Saturday, September 29, 2018
I own two David Wright jerseys. He is my favorite Mets player and both jerseys were gifts from Joe. Wearing them and even looking at them since he died has been overwhelmingly bittersweet. I have no idea which one of them I will wear today as my son, sister, and I go to Wright's last game, but I know putting it on will pack a punch.
In a lot of ways those jerseys carry the story of us. So many games together where I wore one or the other. So many baseball moments for us as a couple over the years and the one consistency on our Mets was Wright. There were lots of games in 2006, the year I got Joe a ticket pack halfway through the season as an anniversary gift. We even got to be at the first game of the Division Series that year, an experience that yielded a Mets win and my favorite photo ever of us.
I still remember taking photos of the TV in my living room as the Mets celebrated winning the NL East that year, burning forever into my memory images of Wright and Reyes celebrating together. Joe made fun of me for doing it and I thought of him when I did the same thing after Santana's no-hitter and the 2015 NL East-clinching game.
In 2007 and 2008, David Wright won both the Silver Slugger Award and a Gold Glove. Joe and I got engaged and married. We never stopped going to games and cheering on our Mets. We went to one final game at Shea together on closing weekend in 2008 and watched with some tears from home as Mike Piazza and Tom Seaver walked off the field. Baseball was life - with its soaring victories and crushing defeats, new beginnings and goodbyes.
We, of course, made our way to Citifield in 2009 - Joe with his Johan Santana jersey and me still with my David Wright gear. In May of that year we also traveled to Boston to see our Mets take on the Red Sox. Even though the Mets' record was awful, it was a good year.
Then, in January 2010 came our own crushing defeat paired with a new beginning. In a matter of one week, we got the news of Joe's stage 4 cancer and a positive pregnancy test. Baseball was one of the things that saved us that year. Being able to go watch Wright play and Santana pitch complete with our soon-to-be Mets fan son was a bright spot in the midst of a tough year.
Since Joe's death in December 2011, baseball has been life-saving for me. I go to games with my little guy and we acknowledge his Dad's part in that even though he isn't physically here. It may be remembering how at his first game at Citifield his Dad bought him a Mr. Met doll or how he fell asleep in his Dad's lap at Nationals Park at his first Mets game ever. I tell him about his dad's favorite players and how he hated to high five. And I teach him about the game, something I'm sure his dad would have loved to do, but I will not have go undone in his absence.
My son and I went to Opening Day at Citifield on April 5, 2012 with one of my good friends. It was 4 months since Joe had died and the day after his birthday. In that game, Santana pitched 5 scoreless innings and David Wright went 2-3 with a walk. The Mets won 1-0. It was my first time at Citifield since Joe died - a goodbye and a new beginning. It was a day with, as I like to say, "all of the feelings", but I left feeling thankful for this sport and this team that has taught me to believe even when the odds seem so long.
This morning I watched a clip from an interview Wright did recently with Steve Gelbs and in it he said so much of what I've been thinking over the last 7 years since Joe died.
"This is adversity in the baseball world. This means nothing in the real world. In the real world, people go through real adversity. But even using baseball as an example. Fight. Just fight. Keep fighting." -David Wright
I am inspired by Wright. Just like in the real world, in the baseball world things don't always go the way we want them to go, but Wright's observation in this interview that when the results don't go the way you want them to don't let it be because you didn't work hard enough or want it bad enough resonates. I see in him someone who was dealt a painful detour in life, but persevered with hope. For years, he dealt with the effects of his spinal stenosis and surgery after surgery, all while working to come back to major league baseball. When I heard him talk about it over these last few years, I saw in him not only the heartbreak and humility of a setback, but also the hope and determination of a comeback. Those are the things that make us human and they are also the things that make us great.
No matter what happens today (or which Wright jersey I decide to wear), that is what I will take from this moment of David Wright's last start at Citifield and my own journey forward through grief. I know Joe will be there with us as Domani and I take in this amazin' moment at Citifield and that makes me feel all of the feelings.
Thursday, August 16, 2018
It's been quite a year. As I sit here in the wee hours of August 16th on what would have been my 10th wedding anniversary with Joe I can't help but think about all of the things that have already been packed into this year - and how they would have been different if he were still here by my side.
|Our Wedding Day - August 16, 2008|
I imagine what it would have been like to have his support in January when my Dad went into the hospital and during each of those times that followed when the news seemed to be scarier than the last. I think back to the sleepless nights and countless trips back and forth to New Brunswick and remember how desperately I just wanted to be able to fall into his arms with whatever downtime I had. While I am thankful for our tight knit family and my incredibly supportive friends I know that it was measurably harder to be on that roller coaster of concern without him.
