Maybe this day will be the hardest day of the year in coming years. This year, every day has been hard. But today seems like a meaningful day. An excuse to celebrate your life, or to openly grieve in the way we hide to show everyone that we are ok, we have not broken. The blessing of today is that all the firsts are over. We've celebrated every birthday, holiday, anniversary, and special occasion without you. And there's relief in that.
I have been saying all year that it would be easier for me if I had answers. I don't need to know about the chain of events on April 20th, 2011 anymore. I need to know what happened. And there is a difference. But what answers would I want to hear of I could talk to you one more time? What answers do I think I need that would make me feel better?
I know so many have questions of their own. Maybe my answers are their answers. So here you go. The conversation that I would have if I could, and the answers according to my imagination. My questions won't be written out, because in my imagination I sound like an adult in a peanuts cartoon. And because the questions hurt way more than anything else.
//// ///// /// //////// //// /////?
No, I didn't drive to work that day listening to Johnny Cash's Hurt on repeat, my body wracked with sobs. I drove there calm, happy. I ate dill flavored sunflower seeds and listened to Born to Run.
/// //// // //////// // /////// /////?
No, a phone call at 7:06am wouldn't have made a difference.
//////// ///// ////// //// ///////// ////?
This, like so many things in your life that you take personally, had absolutely nothing to do with you. You are enough- most of the time, you are too much- but sometimes things are bigger than you and I.
/// ///////// ////// ///// ///// // //////////?
I'm not in hell. I'm not in purgatory. I think my hell would be seeing you in the pain you're in. But every time it seems like you are heading in that direction, Jude and Aggie want to play another round of kickball. And I oblige.
/// ///// //// //// /////// //// //// ////?
I can't answer that. But I can tell you that answers to questions like that won't bring you any peace. Anger and vengeance won't either. Look forward. I can't remember any wrongs that were done to me. Where I am, they don't matter.
///// /// /// ////// /// //// //////// /// ////// //// //?
A tattoo won't honor me, it will piss me off. You know the rules- No tattoos and no Howard Stern. You can honor me by being kind and generous to everyone.You can honor me by being selfless and brave and honest. You can honor me by being loyal and having integrity. You can honor me by being the daughter I raised. You can honor me by never giving up- and by never believing that I did, either.
/// //// ///// // //// //// //////// /// ///?
Brian is the man I always wanted you to be with. Tell him to stop toasting me.
////// ///// // //// //// ////// // /////?
If I could do it again, I wouldn't.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Monday, November 21, 2011
Come To Me, Bend To Me
This is an experimental piece that I wrote for my non-fiction class. This day meant a lot to you and I. And, I believe, Aggie.
Come To Me, Bend To Me
My Brother John's face is a welcome sight. I can't put my finger on the cause of the tension I'm feeling, but it's intense. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth together, and I have to make a point to relax my furrowed brow. My girlfriends say that causes wrinkles.
This place smells like urine mixed into an industrial cleanser. I don't know why I'm here, but John's presence makes me feel like I'm in the right place. Was I supposed to meet him here? He's smiling, and seems like he knew he'd see me here. This must have been planned.
When did John get so old? His jet black hair has faded to a salt and pepper. He's put on weight. His face has been chiseled by the hands of time. It's nice to see him in casual clothes. He was in the service for years. I was convinced we'd lose him that way. But here he is, smiling at me, an older man that I ever imagined he’d be. Jesus, do I look that old? I reach my hand up to my forehead and manually smooth out the creases from tension.
There's a girl with John. She is far too young to be his girlfriend. She has a catholic school uniform on, for crying out loud. She looks to be in her late teens. Who is this girl? She seems nervous and uncomfortable as John comes closer to kiss me hello. She stands a few feet away as he settles next to me in a chair.
It must be all the old people around here. Young girls are nervous around old people. They consider advanced age a disease. And these people aren’t just old. Dementia has settled in on them profoundly. Some just sit and stare. Some are screaming paranoid accusations at the nurses. Some are sitting in their own filth with tears on their faces. Do they even know they are crying? Which one are John and I here to visit? AND WHO IS THIS GIRL?
