left unanswered. Some questions just don't have answers, and I know that. But some do. And I hope the people with those answers have enough courage to come forward soon. Before everyone forgets. Before everyone moves on. Before everyone decides to accept the fact that we don't know what happened. What transpired between the text you sent me the night before, "God, I love your style, kid," and the next morning at 7:15am? You never missed a performance or ballgame. What could make you miss walking me down the aisle, seeing my children, seeing how long Damian's hair will grow? What could even make you miss the next phone call?
I promise to keep asking...
In the meantime, it's the three month anniversary- the paperclip anniversary. So I'm attaching a photo. The one in the talking picture frame you gave me when I went away to New York. God, I'm so lucky to have you laughing on that picture frame. 33.
You and I normally speak every morning at 7:45am on my way to workout. But this morning, April 20th, 2011, I decide to walk with Brian (who was on his way to work) further than normal, and I figure I'll just call you afterward. I can't finish my run and end up on the elliptical. I"m tired. My life is hard. In my defense, it is the super cool elliptical that let's you do stairs too, but I digress. I decide that because I wimped out on my workout, the day is a wash, and go to BagleStix to get a bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel. I don't even do a whole wheat bagel. I get a plain one. I have my hands in the air and am waving them as if there are no repercussions.
I call you. No answer. Not a big deal. We just like to start our mornings with a few laughs. You"ll probably call me back at a time that will annoy me; like when I'm blow drying my hair. I won't answer and you'll leave a voicemail. Something like, "Oh, I'm Claire. I hate voicemails. Well, I'm dad, so I do whatever the hell I want."
As I am walking out of the bagel place at 9:11 am, I get a text from Brian. "Where you?" Weird. Brian emails during work. And never at 9:11. "On my way home from the gym." Yes, I purposefully leave out my breakfast. I'm a sneak-eater. There, I said it. Part of me truly believes that if no one sees me eat the bacon, egg, and cheese, the calories don't count. No response from Brian. I refuse to ask him why he asked. I have a history of freaking out over nothing. I'm going to change that habit. My resolve makes it three and a half blocks. I decide that maybe I can cover. "You are so weird sometimes." No response. "Is everything ok?" At this point, I'm in my apartment and it's bagel time. I don't even notice I haven't gotten a response. I do notice that there is a new episode of the Parenthood on the DVR. All I can think about is how I'm going to convince Brian that I didn't start watching it without him. I can only watch 15 minutes before I have to start getting ready for work, anyway. First bite is delicious. And this is the finale episode! Did that girl die in the car crash? The family is worried. And so supportive of one another. Second bite is better than the first. Door opens.
Shit! Caught eating my bagel and watching my program. AND not getting ready for work. Wait.
"Hey. Buddy. What are you doing home?"
He does not look good. Oh no, he got fired. He comes towards me. I stand up and hug him and he doesn't resist. This makes my stomach sink- Brian. hates. hugs. Oh no, he has end stage cancer. "I don't know how to tell you this buddy." Well, I sure hope you figure it out, because I have to get in the shower in three minutes to get ready for work. "Whatever it is, we'll work it out. Nothing we can't fix." I learned these words from my father. My 28 year veteran cop father. My hostage negotiator father. My endlessly loving, endlessly supportive, endlessly smiling, rock of a father. "I need you to sit down." Oh no, he got someone else pregnant. "You have to call your mom."
Oh, no I don't! That woman is already at work and she is busy. Besides, my mother and I have never been great on the phone.
"Why?"
"Something happened to your dad."
Mom's voice was very calm, very strong, and very sweet, but what she was saying was impossible. If anyone had asked me, "What's the worst thing that could happen?," this would have been my answer. "We lost him, sweetie." I look at Brian, who's looking at me with an expression I never want to see from him again. He knew. He knew when he came in. He knew when he texted me. He knew and had to try to tell me. I can't imagine how hard that must have been. And as hard as this moment is, I can tell he knows this is only just the beginning.
It's been three months. It's been three months and there's still so much left unanswered. Some questions just don't have answers, and I know that. But some do. And I hope the people with those answers have enough courage to come forward soon. Before everyone forgets. Before everyone moves on. Before everyone decides to accept the fact that we don't know what happened. What transpired between the text you sent me the night before, "God, I love your style, kid," and the next morning at 7:15am? You never missed a performance or ballgame. What could make you miss walking me down the aisle, seeing my children, seeing how long Damian's hair will grow? What could even make you miss the next phone call?
I promise to keep asking...
