Starting with the Couch

It started with "What would you think about moving this couch over there?" while we were co-working from my house. It seemed like a simple enough suggestion and I was feeling hungry for some change. The next thing I knew the work from home day had melded into spend each minute of break time and the rest of the evening going full Marie Kondo on my house - and I love my friend Adam for it more than I could ever put into words.

In the end, this wasn't just about rearranging some furniture or throwing out some old stuff. This was about another step on my journey of piecing together life without Joe.

I may be the organizer by profession, but he was always the organized one in our relationship. With him, everything had a place and he regularly enforced the rule that if something new came into the house, then something old went out. He was never about accumulating stuff and that was one of the many ways that we balanced each other out. 

I was the collector between the two of us and I had plenty of glorious collections. I remember him making me go through my piles of VHS tapes after we moved in together. Very few movies survived. While he didn't force me to get rid of any CDs, he did insist their containers go and that they be stored in a binder. He tried to pare down my action figure collection too, but some things were just non-negotiable if our marriage was going to work. 

Joe kept our place clean and made sure it never became overrun with things. He kept this up even when our newborn was added to the mix, which was no small feat. 

After he died, I had help from many friends and family members to keep up with our place, but as time went on and the routines of life grew around us, my son and I did our best to work out our own rhythms in the midst of everything else. Those rhythms became a once in awhile purging instead of a daily discipline of thoughtfulness with regard to our things. Two separate years since his death, I spent the Lent season working my way through the 40 Bags in 40 Days discipline. Each time, I didn't only make physical space in our home I made spiritual, emotional, and mental space within myself.

It's been over 3 years since I last did this extensive work of cleaning and making space.

I didn't even notice how much the state of our home had impacted my emotional and mental health until we started moving the furniture around on Tuesday. By the time we had finished rearranging the living room and found a proper home for the many things that once occupied the space, I felt Joe's presence in a way I haven't in that room in a very long time. I can't describe it, but it was palpable.

Of course, rearranging the living room led to a few bags of things that actually belonged in our shed. So, once the work meetings were done that was the next stop. The shed is one place that still holds lots of obvious memories of Joe. Until he got sick, he was the one who took care of the yard work and used all of the associated tools and gadgets. The shed is also home to the bicycles that haven't been used since before his cancer diagnosis and the inflatable kayaks that met the same fate. Over the years, the shed had become less and less organized with each season that passed. 

There wasn't time for a full rework of the shed, but the warped cornhole boards were put out for the trash along with old political yard signs and an assortment of other items that were damaged beyond use. An old garbage can became home to my son's sports equipment, some of which was being relocated from the living room, and all the beach items were finally put in one place. 

After about 45 minutes of sweaty work, the shed was transformed and ready to be used without the gymnastics of navigating items wedged in just carefully enough to get the door to close.

The living room. The shed. It was a lot for one day when also combined with a full day of work. But why not keep going, right?

When I said I could never put into words how much I love Adam for doing this with me, it's the kitchen that I think of the most. I know this would have been the room to make Joe the craziest had he been here to take a peek at it. The "tupperware" cabinet was so packed it was no longer usable. We had snacks. candy, and coffee stacked up on a section of the countertop with random appliances taking up most of the rest of the counter space. There were things in the cabinets so deeply hidden that I had forgotten I owned them.

After about an hour of work in the kitchen, I had to leave for an event at my son's school. By the time I returned, Adam had sorted through that exploding tupperware cabinet and made sense of how best to organize everything with the space I had available. It was one of the nicest things someone has done for me in awhile. 

As we cleaned out what had become a junk drawer in the kitchen (I will never again separate cups from their lids by the way), I came across a tiny chocolate from The Ritz Carlton. I instantly recognized it. as being from the trip that our young family took to Washington, DC to see the Mets play the Nationals in September 2011. It was our son's first Mets game and we splurged to stay at the same hotel where the Mets players were staying. It was a very special weekend and I brought the chocolate, which had been left on our pillow one of the nights, back home with us to remember it. 

Joe died 3 months after that weekend trip. That was one old, but meaningful chocolate. 

Making space is never just about cleaning out a drawer to make room for the cutting boards.

That tiny square of chocolate brought me back to the time I was cleaning out spaces in our house that first Lent in 2014. That's when I finally decided to eat the two chocolate teddy bears from the last Thanksgiving we shared with Joe. What I learned then is that when the time is right, it's right. As we worked to make space in the kitchen, I no longer felt any reason to hang onto it, so I carefully unwrapped and then ate the Ritz Carlton chocolate. It didn't taste great, but the sweetness of the memory sure made up for what the chocolate had lost over the years.

It took us much longer to finish reorganizing the kitchen than we planned, but making our way through those 3 spaces changed my whole attitude. I'm so thankful that I agreed to move that couch and am feeling more than ready to tackle what's next.

Thinking About Fifty Years

There's nothing quite like burying a 50-year time capsule to get you thinking about the big stuff.

Life.

Death.

Legacy.

What am I doing here and does it even really matter?

On Sunday, as part of our church's 300th anniversary celebration members of our congregation wrote personal stories and notes on colorful slips of paper. We then placed them in a time capsule with the intention of having it opened by our church's members in 2073. 

Admittedly, the idea of 2073 sent my mind wandering.

Thoughts of climate catastrophes and natural disasters settled in first. Is there any way that this spot where we are burying this time capsule right now will still hold it safely in 50 years? 