John has brought food, and sets it out. I’m not hungry, but he’s so sweet to have thought of me, and it seems rude not to eat. So I let him feed me spoonful after spoonful. He calls me “Sweetheart,” and it feels so good to hear it that I don’t care that everything in this place tastes the way it smells. The girl just watches me eat, which I find disturbing, but she’s smiling and John seems to want her here. He doesn’t call her “sweetheart” and he doesn’t feed her anything, so I am comfortable with the pecking order here.
But then he asks her to sing. She clearly doesn’t want to, and says as much, but he melts her resolve with a smile and a few heartfelt “come on”s. He tells me she recently performed in a musical based in Scotland, as if that should peak my interest. I’m pretty sure I’m not Scottish but I know someone who is. Who do I know that’s Scottish? It’s right on the tip of my tongue… Damn, I can’t remember. It’ll come to me. Give me a second.
She begins to sing. It’s not a song I know, but it’s beautiful. It’s a love song. Her voice is clear and reedy and makes me ache. Something about the tune, or her voice, or the pride in John’s face makes my throat catch. My eyes fill and I try to blink back the tears but they fall. I can’t catch my breath. I’m sobbing. She’s still singing but now she’s crying too. John’s hand grabs my own. But now I know it’s not John. It’s my son Kevin. This girl, it’s his daughter, my granddaughter. She’s gotten older, she’s almost a woman.
I notice the age spots on my hands- brown stains, like a Dalmatian’s. That is, if a Dalmatian’s coat marked a condition that gave it the memory of a goldfish. I look up at Kevin- his salt and pepper hair and chiseled face. He squints into my eyes and he knows that I’ve made a rare trip up to the surface.
“She’s just beautiful, Kevin.” I watch as the sound of his name on my lips lands on him like an unexpected rainfall in the desert. I remember you, Kevin. I know who are. I know you are here. I see the agony drain from his eyes and I realize young girls are right. Advanced age is a disease. But I’m not the one it is killing.
The song has ended and he is squeezing my hand so tightly, as though he can hold my clarity if his grasp is tight enough. And I try to focus on the three of us, three generations, holding hands and trying desperately to hold onto the moment. I want to stay. I’m trying to stay. I’m trying….
… I clench my teeth as I look at my Brother John. I’m so tense. If I could just remember why I’m so agitated I could calm myself down. It’s right here. It’s right at the tip of my tongue. Ugh. Why can’t I remember? And who is this young girl with John?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
No Matter What
Last night Brian and I watched a 30 for 30 entitled "Catching Hell" about Steve Bartman. He was a Chicago Cubs fan who became notorious for trying to catch a foul ball that might have been caught, that might have changed the outcome of a game, that might have contributed to the Cubs going to the World Series, where they might (read: probably wouldn't have) won it all. There's endless footage of him being taunted, ridiculed, threatened, having beer thrown on him, being spit on, etc. They describe how they had to put a disguise on him to get him out of the stadium, because the mob that chanted "asshole" and told security guards to "put a twelve gauge in his mouth and pull the trigger," would not have let him get home safely. The commentators don't really mention it, but in the footage you see him sitting with a friend and the friend's girlfriend, who stand with their backs to him and not only do nothing to defend him, but act as disgusted as the rest.
And this is just a baseball game.
One segment interviews a female security guard who helped sneak him out of the stadium, and eventually brought him to hide at her house when angry fans saw through the disguise. She mentions him calling his parents to let them know he was OK. Somewhere in this city of haters were people who loved him. Yet they had to watch as a stadium full of people berated him and threw things at him and threatened him. For years, they had to read, hear, and witness the awful things being said about him. They had to endure his name becoming synonymous with the devastation of the Cubs' pennant dreams.
Again, baseball.
I was at the airport flying home to attend the June 20th Euclid City Council meeting and I saw Jim Tressel's face on the cover of thousands of Sport's Illustrated Magazines. An entire career of leading the best team in college football (wink, wink, chin to shoulder, chin to shoulder) to victory forgotten in the shadow of a forced retirement. Jim Tressel has a daughter about my age. She's sweet, and talented, and loves to dance. What are the chances she lives in a place that doesn't get ESPN or sell Sports Illustrated?
College football.