I think about the day in February while my Dad was still in the hospital when my mom called me on my way to church to let me know she had been in a car accident. I remember what it was like to pull up to the scene of the crash only to see her being put into the back of an ambulance. Once I was on my way to the hospital to meet her at the ER, I remember the overwhelming urge to just grab my phone and call Joe. But his number has been disconnected for years so all I could do was talk to the air through my tears. It's been over 6 years since I've been able to pick up the phone to call my husband and talking to the air is just one of the ways I work shit out in this life after Joe.
He was always my calm when I was on the high seas and there have been many times this year when his patient way and gentle touch would have made my path easier. Even now almost 7 years later and even though I have learned in some ways and at some times to emulate his patience and calm, there is still a certain emptiness that comes when I am faced with these moments. He's not here and so sometimes I stay on the high seas. Sometimes there are others who help. Sometimes I go for a run. And sometimes I talk to the air.
This year I turned 40. I never imagined I would do that without Joe. I suspect that if he were here the celebration with friends and family would have taken a slightly different form. He likely would not have planned a brunch where people run a collective total of 40+ miles together before eating and drinking. But given that running has proven to be one of the most powerful outlets for my grief over these past six years, it only made sense to me that my friends and family would join me to "run in" my 40th birthday. Six of us gathered early that morning to run a 6ish mile loop through my neighborhood and then the rest of the crowd joined up to run a mile (or two if you got stuck running in the pack with me) in the park near my house. A few friends and family members got a pass on all the physical activity in order to get the food and drinks ready while we ran.
|The 6 mile 40th Birthday Crew|
We covered well over 40 miles and I felt so much love that day. The icing on the cake (of which there was a homemade Mets one from a friend in my running club) was that both of my parents were able to join us for the festivities. After all that they had been through during the first two months of the year, that was really all the birthday present I needed.
Not long after my birthday, there came a big day in the life of Anne. On March 22, I was appointed to my local Board of Education and then later I was honored with a Power of Women in the Labor Movement Award. It was a special night and I am thankful that I had my son as my date to the Awards dinner and plenty of friends there along with my parents. But I realize more and more as the years go on without Joe that it's when I return home after these kinds of nights that I miss him the most. It is those times when I'm either on top of the world or feeling lower than dirt that I just want to be with someone who gets me in the context of the whole back story of me. He certainly did that in a unique way and I miss it.
|With Mom, Dad, and the Little Guy at the Awards Dinner|
On March 29, it was Opening Day for our beloved NY Mets so Domani and I went as we always do to officially welcome in the baseball season. It has become a tradition for us since Joe died, something we do to spend time together and to be in a place that reminds us of Joe. A reporter started talking to us while we were waiting to get Domani's Kid's Club passport stamped and we ended up on the CBS 5 o'clock news during a segment on Opening Day at Citifield. We talked about Joe and how we go to Opening Day to keep his memory alive. It was a beautiful segment, complete with Domani spinning the prize wheel (just like we always do) and winning a t-shirt on camera. I remember getting home that night, falling into bed, and marveling at the twists and turns that had brought my son and I to that point in our lives. That news segment coming on Opening Day for our Mets at a point in my life when so many other things were feeling hard felt like a little hug from Joe. It's a hug that I feel like I've gotten many times throughout this year in many different ways and for that I am thankful.
|Screenshot from the CBS news segment|
One thing that I suspect I would not have gotten myself into this year had Joe still been alive is the crazy Spartan Beast race I did in celebration of my 40th birthday. My guess is that we would have taken a fabulous trip somewhere instead. But since I was the one doing the planning, it was off to Mountain Creek for me. I have done a lot of races since I started running in 2012, but none as physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging as the 13+ miles and 30+ obstacles of the Spartan Beast race. I feared that I was doomed from the beginning when I couldn't even hoist myself over the wall to get into the start corral. Thankfully, a kind soul gave me a boost and with some perfectly timed pump up music before our start I hit the race course determined to put it behind me. When I came upon the same wall within the first few obstacles I almost froze in my path. Instead, I found something deep within me and just went for it. I lifted myself right over on the first try and then promptly shouted "HOLY SHIT I DID IT!" over and over again. It felt awesome.