I hope so, was the honest answer playing in my mind as I looked at my 13-year old son sitting next to his cousins.

It was surreal periodically catching his eye as we moved through the service. The math of 50 years is unmistakable. Fifty years ago my parents were not even married yet. Fifty years from now these two people who have given so much to our church community won't be here to reopen that time capsule.

From my position up front with the praise band there were many times when I felt the tears well up as I looked out over the room of people who have been so impactful in my life. And as I felt the presence of those now gone who once occupied those church pews.

There is something deeply powerful about the way we are all connected through time and space.

I kept reminding myself to fully take in the moment, almost as if pinching myself in order to embrace the beauty of what we were doing there together.

During our service, as members came forward to place their personal notes in the time capsule we sang From the Inside Out by Hillsong United. The chorus felt particularly poignant.

Everlasting

Your Light will shine when all else fades

Never ending
Your Glory goes beyond all fame
And the cry of my heart is to bring You praise
From the inside out
Lord, my soul cries out

As I watched everyone bring forward a piece of their own story and place it into the capsule, I thought about the many special moments I had experienced within this congregation over my lifetime. It was like a beautiful movie playing with too many supporting characters to count - so many distinct puzzle pieces coming together in beautiful community.

On my own paper, I wrote about Joe's death and how that led me to partner with my mom and others to bring the GriefShare program to our church.  There have been hundreds of people who have found care and support in that space we created over these last 12 years. Joe's death was awful, but what a legacy it is that God took that worst moment in my life to speak to the worst moments of so many others. 

Outside at the end of our church service, we gathered around and sang Great Is Thy Faithfulness as my nephew placed the capsule in the ground. Later that afternoon, my son and his Confirmation Class helped shovel the dirt on top of it, burying all that we had poured into those notes for the next 50 years.

My son and his classmates will be 63 years old.

If I am still alive I will be 95. I thought of this as I looked at the older members of my church and imagined myself in their shoes. I hope my life is held to be even a fraction as faithful and impactful as I have known theirs to be.

The reality is that many members of our current church congregation will have died by the time that capsule is reopened. That's tough to swallow, but if there is any lesson to be taken in from the 300 years of our church's existence, it is that a legacy built on following God endures. Things may look different 50 years from now in ways that we cannot even imagine today, but I believe in God's love and the power of community to meet that moment.

What a special gift it will be for the members of our future church to read the stories of the church of 2023. Fifty years from now, much will likely have faded, but the assurance that God's light is everlasting and that a new generation will be able to have their souls cry out encourages me beyond words.

Three Hundred Years is a Big Cloud of Witnesses

It’s January 21, 2023 and today my church - Kingston Presbyterian - celebrated 300 years as an established faith community. For the last 45 years of those 300, this has been my church community and for the last 100+ years, it has been the church community of my extended family. 

My soul is filled as I think back over all KPC has meant to me and my family over a century of seeking God, doing justice, and loving mercy. It hasn’t always been perfect or happy and there have been plenty of bumps and bruises along the way, but I have learned to love God, love others, and do things I never imagined I could do - all within this small community rooted in God’s love.

So many significant parts of my childhood and teen years reside within and outside the four walls of our church building. There were youth group sleepovers where we played games like hide and seek and capture the flag - and where we rarely ever actually slept. I learned to serve with others at our work camps in Maine and had fun at Vacation Bible School. There were musicals like Jonah and Christmas pageants galore. We grew closer to God and each other through weekend retreats to Lake Champion and camping at the Creation Music Festival. I learned to play hand bells and even found a space in our praise band. Through this faith community, I have made some of my most precious friends.

At KPC, I grew up marking most Easter mornings with a sunrise service at Lake Carnegie in Princeton, a tradition I enjoy now with my own son. For as long as I can remember Christmas Eve has meant the beauty of Silent Night by candlelight and a new ornament for our tree. These special moments and many others like them didn’t just happen spontaneously. They were tended with love by the many faithful witnesses in our congregation - some who are still with us and many more who are not.

KPC was the first true intergenerational community I came to know and a space that has been full of encouragers and role models over the years. It is where I was baptized and then, 32 years later, my own son was baptized. It is where I gained the confidence to speak in public and to take on leadership roles at a young age. It is where I was supported in trying new things and venturing out beyond my comfort zone. What a privilege that I have also been able to witness the same encouragement shown to my son and to so many others over the years.

This church is the community that surrounded me with endless practical support, love, and prayers when our young family experienced the crushing loss of my husband Joe. They wept with us, cared for us, and encouraged me to continue turning to God with all of the pain I held. I am forever grateful for those who shared their own stories of grief, love, and resilience during that time. Miraculously, this church is also where that deep loss has transformed into the ability to support so many other people who are grieving the death of a loved one through our church's now 10 year old GriefShare ministry. 

As we gathered today as a church community, I marveled at the way that we each impact one another, sometimes in ways that we never even understand or could possibly foresee. A gift that I had forgotten about giving holds a place of prominence for the person who received it. The care of a beloved church member in meticulously recording the details of past church events brings joy and laughter even years after her death. The "painting genes" of a great grandparent gently reveal themselves in the effort of her great-grandson.

Celebration Lunch at KPC 1/21/2023

This is the beauty of community - that together we are better and stronger than any one of us separately and that there is tremendous power when we follow those gentle nudgings of God's voice. Today I am thankful for the cloud of witnesses that has made Kingston Presbyterian Church what it is these 300 years later and I am looking forward to a year full of events to both honor that history and love and spur us on to new challenges ahead.