In the meantime, it's the three month anniversary- the paperclip anniversary. So I'm attaching a photo. The one in the talking picture frame you gave me when I went away to New York. God, I'm so lucky to have you laughing on that picture frame. 33.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
The Eulogy
Everyone in this room has at least two Kevin Blakeley stories: one where he made you laugh harder than you ever had before or have since, and one where he bent over backwards to help you. I'd like to share with you a few stories that defined the man Kevin Blakeley was to me.
My parents named me Claire, but I don't think I ever heard him use that name. I was always Cluny, or Clune Marin, or Clem Sequis, or Clementine, or Sequin Gown, or Claireballs. Damian was always Devo Te, or Ed Buttocks, or Eddie Jo, or Champion, or Sport Billy. My mom was always Spud, or Spunky, or Sweetie Peets, or Maggie, or Sex Pot. He called every waitress Sheila, and told us the men who invented the railroads and street signs were Ed Railroad and Ed Street Sign.
My father has a way with words. When he wanted you to do your best, he told you to "be the ball." When he wanted to hurry you out the door, he said, "Helmets on." And when he wanted to tell me he loved me, all he had to say was Larry Bird's number, "33."
He was the kind of father most people can only dream of, completely dedicated to his children. He never missed a phone call. Granted, sometimes he told me he was in the middle of a drug bust and needed to call me back, but he always answered the call. He didn't just support us, his heart beat to our successes; and when we cut ourselves, he bled. I have trophies he made me when I was little and had just started performing. Every show he had a trophy made for me. Just so you know, I won Best Actress in 1993 and the Mary Lenox Award in 1994. In his closet sit two shoes boxes full of old baseballs that he saved from Damian's baseball career, little league to the pros. He wrote on every one the amazing play Damian made with each ball. And not just when he pitched a no-hitter or hit his first grand slam, but even when he hit a home run and the ump called it foul. He didn't just hand us big wheels and send us outside. He loaded the big wheels into the car and drove us to the walking bridge that crossed over the freeway so that we could get the thrill of riding over the traffic and speeding down the spinning walkway. When my mom found out he was taking us to the freeway to play, she had concerns; but he would never let anything happen to us, and she knew it.
If you wanted something, he couldn't rest until you had it. I can't tell you how many times he left a house full of perfectly good food and went to the store to get me the one thing I wanted that we didn't have. The last time I was home, I went with him to three different stores to find Genny Cream Ale for his friend, Teddy Rossman. Other people would have given up after the first store; maybe Teddy could drink a good beer for once. Not my dad. One year, my mother decided to take up the bagpipes. She had mentioned that she'd love to find a bagpiper snow globe. Well, of course, this doesn't exist. He searched for months. He tried to get one specially made, no luck. So finally, he took the bagpiper figurine, some wood, a rounded piece of glass, and some caulk that he cut up to make snow, and made her one himself. If you've ever seen him try to do something artistic, you probably know what it looked like; but you also know it was the most romantic snow globe ever made.
He loved with all his heart. His obvious devotion to my mother has taught everyone around him what marriage truly means. But he also loved his friends. He never used their names either, referring to them only as "brother." And he let them know exactly what they meant to him every day. Then there's Beatrice, our dachshund. His biggest joy was to take her for a ride in the car, watch Becker with her in his lap, or mow the lawn with her in a bag on his back. And I know so many of you got one too many picture messages of his goldfish, Mr. Nibbles, or of course, what he called him, Nibs.
Less was always more with him. He's never had a whole stick of gum for as long as I've known him. All he would allow himself was half. What if someone else wanted some gum later and he had eaten it all? He made his own stationary by photocopying pictures he loved of Damian and I. He used to make burgers on the grill and he'd cut Kraft singles in half; a whole Kraft single would've been a sin. He was disturbed when automatic windows started coming standard on his cars, and when his cell phone automatically came equipped with a camera. A car was to get you from A to B, and a cell phone was to make and receive calls. And when he finally learned how to text, he decided that vowels were pure luxury. Even a three letter word like "got" was spelled simply "gt." "Well, you know what I mean, Ass."
He was a role model. When I was in seventh grade, he coached my basketball team and taught us that winners had more than just talent and mechanics, winners had character and heart. We never left the huddle without hearing, "Ten girls, one ball. You gotta want it more." And even if we lost, if we played our hearts out, he was proud of us. "Your hearts are as big as this room right now! I'd rather go home with you guys."
I'm proud of you, Dad. I'm proud of the man you made Damian. Thank you for teaching me loyalty, love, and compassion. Thank you for teaching me the importance of generosity, courage, and kindness. You are the epitome of selflessness and integrity, and you had an unparalleled dedication to sacrifice. I've got my Larry Bird Smile on now, Dad. Because of you, I can walk through the world on my own terms. I'm glad you're in a place where all the balls you hit are going over the fence, and ice cream's not running all over your hands. 33.