I had the "HOLY SHIT I DID IT" moment again with the "Bender" obstacle. By that point I had already done penalty burpees on the Tyrolean Traverse and I had no interest in doing more. In my mind I was going to do everything possible to get by that Bender obstacle without subjecting myself to another set of that misery masquerading as exercise they call burpees. A woman who I had been chatting and racing with through a couple of obstacles helped make sure I secured myself along the first rung of the Bender and then I started working my way up and over with some other racers on the ground giving direction as to how to maneuver myself. I am certain this obstacle is where I racked up most of the bruises on my body as I both clung tightly so as not to fall and pushed through many awkward and painful positions to get myself over the obstacle. Once I was finally over and safely on the ground, I almost cried. And that was only a third of the way through the race.
There were so many things in that race that I thought I could never do which I did. Carry this huge stone. Climb over this wall. Crawl under this barbed wire. Keep going up and down this mountain all day long. Go under this dunk wall. Carry this bucket with rocks along this path. Burpees. Burpees. And more burpees. Carry this sandbag down this hill and back up again. Penalty hike up this mountain for missing the spearthrow. And this one for falling off the Twister. Keep going through the pouring rain and in the thunder and lightning as they close the course while you are less than a mile from the end and then wait to hear if the race officials will even let you finish. By the time it was over I was soaking wet, bruised, bloody, and happier than I had been in a very long time.
|Bucket Brigade and my race in a nutshell|
It took me weeks to recover, but it only took me hours to decide that I would be finishing the other two (shorter) length Spartan races this year in order to complete my Trifecta. I've got my eye on conquering Mountain Creek again in October and I plan on doing way fewer burpees this time around.
This year I also opened the last gift I ever received from Joe. Music was always one of the things that kept Joe and I connected. We loved going to shows together, listening to music at home or in the car, and learning new things about our favorite artists. Joe always seemed to be the guy who knew everything about everything when it came to music. It should come as no surprise then that, unbeknownst to me, he had pre-ordered a CD recording of the NYC show for the Greg Dulli tour we saw in Philly in 2010. That Philly show was the last one we saw together. We had tickets for the one in NYC too, but between having a baby at home and Joe not feeling 100% we decided that one show would have to be enough.
The CD arrived about a month and a half after Joe died and although I had opened the envelope (which was addressed to him) I had left the CD in its packaging. Until this year. So, in May, on the day that was 7 years from our last show together, I opened it. Listening to that album was one of the greatest moments of catharsis I've had in awhile. It became a special part of my year and I keep the CD in my car for those times when I want to have some moments with him where I'm doing more than just talking to the air.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Tonight my heart is full. I just finished putting together a Father's Day gift for Domani that has been more than a month in the making. Friends and family have been sending me photos and written memories of his dad in order to create a memory box for him to keep and I couldn't be more excited to give it to him. This past year as Domani has been attending his peer grief support group he has become more and more interested in hearing stories about his dad so it seemed like perfect timing to pull together a gift that would do just that.
When Domani is thinking about his dad or on special days like Joe's birthday, he loves looking at old Shutterfly photo albums and the two "Daddy and Me" board books I made for Father's Day (one for Joe in 2011 and one for Domani in 2016). He has gone through those albums and books so many times over the past year especially that he almost has them memorized. I realized that it was clearly time to expand his "Joe library". We started to do that over the holidays with some family members writing down memories and a few including photos too, but I could tell that as we moved past Mother's Day and towards Father's Day there was a need to do something meaningful for him. He was looking for ways to connect to who his Dad was.
I know as his mom that I will never be able to fill the void that was left when his Dad died. There will be moments when he feels cutting pain and sometimes those moments will come in the midst of really wonderful things. There will be times that he is caught off guard by his grief - like tonight when he was asked by a well-meaning acquaintance what he had gotten his dad for Father's Day. There will be times when all he wants to do is rail against how unfair it all feels.
I know some of those things as a woman who has lost her spouse. I do not know them as a child who has lost a parent. So I do what I can to support my son. Just after Mother's Day, I made the difficult ask of friends and family to go through photos and write about their memories of our beloved Joe. I know it wasn't easy. I did it myself and for as many times as I have already cried looking at our photos from our 2010 tour of Citifield there were still a few more tears left. But things are not easy for my little guy either and I know that having these stories will be such a gift for him as he grieves his dad.
I think I received memories by every method you could imagine, with the exception of fax and carrier pigeon. The flood of Joe stories and the diversity of people who shared them were truly special. As the memories came through, I was struck most by all of the love - the love in the stories, the love in the time and emotional effort it took to tell them, and the love of those who are continuing to be in community with Domani and me through so much of life's hard stuff.