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Sleeping in the Stars

Last week, as I was driving home from work, a song came on my playlist that almost forced me to the side of the road. It's not a new one, but if I had heard it prior I certainly was not paying attention. From the first two lines, the tears started coming and by the chorus I was full on ugly crying while driving north on 95. 

I've listened to this beautiful song by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill more times than I'd like to admit over the past week. It keeps drawing me in and forms a sort of soundtrack as memories of my life with Joe race through my mind. I realized tonight that it feels especially poignant now with the calendar turning to our son's 12th birthday. With such a big marker approaching, I have no doubt that it's the music video that my mind creates as I listen that has brought me back to listening over and over again.

While I was driving to a meeting tonight, listening to the song and bawling (again) it fully clicked for me. The deep pain I've been feeling this week is a natural extension of being a first hand witness to our incredible son growing up without his dad. It has sucked from the moment Joe died and as Domani creeps closer and closer to adulthood, more and more is revealed of what is missing for both of us, but especially for him. 

There is something about Domani's birthday this year that is hitting different. Looking at him I feel like he has gone from little boy to young man almost overnight. Every 3 months he needs new shoes and I can barely keep up with everything he eats. He can keep up in adult conversations and has taken on new levels of responsibility all around. Sometimes it is awe inspiring, sometimes bittersweet and every once in awhile it is downright gut wrenching. But it is a time that his dad would have loved to be here to walk him through. And Joe would have been so good at it.

Instead, with each year that passes, I work to fill in the gaps - all the while seeing more and more of "Joe" in him. 

His technical know how.

His curiosity. 

His kindness.

His sense of humor. 

His thoughtfulness.

His looks.

His compassion.

His memory.

If you knew Joe, it is impossible to be around Domani and not see "Joe" things pop up in some way.  I have found that the similarities are comforting and painful all at the same time and I have realized that I am grappling with the nuances of that dichotomy on a regular basis.

I more often remember with a smile than tears and I do my best to name for Domani the parts of him that remind me of his dad. I know that is a gift for him - maybe not the kind of gift he expects to receive for his 12th birthday - but a gift nonetheless.

As for  me, I'll probably listen to this song a bunch more times. It's a lovely reminder of the bond the two of us shared and the many ways that Joe is still carried forward in our lives today.

September 2022 in OCNJ

Sleeping in the Stars by Tim McGraw & Faith Hill

When God calls me home
And my soul is laid to rest
That won't mean I'm gone
Darling heaven knows
I'll love you just the same
So, don't you feel alone
You may cry a tear or two and that's okay
Just know I'll never be too far away

I'll be sleeping in the stars
Shining through the dark
Watching, smiling, singing out in the silence
Everywhere you are I'll be sleeping in the stars

Some steps that we take
Leave an everlasting mark
Even death can't take away
So, if you're missing me
Just look inside your heart
And let the memories play

You may cry a tear or two and that's okay
Look up and know I'm not that far away

I'll be sleeping in the stars
Shining through the dark
Watching, smiling, singing out in the silence
Everywhere you are I'll be sleeping in the stars

I'll be sleeping in the stars
Shining through the dark
Watching, smiling, singing out in the silence
Everywhere you are I'll be sleeping in the stars
Everywhere you are I'll be sleeping in the stars

Happy Birthday to Me...Still Without Him (but with so much else carried forward)

It's been ten years since my first birthday after Joe died. When March 8th rolled around in 2012, it had only been three months since that awful day. My grief overwhelmed every aspect of my life and I felt like no measure of joy would ever return. I had an 18 month old son and was facing the prospect of raising him alone - something that was obviously never the plan. I felt helpless and like no one could possibly understand.  It was the hardest birthday of my life to date. 

Don't get me wrong. I had plenty of family, friends, and co-workers who supported me. There was evidence of the legacy of love that Joe left all around, but I still felt lost and painfully alone. So, I returned to the thing that has often brought me comfort. Unsure of what else to do to work my way out of the grief box I was in, I started writing. This time, though, I didn't take to writing in a private journal as I had done since I was young. I took a leap and started this blog. Unsure if anyone would read it (aside from my own parents and Joe's mom), but sure that I needed it, I wrote my first post with tears in my eyes and a knot in the pit of my stomach. 

In the ten years since, I have written and published 160 posts since that very first one. Each post, whether it was about my grief or not, helped me keep moving forward. Over the years, I've attended (and eventually led) grief support groups. I've consumed media of all kinds from books to music to art and have had countless conversations with friends and strangers alike about life and death. Last year, I completed a certificate class in End of Life care. I've been on a path that I never would have predicted, but one that has both challenged me and brought me peace and comfort.

Last night, I found myself having an intense yet beautiful conversation with my son about death. He had some burning questions on his mind and wanted to talk.

That moment, which could have been extremely awkward and painful, made me thankful for all of the open talks we had about death in my family growing up. For my own father who hasn't shied away from letting us know that he has song and scripture suggestions written in the back of his Bible. For my G-Mom who shared openly with me about her own grieving after my grandfather died and who carefully wrote each of us a heartfelt note which we received after she died. For my good friends who held me accountable for finalizing my own will and life insurance and end of life wishes when no on else our age was even considering such things. 

It doesn't mean that death sucks any less, but at least all of these positive influences and all of this grappling has helped me land in a place where I can acknowledge death as a natural part of life.