And in truly researching these catastrophic events, you can plainly see that every fan in Steve Bartman's section reached for that ball. He didn't even catch it or celebrate with it the way a man three seats down from him did. Jim Tressel never traded anything in exchange for a tattoo. There's an agonizing moment in the Steve Bartman footage where he leans to the people behind him (not his "friends," mind you, who won't even look at him) and asks, "Do you think I did anything wrong?" And while they politely shake their heads, the only real answer is, "What I think isn't going to change the mob behind me."
People ask me not to read it all. People ask me why I care about the opinion of someone who clearly doesn't know what they are talking about. How can I take to heart comments like, "Maybe if LeBron wouldn't have left Cleveland, maybe he wouldn't have...?" But it hurts to watch them defile you. And it's frustrating to know that what I think isn't going to change the mob behind me.
But I know you. And I love you. No matter what.
And this is just a baseball game.
One segment interviews a female security guard who helped sneak him out of the stadium, and eventually brought him to hide at her house when angry fans saw through the disguise. She mentions him calling his parents to let them know he was OK. Somewhere in this city of haters were people who loved him. Yet they had to watch as a stadium full of people berated him and threw things at him and threatened him. For years, they had to read, hear, and witness the awful things being said about him. They had to endure his name becoming synonymous with the devastation of the Cubs' pennant dreams.
Again, baseball.
I was at the airport flying home to attend the June 20th Euclid City Council meeting and I saw Jim Tressel's face on the cover of thousands of Sport's Illustrated Magazines. An entire career of leading the best team in college football (wink, wink, chin to shoulder, chin to shoulder) to victory forgotten in the shadow of a forced retirement. Jim Tressel has a daughter about my age. She's sweet, and talented, and loves to dance. What are the chances she lives in a place that doesn't get ESPN or sell Sports Illustrated?
College football.
And in truly researching these catastrophic events, you can plainly see that every fan in Steve Bartman's section reached for that ball. He didn't even catch it or celebrate with it the way a man three seats down from him did. Jim Tressel never traded anything in exchange for a tattoo. There's an agonizing moment in the Steve Bartman footage where he leans to the people behind him (not his "friends," mind you, who won't even look at him) and asks, "Do you think I did anything wrong?" And while they politely shake their heads, the only real answer is, "What I think isn't going to change the mob behind me."
People ask me not to read it all. People ask me why I care about the opinion of someone who clearly doesn't know what they are talking about. How can I take to heart comments like, "Maybe if LeBron wouldn't have left Cleveland, maybe he wouldn't have...?" But it hurts to watch them defile you. And it's frustrating to know that what I think isn't going to change the mob behind me.
But I know you. And I love you. No matter what.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
The Little White Duck
It seemed for awhile that I didn't have a second to miss you. I mean, you were all I thought about, but there was so much drama to distract me. I have just recently started to reach for my phone to call you before remembering that I can't, or having flashes of memories that leave me wanting more...
I have no idea how old I was when I was the Little White Duck. And I do mean THE. The song was called Little White Duck, for crying out loud. If that doesn't scream HEADLINER, I don't know what does. There are pictures of me in my costume (I was the duck, did I mention that?) and mom's makeup, and I'm smiling into a bouquet of flowers. I'm not sure if it was Aunt Linda who brought those flowers, or if she just presented them to me, or if she was just picky about how a young girl (girl, star, titular character, whatever) holds her flowers, but when I see that photo, I think of Aunt Linda.
It was around the same time in my life that I was obsessed with Mary Poppins, and refused to leave the house without socks on my hands (I was sure they looked like ladylike white gloves to everyone else.) In the scene where she and Bert and the children jump through the sidewalk drawing, she is awarded a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that she holds in the crook of her arm. Oh, the glamour. That was how a woman, one who is practically perfect in every way, no less, holds her flowers.
So there I am, after blowing people's minds with my interpretation of the Little White Duck. And, it happened. Someone (maybe Aunt Linda, but who knows?) gave me a bouquet of flowers. And I remember thinking, "This is my moment. Here I am, with all these no-talents eating out of the palm of my hand, and now- there is flowers! Today, I am a woman." And I dropped the bouquet into the crook of my arm and began to pose for photographs.