This is a beautiful box because it is full of love and I am sure we will be adding "Joe stories" to it for Domani for many years to come. This truly one of those moments in life where pain and joy can co-exist. Father's Day is hard in our house, but my heart is full and I am thankful.
I leave you with a quote I came across in a book I'm reading that has been life-changing for me this last month.
"In the end, nothing we do or say in this lifetime will matter as much as the ways we have loved one another." -Daphne Rose Kingma as quoted in The Happiness Makeover by M.J. Ryan
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
It hit me all at once while I was out to lunch with one of my best friends last Wednesday. I'm turning 40 in less than 2 months and I have a lot of feelings about it. The only thing is they have so little to do with getting older. Sure, I am catching myself wondering from time to time why I can't seem to remember things quite the way I used to and I am noticing an increasing number of aches and pains setting in. But what I've been feeling is bigger than dreading a few "over the hill" balloons and banners and an aversion to the getting old jokes constantly thrown at me from younger friends and family members.
This was a troubling to my spirit that had started bubbling up more and more each time a conversation turned to what I wanted to do for my birthday this year. It's not that I hadn't thought about it. Maybe I wanted to go on a cruise with my sister or down to Port St. Lucie for Mets Spring Training or perhaps I wanted to throw myself a big party. Each time I would contemplate any of these things (or others) I started feeling outside myself. Then disoriented. Then tight. Then sad.
At first I did write it off to the typical emotions that must come with approaching a milestone birthday, but the more I started really examining what was happening the more I knew it was different. And then, for some reason, what I had started to talk about in bits and pieces at a grief group the week before all became clear for me that Wednesday afternoon over my portobello mushroom sandwich at the Mill Hill Saloon. Because what I wanted more than anything was for Joe to be able to answer those 40th birthday questions with me (or perhaps even for me) and for me to have been able to do the same for him 3 years ago when it should have been his 40th. Missing these milestones with each other is exactly what has been gnawing at me. It has been that uncomfortable chunk sitting in the back corner of my brain and it has been that unsettled part of my heart.
It's another one of those times when grief, even though far removed by years, has snuck back into my life for one more bite at the apple.
I started this blog with a post I wrote on the first birthday I celebrated without Joe. Our respective birthdays continue to be heavy days for me because even without him here physically, they are markers. There always remains the question of what will I do (or not do) on those days and there are always the what ifs that play in my mind. The one thing I have come to realize, though, is that ignoring the day never seems to work. Some years have been better than others, but always he is there in some way.
The Wednesday lunch cry was helpful. It led my friend and I to a discussion about ideas for what I actually wanted to do for my birthday this year (a run with friends and family and perhaps a small birthday dinner) and it freed me to set aside those things which I actually did not want to do (the trips and big parties I would have to plan). We are still talking and planning, but I am confident we will figure something out - even if it means scrapping all the "plans" the day before and doing something completely different.
The cry also provided me the final kick in the ass I needed to do something for myself.
I had been waffling about signing up for my first Spartan race for some time, feeling like I needed a new physical and mental challenge to welcome in my 40th year, but also feeling beaten down about my ability to actually do it. The cleansing tears and conversation with my friend were just the push I needed to sign up. During that lunch break, I finally committed to the race and to the training. Before I was back from my lunch break I had the race confirmation in my email. So, at the end of April I'll be taking on my biggest racing challenge yet - 12+ miles up a mountain with obstacles thrown in. I have my work cut out for me, but as my friend pointed out...this is exactly the kind of thing I thrive on.
And it is exactly what I need.
Saturday, December 2, 2017
My husband Joe died six years ago this Tuesday. My son was 15 months old.
A 33 year old widow.
A boy barely a year old without his dad.
A 33 year old widow.
A boy barely a year old without his dad.
Although the grief was palpable, there was no way to know then the journey that was ahead for the two of us.
How could it be that just as my own grief was finding its settled space that then I would be watching my son only beginning his grief process?
How could it be that just as I was establishing a balance of living life and honoring Joe's memory that grief would then start all over again in our household in the heart of my sweet 7 year old child?
Who said THAT was ALLOWED?
Allowed or not, it's what happened. In fact, it has been happening in varying degrees since my little guy was about 3 years old. But this year it hit like a ton of bricks around Father's Day. There was an emotional night on the soccer field after practice. There were many heart-wrenching conversations about feelings of loss. It was all accompanied by plenty of tears - of both the mommy and then-6 year old varieties.
Thankfully, I had been made aware of an incredible program located not too far from us called Good Grief and we quickly went for an introductory meeting.