It has taken time and a lot of work on my part to find my way out of that painful grief box, but over these last ten years I've seen how grief is indeed a journey and moving forward in it doesn’t mean we forget our people. We find ways to honor them that also honor the continued living of our own lives. We move from painful ambushes of grief to sweet rememberings. We learn how to carry our love with us through the years.

 
Joe is still present in our lives - in some obvious ways and in some ways that are only visible to those who know Whether it's a song, which at one time brought overwhelming sadness, but now warms my heart and reminds me of my beloved Joe or a son who at 11 years old embodies mannerisms and habits that can only be traced back to his dad, there is progress. It's a progress that likely won't be complete until my own death, but I'm thankful for each step that allows me to breathe a little deeper and live a little more freely.

I expect this year to be a quiet birthday. I'll get up early to take in the sunrise on a walk around my neighborhood. I'll have a full day of work with a scheduled break to enjoy a birthday lunch with my sister. I'll attend some meetings in the evening and then do something fun with my not-so-little-anymore guy. And I'll be thankful that I get to celebrate another birthday - even if it is still without Joe.

From my 30th birthday
One of my favorite birthday photos with Joe

The Mystery of the Christmas Lights

Towards the end of last week I read a book called Words at the Threshold by Lisa Smartt. It's mostly an examination of the words people say as they are nearing death, but there were also some parts that dealt with experiences of family members after the death of their loved one. The timing of reading Smartt's book could not have been more perfect because it had a section titled "Doorbells, Alarms, and Lightbulbs" and I was having some of my own issues with such things in this week leading up to the 10th anniversary of Joe's death. I found that two and a half page section to be speaking directly to me and it was both liberating and heartwarming.

You see, I've been down this road before with things not working as they should. Not long after Joe died Domani and I took a trip down to Washington, DC. We had done the same trip in the same car (the one that belonged to Joe) together as a family the previous fall to watch the Mets play the Nationals. This time though, the car stereo on this not-even-2-year-old SUV decided to completely crap out just as we were ready to leave. I tried everything I could think of to get it working again because the prospect of a 3 hour drive with no music seemed truly awful. I remember talking to Joe, asking him to help me fix it and wondering if this was all just him trying to get my attention.

Then, at some point (I don't remember exactly when) it just started working again. No service required. No rhyme or reason. No obvious intervention on my part. It just started working again. Common sense told me it must have just been a loose wire or a faulty connection that resolved itself when I went over a bump. I'm sure there could be a thousand logical explanations and so I chalked it up to a quirky coincidence even though I knew in my heart it connected me back to Joe.

Then, I started hearing stories from other widows. They shared with me their own interactions with electricity and every day items that require power to run. Clicking off and on. Working and then not working and then working again. All at moments or in ways that had some particular significance. Many of them felt the same presence, the same saying hello as these things happened that I did with the car stereo. I found comfort in those stories and told Joe that I'd listen and pay attention.

Fast forward to now and the story of Joe's little tree and the outdoor Christmas lights.

We have a tree in our home that we call the "Joe Tree". It was the tree that he had in his apartment before we were married. His mother had bought it for him and started him off with a selection of ornaments so that he had some Christmas in his place. I love her for that. It has white lights and a beautiful gold star tree topper that also plugged in and lit up. Our favorite ornament that goes on the "Joe Tree" is a naked Peter from The Family Guy holding a strategically placed present. The tree is both fun and sentimental.

Joe and I continued putting up his little tree in our home after we married and when he died it took on an extra special meaning as Domani and I put it up each year. We add to it ornaments from places that we have visited. It's our way of sharing those adventures with Joe.

This year, we carefully brought the tree down from the attic and set it in its spot in the living room. We plugged it in and enjoyed its lights for a few days before putting on any ornaments. Wouldn't you know it though that just as we were preparing to decorate, the lights stopped working. Domani decided we would replace the white lights that weren't working with new multi-color lights. And then we plugged in the star which was also not working. Obviously it's not unique for lights to stop working. Any of us who have cussed out a strand of lights while trying to decorate can attest to that. It's the timing and 1-2 combo of the lights and the star that caught my attention and once again had me noticing Joe with a smile and a quiet nod. 

However, I was not at all prepared for what happened next.

It was time for the grand finale of "Doorbells, Alarms, and Lightbulbs" - this time with the outdoor Christmas lights. My mom had offered to help me put up the rest of the outdoor lights I hadn't gotten to so they would be up when we held Joe's remembrance yesterday. On Friday afternoon, she came over and put up lights on our trellis, bushes, and along the back fence. When night came and the lights clicked on I noticed there was one strand along the fence that was completely out. I tried adjusting them that night and even took a look the next morning. I just couldn't figure it out and had resigned myself to having one strand out for the Christmas season.

When I told my mom about it she confided that she hadn't tested the lights, just asked Joe for his help in making sure they all worked. She jokingly complained that Joe hadn't done his job and we both got a laugh.

That night I arrived back home to the lights still out. I left the house for all of 2 hours and when I came back the strand was ON! I immediately was thankful to my mom for coming over and fixing the lights. Except that when I asked her about it the next morning, she said it wasn't her. At that point, there was no holding back the tears because we both knew in our hearts what had happened. I'm done trying to find logical explanations for things that are, in fact, liminal in nature. 

There are ways that Joe still says hi even 10 years later and sometimes that way is as simple as turning on the lights.