My parents named me Claire, but I don't think I ever heard him use that name. I was always Cluny, or Clune Marin, or Clem Sequis, or Clementine, or Sequin Gown, or Claireballs. Damian was always Devo Te, or Ed Buttocks, or Eddie Jo, or Champion, or Sport Billy. My mom was always Spud, or Spunky, or Sweetie Peets, or Maggie, or Sex Pot. He called every waitress Sheila, and told us the men who invented the railroads and street signs were Ed Railroad and Ed Street Sign.
My father has a way with words. When he wanted you to do your best, he told you to "be the ball." When he wanted to hurry you out the door, he said, "Helmets on." And when he wanted to tell me he loved me, all he had to say was Larry Bird's number, "33."
He was the kind of father most people can only dream of, completely dedicated to his children. He never missed a phone call. Granted, sometimes he told me he was in the middle of a drug bust and needed to call me back, but he always answered the call. He didn't just support us, his heart beat to our successes; and when we cut ourselves, he bled. I have trophies he made me when I was little and had just started performing. Every show he had a trophy made for me. Just so you know, I won Best Actress in 1993 and the Mary Lenox Award in 1994. In his closet sit two shoes boxes full of old baseballs that he saved from Damian's baseball career, little league to the pros. He wrote on every one the amazing play Damian made with each ball. And not just when he pitched a no-hitter or hit his first grand slam, but even when he hit a home run and the ump called it foul. He didn't just hand us big wheels and send us outside. He loaded the big wheels into the car and drove us to the walking bridge that crossed over the freeway so that we could get the thrill of riding over the traffic and speeding down the spinning walkway. When my mom found out he was taking us to the freeway to play, she had concerns; but he would never let anything happen to us, and she knew it.
If you wanted something, he couldn't rest until you had it. I can't tell you how many times he left a house full of perfectly good food and went to the store to get me the one thing I wanted that we didn't have. The last time I was home, I went with him to three different stores to find Genny Cream Ale for his friend, Teddy Rossman. Other people would have given up after the first store; maybe Teddy could drink a good beer for once. Not my dad. One year, my mother decided to take up the bagpipes. She had mentioned that she'd love to find a bagpiper snow globe. Well, of course, this doesn't exist. He searched for months. He tried to get one specially made, no luck. So finally, he took the bagpiper figurine, some wood, a rounded piece of glass, and some caulk that he cut up to make snow, and made her one himself. If you've ever seen him try to do something artistic, you probably know what it looked like; but you also know it was the most romantic snow globe ever made.
He loved with all his heart. His obvious devotion to my mother has taught everyone around him what marriage truly means. But he also loved his friends. He never used their names either, referring to them only as "brother." And he let them know exactly what they meant to him every day. Then there's Beatrice, our dachshund. His biggest joy was to take her for a ride in the car, watch Becker with her in his lap, or mow the lawn with her in a bag on his back. And I know so many of you got one too many picture messages of his goldfish, Mr. Nibbles, or of course, what he called him, Nibs.
Less was always more with him. He's never had a whole stick of gum for as long as I've known him. All he would allow himself was half. What if someone else wanted some gum later and he had eaten it all? He made his own stationary by photocopying pictures he loved of Damian and I. He used to make burgers on the grill and he'd cut Kraft singles in half; a whole Kraft single would've been a sin. He was disturbed when automatic windows started coming standard on his cars, and when his cell phone automatically came equipped with a camera. A car was to get you from A to B, and a cell phone was to make and receive calls. And when he finally learned how to text, he decided that vowels were pure luxury. Even a three letter word like "got" was spelled simply "gt." "Well, you know what I mean, Ass."
He was a role model. When I was in seventh grade, he coached my basketball team and taught us that winners had more than just talent and mechanics, winners had character and heart. We never left the huddle without hearing, "Ten girls, one ball. You gotta want it more." And even if we lost, if we played our hearts out, he was proud of us. "Your hearts are as big as this room right now! I'd rather go home with you guys."
I'm proud of you, Dad. I'm proud of the man you made Damian. Thank you for teaching me loyalty, love, and compassion. Thank you for teaching me the importance of generosity, courage, and kindness. You are the epitome of selflessness and integrity, and you had an unparalleled dedication to sacrifice. I've got my Larry Bird Smile on now, Dad. Because of you, I can walk through the world on my own terms. I'm glad you're in a place where all the balls you hit are going over the fence, and ice cream's not running all over your hands. 33.
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