Although my son was hesitant at first, they had him sold with the fidget spinner in the welcome bag. Ever since that first visit, he has grown more and more comfortable with the people, the space, and with bringing his grief into the midst of it all.
Thanks to Good Grief we have grown emotionally and in our relationship with each other. For me, much of my time there so far has been about learning how best to support Domani as he both gets to know his dad better and grieves his death. For his part, Domani has found a crucial space for peer support. He now feels more comfortable asking questions about his dad and is more open about sharing what he is feeling when something strikes him. I am thankful that he is moving forward in these ways. Good Grief has been the space that we each needed.
These past two weeks leading up to the 6 year anniversary of Joe's death were significant for Domani in his grieving, but perhaps even more so for me. It was during the course of these two weeks that I fully realized he is in the midst of his own grieving process. There are ways that his process affects me, but I feel like he is now making his own way.
Up to this point, I have shared about various pieces of our grief journey on this blog. However, it has become clearer and clearer to me over these past two weeks that Domani and I are now at a place where he has stories that are his alone and not mine to tell. So, when he has big moments along the way (as he did recently) and I am privileged enough to be part of them I have come to understand that the right thing is for me to be present and supportive, but let those moments truly belong to him.
I struggled a lot with what I should do as I watch him through these moments and I'm honestly not sure if I've landed in the right place. I did write about the progress I observed him making over the last two weeks and I saved it as a private post for him. I hope that someday when he is a bit older he will read it and it will mean something to him to have a record of that time from my perspective. Maybe at some point he will want to share it or maybe he won't. Either way, it will be his to do with what he wants.
In the meantime, I'll keep sharing moments from my own life, knowing that once in awhile those moments will include my little guy.
November 16th was one of those moments. It was the 3rd Thursday in November and that meant it was Children's Grief Awareness Day. Before this year, it was a day I knew nothing about. Now that my son and I are both participating in peer grief support groups our participation in this day was a no brainer. He wanted to wear the special shirts that Good Grief was providing to participants and I took on the task of spreading the word to family and friends using some brochures and social media. I came across and shared this TED Talk titled "Grief is Good" which I found to be particularly powerful.
Nothing could have prepared me though for what happened at my son's school. On November 15th I sent him in with a brochure about Children's Grief Awareness Day and a note explaining how he would be participating the next day by wearing his Good Grief shirt. That afternoon, my cell phone rang and I found myself choking back tears as his teachers asked if it would be okay to send out a request to the parents of his classmates for the children to wear blue in support of the grief day. I was overwhelmed by their thoughtfulness and care and agreed that would be a wonderful thing to do.
|In our Good Grief shirts for CGAD on November 16th|
As I was walking him to school the next morning, I let Domani know that his teachers had sent out a notice about Children's Grief Awareness Day and that some of his friends in his class may wear blue to school to show their support. He was so happy. Later that day when I got a notification that a photo had been posted to the classroom app I cautiously opened it up, hoping that some kids had remembered and worn some blue. What I saw was my smiling son in the middle of a sea of blue, arms slung around two classmates in the happiest way. It was a most amazing moment and I was thankful beyond words.
The support network that I see growing around him reminds me of the one that surrounded me in those first months and years after Joe's death. It was critical for me as I grieved and is one of the reasons why I am in such a different place now six years later than I was then. Now as Domani grows and begins moving through his own grieving process, I am encouraged that he has his own network of friends, family, and caring adults to see him through. If there is one thing that the last eight years going back to Joe's diagnosis have taught me it's that we are stronger when we do the hard things together. What power and blessing there are in community and solidarity!
Thursday, September 28, 2017
September is already on its way out and with any luck it will take with it the summer weather that has stuck around just a bit too long. We are officially into the fall and soon enough the weather will undoubtedly catch up. Without fail, the change of season from summer to fall is a trigger for me. It was the time when Joe's health started to decline and so the fall included the last times that he, Domani, and I ventured out as a family. This year, though, the summer, too, carried its own weight so as the calendar turned to September and I felt the usual stirrings, I also felt myself finally starting to process the months that had come before.
I have realized several helpful things.
One - Loss and grief are unpredictable and can never be packed up in a neat box. In many ways, I have born witness to the pain of loss and grief in the lives of my friends and family over the past several months. In my own home, I continue to engage with my son as he works to process his dad's death. The quote that keeps coming back to me is one of my favorites from Anne Lamott.