Lent and Grief and Waiting for Easter

Anyone who knew both Joe and me also knows that he was the neat and organized one who could always put his finger on anything he was looking for and I am the messy one who is always searching for something I put somewhere. So, to say that Joe would have been amused (and thrilled) with my Lenten undertaking this year would be an understatement. For the second time since he died, I decided to embark on the "40 bags in 40 days" idea and ride the wave of cleaning, organizing, and moving things out of my life.

When I completed this in 2014, it was intense. It involved finally eating the two chocolate bears that were in my refrigerator (one with my name and one with Joe's) from three Thanksgivings before and wrestling over and over again with WWJD (in this case, What Would Joe Do?)

Over the past 46 days (Sundays are "little Easters" in Lent for those who don't know), I have cleaned out a wide variety of spaces in every room of my home. For good measure, I even added in some spaces not in my home. I used this opportunity to clean out the car that was Joe's and is now mine and to start throwing away some non-essential items in my office. For the most part though, I was tackling my overrun junk drawers, packed until they burst cabinets, and closets that could have been hiding just about anything.

I shared with a friend early on in the journey that I always feel more connected to Joe when I do things like this because he was the one who would not hold on to things. So, anytime I hit a moment of hesitation, even around things that may *feel* sentimental, I channeled an inner conversation with him and found the resolve to either throw it away or give it away.

Obviously not every item got moved out. During one particular night of work I came across a ticket stub (remember when those were a thing?) to the last concert that Joe and I attended together. We saw Greg Dulli at the Trocadero in Philly. We sat in the balcony because with his colostomy bag and generally weakened state, he wasn't up for standing on the floor - our usual spot at shows. As I looked at that ticket stub and remembered that show it hit me that the Trocadero is now closed. Even before COVID-19, the Troc had closed. At least I have the ticket I thought as I tucked it away in the display on my wall that I have for such things.

Over the course of the last 46 days I have come across so much that reminded me of Joe. It is now almost ten years since he died and after a lot of grief work these remembrances are much more likely to bring smiles than tears for me. I still miss him in a million different ways, but I have learned that processes like this one help me to keep bringing him with me as I move forward in life.

It has been years since I remember having a dream about Joe. But during this process, as I was moving through the spaces of our home and channeling those "inner conversations" I had a dream about him. Even now I get teary thinking about how I felt that morning when I woke up. I don't remember the details of the dream, but the way it made me feel sits deep with me even weeks after it happened. As I found during the first time I spent my Lent cleaning and organizing, there is something profoundly spiritual about making space.

As I made my way through my 40 days I documented each day with a photo. It was pure joy today for me to be able to look back on all of those photos and think about the myriad areas in my life that now have more space. I admit that there have been times that I have opened my drawers just to remind myself that they are not loaded down with things or looked into my bathroom closet just to admire the way that everything has a place. I can feel Joe cheering me on (and also reminding me that there are still random piles of things on the bedroom floor). Perhaps I will get to those too.

I rounded out my 40 bags in 40 days with a Holy Week focused on moving and listening. Each morning no matter the weather I went for a walk (as I have every work day since January 19) and on Good Friday I did something extra special. At the suggestion of a dear friend, I listened to David Suchet read the Gospel of Mark. It took two hours and I listened and walked as the sun came up on Friday morning. 

Throughout that walk there were moments when I stopped to process, to let my tears flow, and to take in all the beauty around me. I was overwhelmed by this story of Jesus that emphasized God's abundance, unconditional love, sacrifice, and even humor. It left me feeling thankful and hopeful, two things I needed at my core.

Tomorrow will be Easter. It will also be Joe's birthday. He would have turned 46. Thanksgiving and hopefulness are two states of being that I crave for myself tomorrow.

Since I found them on my Good Friday walk, it seems fitting that I close out this writing with the photos I took while I was listening to Mark. 

May you encounter the spiritual in a way that leaves you with thanks and hope for the road ahead.

Ten, A Poem

1...

2...

3...

they continue

4...

5...

6...

still more

7...

8...

9...

not quite done because at this moment the final number is

10...

Easy counting

if you're a toddler and don't know

that each one is a minute and a lifetime 

all at the same time.

Two hundred and forty hours of birthdays.

14,400 minutes acknowledging a milestone.

864,000 seconds celebrating without him.

And some of that, 

mercifully, 

I spent sleeping.

Please let me wake up and have it be over or maybe let it last forever 

in pregnant expectation of what could be

Each one

Empty and full.

The glass is both.

It's a steady stare at all that's firmly in the past, but also a bright red arrow pointing to what is still in my

soul.

Joy and pain living together 

like opposites that attract

and refuse to be pulled apart.

Never completely one thing or another

Always some mix of what's gone and what remains

A decade of birthdays with me

and not him.

Written by Anne Luck-Deak, 3/8/2021

Today, my 43rd birthday, was a good day. I didn't work, spent some time with one of my best girlfriends, and ate so many foods I love. Domani and I took some old gift cards and went shopping at Target, we walked on the towpath at sunset, and then grabbed our favorites from Tortugas Mexican Village for dinner. My order was undoubtedly the same one I got 10 years ago today when Joe and I brought 6-month old Domani there to celebrate my birthday.

Dear Joe (A letter on our son's 10th birthday)

Dear Joe,

Today - Sunday, October 11, 2020 - our son turns 10 years old. 

That means it has been 9 years since we celebrated his birthday as a family of 3 - his first and only one with you here. He is way past the Sesame Street of that party, but the memories linger and they make me wonder what it would be like if you were here with us this weekend.