This is where Aunt Linda came in. And if she didn't give me the flowers, I don't know why she didn't just mind her own damn business... "Oh, no no no Claire, hold them up." She straightened them up. I posed for one photo this way, and them slipped them back into the crook of my arm. I mean, I could pretend to let this rube have her way, but she wasn't going to ruin my moment. "Claire. Hold them UP!" She came over again and grabbed my wrist and straightened the flowers. I felt a little embarrassed for her. Had she never seen Mary Poppins? What kind of hillbilly holds their flowers like that? Someone who leaves the house without gloves on, I'll tell you that much.
This went on for a few moments before from the back of the pack of fusser-over-ers, I heard, "That's how Poppins holds her flowers." I looked up. There you were. My dark haired hero, who had put that movie on a million times for me. Who would always pause it so that I could come into the kitchen and put the magic flavor egg into my Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup myself. Who named my winter hat and mittens- Trixie, Tammy, and Laura- to make me laugh. Who made me sit on the third stair and taught me how to tie my shoes. Who let me leave the house with socks on my hands for crying out loud. Not only that, but would explain to the bank teller that those were indeed not socks, but gloves. And there you were, rolling your eyes at this moron, who somehow didn't know how Poppins held her flowers. Maybe her kids weren't into Poppins. Or, more likely, maybe she just wasn't the parent that you were.
Like I said, there's a picture of this moment. But the flowers are sticking straight up. I'm looking down into them and smiling. And in my head I'm thinking, "When we get home, Kev and I are going to put our socks on our hands and hold these flowers like babies."
I have no idea how old I was when I was the Little White Duck. And I do mean THE. The song was called Little White Duck, for crying out loud. If that doesn't scream HEADLINER, I don't know what does. There are pictures of me in my costume (I was the duck, did I mention that?) and mom's makeup, and I'm smiling into a bouquet of flowers. I'm not sure if it was Aunt Linda who brought those flowers, or if she just presented them to me, or if she was just picky about how a young girl (girl, star, titular character, whatever) holds her flowers, but when I see that photo, I think of Aunt Linda.
It was around the same time in my life that I was obsessed with Mary Poppins, and refused to leave the house without socks on my hands (I was sure they looked like ladylike white gloves to everyone else.) In the scene where she and Bert and the children jump through the sidewalk drawing, she is awarded a gorgeous bouquet of flowers that she holds in the crook of her arm. Oh, the glamour. That was how a woman, one who is practically perfect in every way, no less, holds her flowers.
So there I am, after blowing people's minds with my interpretation of the Little White Duck. And, it happened. Someone (maybe Aunt Linda, but who knows?) gave me a bouquet of flowers. And I remember thinking, "This is my moment. Here I am, with all these no-talents eating out of the palm of my hand, and now- there is flowers! Today, I am a woman." And I dropped the bouquet into the crook of my arm and began to pose for photographs.
This is where Aunt Linda came in. And if she didn't give me the flowers, I don't know why she didn't just mind her own damn business... "Oh, no no no Claire, hold them up." She straightened them up. I posed for one photo this way, and them slipped them back into the crook of my arm. I mean, I could pretend to let this rube have her way, but she wasn't going to ruin my moment. "Claire. Hold them UP!" She came over again and grabbed my wrist and straightened the flowers. I felt a little embarrassed for her. Had she never seen Mary Poppins? What kind of hillbilly holds their flowers like that? Someone who leaves the house without gloves on, I'll tell you that much.
This went on for a few moments before from the back of the pack of fusser-over-ers, I heard, "That's how Poppins holds her flowers." I looked up. There you were. My dark haired hero, who had put that movie on a million times for me. Who would always pause it so that I could come into the kitchen and put the magic flavor egg into my Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup myself. Who named my winter hat and mittens- Trixie, Tammy, and Laura- to make me laugh. Who made me sit on the third stair and taught me how to tie my shoes. Who let me leave the house with socks on my hands for crying out loud. Not only that, but would explain to the bank teller that those were indeed not socks, but gloves. And there you were, rolling your eyes at this moron, who somehow didn't know how Poppins held her flowers. Maybe her kids weren't into Poppins. Or, more likely, maybe she just wasn't the parent that you were.
Like I said, there's a picture of this moment. But the flowers are sticking straight up. I'm looking down into them and smiling. And in my head I'm thinking, "When we get home, Kev and I are going to put our socks on our hands and hold these flowers like babies."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Novena
"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...
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 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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)