I am thankful for the ways that I have moved from mourning to joy in my own life even in the midst of additional losses and the distinct pain that comes with them. I am also glad that I have learned enough about myself and the ways I grieve that I can do it with patience and find the strength through my faith to be there for others who are experiencing a loss.
Two - There are some people who are in our lives for just a season and that is perfectly fine. It's important to soak up all of the good from that time, learn lessons where applicable, and let go when the time is right. It was true for me in more than one way over the last few months and the letting go has opened itself up to more good than I could have thought possible in even this short time - new people, new experiences, personal growth, deeper relationships - in a word, it's been healthy. It makes me think back to the biggest example of this in my life so far - when I finally accepted the end of a toxic relationship only to open the door to reuniting with Joe. Expending energy on pieces of life that are better let go keeps that energy from all of those other healthier places. I'm relieved that I was able to leave behind the toxicity all of those years ago and to once again accept when the season called for change and the redirection of my energy now.
Three - Although a week plus at Disney World certainly tested the boundaries, I could not be more thankful for my family. All 10 of us took on Orlando for our family vacation this year and it was not lost on me how lucky I am to have a family I can enjoy myself with for that long in such a high stress environment.
While we were there, I watched my super-mom sister Karen navigate her 3 children all under the age of 7 around 8 days of Disney World, ensuring that they saw and did each thing they wanted to do. It was nothing short of miraculous and we have over 700 official Disney pictures to prove it.
I watched my dad tear up as he witnessed his grandkids getting hugs from princesses and then laugh with joy while getting his own photo with Chewbacca. It was not too long ago that my dad couldn't even walk around the floor during his hospital stay let alone spend 6 days walking around Disney World. At that realization, I was the one with tears in my eyes. We had serious life conversations late into the night while lounging in the hot tub, played insanely competitive poker games wagering whatever random things were lying around the dining room, and covered more miles than I can count making memories that will last a lifetime.
|A very happy Dad making friends with Chewbacca|
I've always known that my family is something special. After all, not only can I survive a week at Disney World with them, but they inspire me, encourage me, hold me accountable, and love me unconditionally. But there has been something about these past few months that has made me realize on a deeper level just how fortunate I am to have such a close-knit, loving family in my life. They are a lifeline and God knows I need that right now more than I ever have before.
|Heading out to the field to run the bases|
after our last game of the year!
Yet even on our worst days this season when it was nearly impossible to find a "fan" with a good word to say, I still had the privilege of enjoying baseball with my son. We did it for 20+ games between NYC and Philadelphia and because I never know when that privilege may be taken from us, I will never take it for granted. Domani is a smart and enthusiastic baseball fan. He studies statistics, watches replays, and now knows more about the Mets roster than I do. He cheers for his Mets in any and all circumstances. It is a pleasure going to games with him.
This season he decided that he wanted to choose an American League team to cheer for as well. To make his decision, he studied. He spent many weeks following statistics and standings, reading about players, and checking out replays from games. About two months ago, he chose the Twins. (There was, admittedly, quite a bit of lobbying from my co-worker Mr. Seth, although this only served to make Domani resistant initially.) I guess the good news now is that at least one of us has a team to cheer on into October. It also doesn't hurt my "Ya Gotta Believe" optimism that Mr. Seth's Twins finished last year with 103 losses, even worse than our Mets this year. Tonight, I watched them celebrate clinching a Wild Card spot. You never know what can happen in a year.
|Showing off his Twins hat and batting stance|
Five - When I think I can't, I still can. A running lesson re-learned. While I was training for the Philly Marathon in 2014 in hopes of qualifying for Boston I learned a lesson on a particularly tough 10 mile run that powered me through to qualifying then and still stays with me - "When I think I can't, I can." The problem is that recently I have been talking myself out of it in a hundred different circumstances. This past month I decided that no matter what I would not let that happen.
Earlier this year I had signed up for the Newport Jersey City Half Marathon because it was a package deal with the Newport 10k. I fully intended on doing some training for it, but I didn't. I have no good reason for not training. I just didn't. Even so, I am still in decent running shape and my doctor assured me the week before the race at my annual physical that all systems were go. So, I decided my mantra would be "when I think I can't, I can" and even though an Afghan Whigs show the night before got me into my Jersey City hotel at 3am I was at the start line and ready to go by the 8:30am gun time.
|Mid-race selfie with the Statue of Liberty|
It was my slowest half marathon ever. Slower than the first one I ran in Miami Beach for my birthday. Slower than the Disney World one when I stopped and took photos with characters. Slower than my slowest by over 5 minutes. But I felt so good about it. I hadn't run the distance in a year so completing the race at a steady pace left me feeling powerful again. I'm claiming it as a personal victory because that is exactly how it felt - a beautiful reminder that when I think I can't, I still can. I feel like it's a mantra I can start carrying again in my life and one that I can allow to seep in much deeper than just for running.