Double digits is a big deal for any kid. It's an even bigger deal when two years earlier Mom promised that 10 is the magic number for being able to get a cell phone. (Yep, I did that.)

The excitement has been building here in the Deak household for more than a month in a way that I only remember counting down to my 17th birthday and my driver's license. Maybe you wouldn't have agreed to the cell phone at age 10 or maybe, given your obsession with all things new in technology, you would have caved even sooner. 

You were always the best gift giver so maybe you would have chosen something I haven't even thought to get him. Maybe we would have celebrated in a completely different way than what I planned. Maybe you would have just suggested pancakes for breakfast and a quiet day inside.

As the time goes by since your death, I feel like I can predict less and less the things you would have done and what you would have thought - not only when it comes to Domani's 10th birthday, but about so many other things too. That gap is a new pain that I've only begun to confront on this now almost 9 year long grief journey.

Sometimes I engage in some real mental gymnastics with the "what ifs" and the "could have beens". I wonder if I am losing you all over again when I can't say for certain that you would have let Domani ride his bike around the block or stay up past 9pm. I go back and forth on whether you would have agreed that Domani could watch shows like Drunk History or Trevor Noah with us. I wonder if he ever would have taken dance lessons or played soccer before trying baseball.

One thing I know, though, is that you would be beaming with pride at Domani the 10 year old. 

Two weeks ago he spent all day Saturday building a gaming PC with my Uncle Bob. He had spent time researching parts and brainstorming about how to get the highest quality parts for the best price. He tracked with excitement as each part arrived and carefully packed them into a tub for transport. 

The whole process reminded me of the gaming setup you created in our basement and I do know that if you were still here this would have been a father-son project for sure.

Beyond his new found interest in computers, he is thoughtful and empathetic, independent and determined. 

He has a quirky sense of humor and is able to land jokes with almost spot-on comedic timing. 

He speaks Spanish, excels at math, and has a memory that means I need to be extra careful what I say and especially what I promise to him. 

He has an interest in bugs even though he will often be freaked out by them. 

He can follow directions to put together small projects like his shoe rack all by himself.

He is kind and loving and always working to do better. 

He has areas to grow too - like his constantly messy room and displays of impatience (he gets both things from me obviously) - but he is an impressive 10 year old which helps me feel like we are on the right path.

We miss you terribly, Joe, and there is no doubt that life would be more full if you were still here with us. But you are not absent from our lives. In fact, you are woven into all that we do and who we are as a family.

So, in those moments when I am unsure if I'm doing things right with our son, I return to a truth that I learned not long after you died. We can only do the best we can with the information we have at the time. Judging our past actions using information we did not have isn't helpful. 

So, today, on our son's 10th birthday, I center myself in that. Even though I may not be certain what you would have picked out for Domani's gift this year or how we would have planned his celebration in the midst of a pandemic, I do know that he has a lot of you in him and that's more than enough for me.

With Love,

Anne

Good Friday in a Pandemic

Good Friday.

The day on our Christian calendar where we fully acknowledge death and the separation it brings. Before Joe died, it was nothing more to me than a speed bump on the way to Easter. Once 2012 rolled around, though, this day began to carry much more weight as I felt the sting of death in unique ways with each passing moment that year.

How much more it stings now for those mourning in the midst of a pandemic as waves of grief are flowing deep and wide around the world.

Good Friday is the world as it is - with all its pain and brokenness, anxiety and fear. Over the years, I have come to appreciate this day not as a speed bump, but as one of the truest reflections of our reality. 

After all, it is in this "world as it is" that we all live. We see it around us starkly now, as family members grieve in isolation without the physical gestures that often get us through those initial moments of shock and despair. We see it in the frontline workers who are confronting an unseen, but deadly virus every day. We see it in the desperation of people whose place in our destructive economy is laid bare in new and frightening ways.

I recognize that in my own life over these past few weeks I have gotten through day to day by finding ways to compartmentalize all of the pain, only allowing it out from time to time in small doses. I have made it a point each day to instead list 10 things for which I am thankful. I have purposefully sought out moments of joy and ways to change up routine within our home.

But today, I observed Good Friday by allowing myself to connect with it. I prayed through the stash of Christmas cards I keep by the side of my bed. As I touched each card and looked at the faces and handwriting of friends, family members, and co-workers, it drew me to the flood of pain that so many of them are working through right now. I began to feel the heartache of living in this world as it is right now.

And then I turned to writing. I have never written so many sympathy cards in one sitting and the truth is that it shook me. We aren't even through this yet and there are so many people who are enduring deep levels of pain and are doing it in isolation. 

I know that I can't fix the grief for my friends or family now any more than they could do that for me 9 years ago. In fact, my favorite card that I dropped in the mail today says on the front "Please let me be the first to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason." (Thank you, Emily McDowell cards.) This is not a time for pithy expressions. It is a time for us to be real with each other and acknowledge that, even though this is our reality, we can show up for each other in the midst of it.

Good Friday is about the world as it is. 

Yes, ultimately we can change that. It can happen through building community. Through organizing. Through showing up for one another. Through the model of hope that comes on Easter morning. 

But let's not rush through today to that. Let's not pretend as if this doesn't hurt. 

Let's allow our friends, our family, our loved ones time to grieve.

Let's allow it to be Good Friday. Easter will come. It's just not here yet.

These Last 10 Years

New Year's Eve 2009 seems like a lifetime away.

Before Domani was born. 

Before Joe's diagnosis. 

Before single parenthood. 

Before running a marathon. 

Before the Afghan Whigs reunion. 

Before the big 4-0.

Before running for school board. 

Before this blog. 

As the enormity of the last decade settled in with me today I had a sudden, overwhelming fear that the stroke of midnight means I am leaving Joe behind. A decade that had started with him and so many hopes and dreams is ending without him. It's not what I had imagined and it sucks.

But, as I thought back over the past ten years I realized that for all of the heartache there has also been incredible joy. It sucks that Joe isn't here with us to enjoy life as it is now, but he is carried with us into this next decade in some special ways - in baseball, in music, in the home we created together, and most importantly in Domani.

The truth is that this past year especially has been a good one.

I read more books than I have in a long time.

I saw some of my favorite bands in concert and even got to a show with my sisters.

I replaced actual marathons with some of the Netflix variety and even managed to peel myself away long enough to do another Spartan race.

I won another kind of race, being elected to our community's school board by only 14 votes.

Domani did his first (& second) Spartan races and just went with me to his first Star Wars movie in the theater.

Domani and I watched Pete Alonso break the rookie single season homerun record from our seats at Citifield.

We perfected our guacamole and experimented with making different foods together.

He started playing Little League and decided he loves rollerblading.

We got to see the Mets play in Chicago, Minneapolis, and Kansas City and visited plenty of museums and other sites.

Before the end of the next decade, Domani will be driving and I will have celebrated my 50th birthday. Both of those things feel overwhelming right now, but if there is one thing I have learned over the last 10 years it's to take each thing one step at a time. So, that's what we will do and we will carry Joe forward with us as we go.

My 2019 "Top Nine"

December 5, 2019

The past month has been a whirlwind. It started with my election to the Jamesburg Board of Education on November 5th and continued with a travel schedule for work that has more than tripled my typical days on the road. Now, as the hours creep closer and closer to December 5th, I find myself in a hotel room in Boston doing a lot of remembering. Tomorrow will be eight years since Joe died and even eight years later this week brings up a whole range of emotions. There are still moments of deep sadness for sure, but as I sit here in the city where we spent our honeymoon I realized that what I feel most is grateful.

I am grateful for who he was and who we were as a couple. I am grateful for how our relationship shaped me then and continues to shape me now. And I am grateful that he lives on in so many ways. He's in that first sound of a new Greg Dulli song or the crack of a bat at a Mets game. He's in the nooks and crannies of our home and each moment that I try like hell to model his patience. And he is most definitely in our son Domani and the countless friends and family members who have continued to love us like he did.

As I was waiting at the airport earlier I started reading back on my old CaringBridge blog posts from the days before Joe died. It's been awhile since I've looked back on them, but I'm glad I did.

In their own way, they reminded me of the preciousness of Joe and me - the preciousness of Joe and me which became the beauty of Joe and me and Domani and then the strength of Domani and me and all who loved Joe. I thought it made sense to share those posts here today.

Heartbreaking News

Journal entry by Anne Luck-Deak — Nov 30, 2011

It is late and we are all quite tired in the Deak household. After a long night last night which included a visit from the hospice nurse, we went to Joe's oncologist today. Joe had been scheduled for his next chemo treatment, but given his weakened state it was hard to believe they would do it. That proved correct but on top of that we were told by the doctor covering for Joe's regular oncologist that no further treatments would be possible. A punch in the gut. And she wasn't particularly helpful or sympathetic. Another punch in the gut. While we were there Joe was given oxygen and some fluids. He also had a nice nap while receiving the fluids. Thankfully, after returning home We got a visit from his hospice nurse and later a call from his regular oncologist. His oncologist's heartbreaking conclusion was still the same but it was helpful to have our questions answered and to hear the details about his reasoning. 

The honest truth is that it was very difficult for Joe to travel to Basking Ridge today. His weakened state makes even a walk from the living room to the bedroom a difficult task, let alone walking around to get ready and then out to the car. It would just be too much for him to continue going through the motions of treatments which aren't really having an impact on the cancer. We will receive some additional services from hospice and are still considering any other possible options for Joe. Please pray for wisdom in how to proceed and for peace during this seemingly impossible time. As difficult as today was, it was nice to come home to a freshly cleaned house and some yummy food in the fridge. We have the most amazing support network and I have a suspicion it will only get better. Love to you all!

Days at Home

Journal entry by Anne Luck-Deak — Dec 2, 2011

As difficult as the last few days have been I am happy that now, finally, my husband and I can share a bedroom again. With the delivery of his hospital bed today and a borrowed twin bed for me we are now back to sleeping in the same room. No more living room/bedroom split. It's a simple thing, but something that makes both of us smile.

Given his weakened state, Joe is unable to walk now without assistance and he requires help with his medications and with the overall management of his symptoms. It is becoming quite a team effort with help from a full hospice team and many loving family and friends. It took very little time today to prepare our bedroom for our new sleeping arrangements. Everyone who was here pitched in to help move things, including the hospice social worker.We are feeling very supported.

The highlight of the day for me (aside from TWO yummy giant chocolate chip cookies from Mendoker's) was time spent looking through some photo albums with Joe. We looked back over our trip earlier this year to Cooperstown, NY (Domani's first vacation) and reminisced about our honeymoon in Boston (Duck Boat ride, Megatouch at the local bar, dinner at the table where JFK proposed to Jackie, a tour of Fenway, and the most amazing Boston Cream Pie at the Omni Parker Hotel were all highlights).