Six - Music is still my best medicine and concerts my ultimate church. All summer long I had been looking forward to the fall for one big reason - all of the concerts. Starting with The Afghan Whigs in September and ending with Voodoo Fest in New Orleans, I spent the summer listening to music and longing for my opportunity once again to hear it all live.
|Brooklyn Steel. 9/16/17|
The Afghan Whigs shows did not disappoint. Three shows, each of them unique. So many of my friends there with me. Music that stirred up all of the feelings. A meet and greet with special merch in Philly. The performance in its entirety of In Spades at The Bowery Ballroom. Front and center with some of my most favorite people for a rock your face off set at Brooklyn Steel. Remembering Dave Rosser with love alongside others who got it.
|With Malinda. Philly. 9/12/17|
|Into The Floor. Philly. Viva La Rosser. 9/12/17|
Live Afghan Whigs shows can keep me going for weeks except that this time my music high was interrupted by some shitty news. I couldn't even process it when I saw that Charles Bradley had died. I thought back to when I first saw him in September 2012 at ATP's I'll Be Your Mirror Festival in New York City. I stood near Greg Dulli watching him perform one of the most exciting sets I had ever heard. I remembered October 2014 when I saw him open for The Afghan Whigs at The Beacon Theatre. He was my favorite part of that show and by that point I knew the words to almost all of his songs I had listened to him so much. His music changed me that night and continues to change me as I listen to it today. It's almost as if I have little personal revelations whenever I listen to his songs. Before his cancer came back he had returned to touring and was scheduled to play at Voodoo Fest in October. His name on the lineup was one of the reasons I so wanted to be there. I'm going to miss the Screaming Eagle of Soul, but am so thankful that I can continue singing along with my decidedly worse voice to his soul-shaking music.
EPILOGUE - Over the past few days as I have been writing this post, Domani has taken an interest in having me read to him from this blog. It's a little overwhelming. It started out one night when he was feeling sad about missing his dad and wanted to hear some stories about him. Having already read him the many photo books we have multiple times, I got the idea to offer him something a little different. So, I pulled up a post from 5 years ago that had come up in my Facebook memories and I read it to him. We laughed and cried together. At several points I stopped and asked him if he wanted me to continue reading, which he did. We finished that first post and he wanted me to read more. The following night, he again wanted to hear one of the "poems" I wrote about his daddy. We read the post I wrote on the first anniversary of Joe's death. He especially loved the photos and the parts of the post that mentioned him. He told me when we were done that he wants me to keep reading to him about his daddy. Reading those posts to him was an incredibly bonding experience. I'm looking forward to more of it as he is ready.
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
I woke up last Wednesday morning still sleepy and reached for my phone, looking forward to yet another sunny day at the Jersey shore. There was plenty of stress brewing back at work and my body was feeling ragged, but at least I was on vacation. I was away with my little guy and he was with his cousins. We had books to read, salty air to breathe, and the ocean to play in.
Before starting my day, as I do most mornings, I wandered between Twitter and Facebook to see what was new with friends and family and the world around me. What was new was grief.
GRIEF PART ONE
First it was one random post. Then another. And then a flood. Until finally, it was the only thing in my timeline. Dave Rosser had died. Dave Rosser, who not only played guitar with The Twilight Singers and The Gutter Twins, but also with The Afghan Whigs. Dave Rosser, who was not only an insanely talented musician, but a remarkable human being. Dave Rosser, who was diagnosed with colon cancer in October.
|With Dave Rosser before the October 5, 2012|
show at Terminal 5 in NYC
Talk about ripping a bandage off an old wound. Our favorite music. That same pesky fucking disease. Even right down to them both playing the guitar. These moments don't happen anywhere near as often now - almost 6 years since Joe died - but when they do, it's a bitch. It was a day of not knowing what to do with myself.
By that point in the week I was finishing up a book called Baseball Life Advice by Stacey May Fowles and starting a book called The Long Run by Catriona Menzies-Pike. If not for the insight from these two books this week I might have found myself today in a messy heap on my bedroom floor. More on the rest of the week in a bit.
BASEBALL LIFE ADVICE
Baseball Life Advice was one of those books that had me alternating between talking out loud to the author as if she's my BFF, crying behind my sunglasses, and trying to downplay my obnoxious guffaws. My reading of it seemed to be timed perfectly with what was unfolding in my life. So it goes sometimes in what I like to think of as these miracle moments because when I chose this book for my vacation reading I obviously had no idea what would be brewing.
It only took me the first chapter to know that Ms. Fowles is "my people". It's there where she explains her deep affection for baseball with prose that had me wiping away tears and carrying on whole conversations with the text. Except for a few details, I could have written many of the words myself and that was incredibly comforting.
In one section she writes, "Baseball became "my thing," and its stadiums my church, a place to pray in times of hopelessness, the source of a solace I couldn't find elsewhere. I never feel more human, or more sane, than I do inside a ballpark."
And I thought, "Yes, yes, YES!"
Baseball has been my medicine since Joe died. Going to games with my son. Going to games with friends. Being alone at games. There is both communion and medicine for me at the ballpark. The crack of the bat. The taste of a pretzel and a cold beer. The isolated cheers that grow to fill the stadium. A stolen base. The predictability of the 7th inning stretch. The crowd on its feet for that final strike. The deafening roar at a game-winning homer. Knowing that more often than not my Mets will break my heart and that will remind me of life too...because that is what's real.
Ms. Fowles includes in her book a quote from Roger Angell's book The Summer Game which has stuck with me all week.
"This was a new recognition that perfection is admirable but a trifle inhuman, and that a stumbling kind of semi-success can be much more warming. Most of all, perhaps, these exultant yells for the Mets were also yells for ourselves, and came from a wry, half-understood recognition that there is more Met than Yankee in every one of us."
Truth be told, I've been feeling very "Met" recently. And not the 2015 postseason-bound Mets or the 1986 World Series Champion Mets or the 1969 Miracle Mets. I've been feeling a lot like the "now" Mets and it seems like every time I turn around there is a new thing in my way. This year the Mets seem to have injury upon injury and I just seem to be accumulating life stuff.
I wasn't going to get to a ballpark until Saturday, but thankfully we filled in the gap with some baseball on the beach with the kids. It was my son's favorite part of vacation and for sure one of the most tender times for me to both watch and join. It was impossible to do without envisioning how Joe would have fit into the mix. I guess these things were on my little guy's mind too.
GRIEF PART TWO
It was two days after the news of Dave Rosser's death when he approached me on the beach looking sad. He cuddled right up to me and wanted to have his beach towel wrapped around him. Once he was comfortable I asked him what he was thinking and if he was ok. I don't think I'll ever forget what he said to me.
He told me that he wants to be a baby again. When I asked what he meant he said that he wants to stop his life where it is and start it over again because he misses his daddy. If the news of Dave Rosser's death was like ripping a bandage off an old wound, these words from my 6 year old were like that scene from Temple of Doom where the beating heart is ripped out of the guy's chest. I couldn't even catch my breath as I processed what it meant for him to think this deeply about his loss and how much he wants to have his dad here with him.
I do everything I can to surround him with love and help him grow, but I cannot give him his father back. I can grieve with him (which I did) and I can share stories with him (which I did), but there is this space in his life which Joe occupies that I just cannot fill for him. I am realizing more and more that he is on a grief journey too. He certainly will rely on many of the people around him to love and support him, but in the end it will be his journey.
There were many lovely things about Catriona Menzies-Pike book, not the least of which being that it kept encouraging me to run while I was reading it - encouragement which has not been easy to come by for me of late given some seemingly endless health challenges. The most important part to me though was a section at the end because it captured my own feelings towards running while also reminding me to be gentle with myself through all that life throws my way.
"I might not have become a champion, but I've become a runner, and somewhere along the way I stopped raging about what my life might have been like if that plane hadn't crashed. That's a life that I can now see has been plotted by surprises: including both an horrific airplane crash and the discovery of contentment in running. I've been fit enough to run marathons and, in between, I have slowed down and sped up again, delighted by my body's capacity for renewal. There are many limits to my progress as a runner: some of them lie within me, some are beyond my control. Instead of trying to master the contingencies, I just live with them."
If there is one thing that I have learned in my years of running since Joe died it's that so much running advice is also good life advice. So, perhaps for me right now life calls for a little less of trying to master the contingencies and a little more trying to live with them.
Last night, the little guy and I were back at the ballpark and for good measure I went in my Viva La Rosser shirt. It just felt right.
(I encourage you to check out both books... Baseball Life Advice: Loving the Game That Saved Me by Stacey May Fowles and The Long Run: A Memoir of Loss and Life in Motion by Catriona Menzies-Pike)