While it is frustrating to see Joe's health in decline, I am reminded of just how blessed we are to have had our paths cross again the way that they did. He is one amazing guy and together we make a darn good team.

A special hello to all those who have started following this blog in the last few days. You all have kept me busy approving requests, but with each one I know there is another person (or family) supporting us in thought and prayer. Thank you for being here and joining us through our journey.

Surrounding him with Love

Journal entry by Anne Luck-Deak — Dec 4, 2011

Joe had a difficult night last night. His breathing is much more labored and his blood pressure is high. After being up all night and a visit from the hospice nurse this morning, the decision was made to move him to 24-hour nursing care in our home. Star (love the imagery of her name) arrived this morning and will be here until 7pm. She has been helping us to take great care of Joe. With assistance, he just made the move from his hospital bed in our bedroom to his La-Z-Boy in the living room. Our project for the day is to keep him comfortable and surround him with love. As much as possible we will read to him the cards and notes we receive (both IRL and on this blog!) On behalf of our whole family, we thank you for the outpouring of support we have received. It is helping to sustain us through this unimaginable time. Hug your loved ones and smile at a stranger. Today only comes once.

A Day Together

Journal entry by Anne Luck-Deak — Dec 4, 2011

After a day of being with each other and being with Joe, I am here in the bedroom with him and the nurse while my Dad puts Domani to sleep. Joe is resting comfortably, but has been non-responsive since about 3pm. That has certainly not stopped us from reading him emails and posts and sharing our own musings with him. Although it arrived much too quickly, it was a good family day. I just wish it weren't a part of saying goodbye to my best friend. There were tender moments: Domani "brushing" Daddy's hair In the morning and then later in the day grabbing Joe's hand and saying DaDa (along with a few other random syllables.) His kind words to me this morning about my support to him. Visits from some dear family and friends. The smile on his face while I massaged his feet. I am just happy to know that he was able to hear so much love from so many people today. Thank you all. Will do my best to keep you up to date.

At Peace

Journal entry by Anne Luck-Deak — Dec 5, 2011

Joe passed away peacefully this morning just before 6am. I was there in the room with him and had just laid down to rest on my bed next to his when he took his last breath. He is finally done battling and at peace. Heather Diaforli-Day continues to coordinate assistance for our family including the provision of meals. I will post updates regarding services and other ways you can assist our family in the coming days. Thanks for standing with me, Joe, and Domani and letting us know how very much we are loved.

• 
  

Anne Luck-Deak for Jamesburg School Board

One of the things I feared with intensity when Joe was diagnosed with cancer was the possibility of having to send our unborn son to school without his Dad by our side. Those fears started even before we knew that our child was to be a boy and his name was to be Domani. It seemed like a ridiculous place to land, but as I was holding Joe's hand in his hospital room just after his emergency surgery, I remember that fear being what crept in. As he slept, I whispered to him that he couldn't leave me. That he had to be here for our child's birth, for this kid's first birthday, for the first day of kindergarten. I stopped there because at that point we hadn't even heard a diagnosis yet and, if I was being honest, I couldn't see past the next five minutes, let alone the next 5 years. 

We had just found out two days before that I was pregnant. I hadn't even been to an appointment with my midwife yet to confirm it. And, already, I felt it all unraveling. How would I ever be enough for this kid? Our happily every after would not be what I expected and I was worried about how our child (let alone me) would ever make it through.

Joe was there for Domani's birth. He was there for his first birthday. But just two months later, only a few weeks before Christmas, he died. He died in the bedroom of our home where, if you look just out the window, you see the entrance to what is now our son's elementary school. 

When we decided to buy this home in Jamesburg it was the proximity to the school (and to the lovely local businesses in town) that won us over. Now, after being here for 11 years, this place we call home means so much more to the two of us left behind after Joe's passing. It's the neighbors who have been there for us in immeasurable ways. It's the convenient and challenging running routes I have come to know as I trained to run 5ks and then half marathons and then, eventually, the Boston Marathon. It's the education I see my son receiving in that school which 4 years ago seemed so daunting a life stage. 

There have now been 4 first days of school for Domani at the elementary school across the street from where Joe and I decided to plant our roots in 2008. Joe hasn't been physically here for any of them, but he has been here with us in many ways. I have begun to realize that what I feared so desperately in 2010 is not so scary now that Domani and I are doing it. Domani is surrounded by people who are interested in him and provide him with an education that includes learning in Spanish, after care that is both fun and educational, and a whole school community that shows its care daily. He impresses me more and more each day with the ways that he is growing and learning, with his ease of making friends, and with his excitement for everything around him.

I have also found my own place as I've become more and more active in his education. As Domani made friends, so did I, and Jamesburg became more than the place we live, but our community. That doesn't happen everywhere and I am thankful it happened here for Domani and me. 

So, at the beginning of last year, I decided to act on that and I put my name in to serve a one-year term on our local School Board. That year was a defining experience for me. I saw in a clear way the impact that decisions of the Board have on the young people in our schools and our community at large. When my term was over at the end of 2018 and the Board was officially downsized to seven members I remained open to serving again at some point in the future. 

As I attended Board meetings this year and spoke with friends and neighbors, it became clear to me that the time to throw my hat in the ring has come sooner than I thought. I decided to run this year because I feel it is an important time for my voice to be included. As a single mom of a 3rd grader in the district, I know both the importance of a strong education for the children in our community and the stress of making ends meet as a homeowner. 

I am excited to take this next step and know that even though he isn't here physically, Joe is cheering me on.