Itinerary Please

I'm in LA now, escaping for a minute from the frozen over east coast.  I still can't believe you went to UCLA at some point, lived here for a time.  How long was it?  Not very long, I don't think.  Whatever shenanigans you were up to those days seem to have kept you on the move.

On my way to the airport the other day, I thought with a jolt about how no one had asked me for my itinerary.  You insisted I send you an itinerary for every trip I went on - flight, hotel info, phone numbers and emails of who I was traveling with or who I was visiting.  This continued throughout my adult life, and since I would usually either forget to send something or have no idea what to send (as in, well, I'll be trekking across the mountains in Peru so there isn't really a hotel address I can send, or I'm traveling alone and have no idea where I will be staying), you would always send reminder emails, texts, or voicemails.  "Itinerary please" is all they would say.

You were efficient and to the point in your electronic or voicemail communication.  I remember one night in the hospital you thought your friend Tony was coming to visit, but it was getting late and you wanted to go to sleep, so you wanted to check with him on his plan.  I took out your phone and said I would text him.  I started to compose a long message "Hi Tony, it's Amy using my Dad's phone, we just wanted to see if you were going to come tonight, no problem if not but if you are can you tell us --" and you interrupted "what are you writing?" and I said well what do you want me to write?  You said "E.T.A., question mark".  And I laughed at the difference in our communication styles.

Well, no one asked for my flight details, car rental information, or phones and addresses of all of my friends in LA this time.  I wouldn't have forgotten to send it, if you had asked.  It's weird, it's sort of like you're less gone when I'm out of New York.  Right after you died, the first time I drove back into Brooklyn it hit like a sledge hammer.  Something about being back in the city made me suddenly and violently aware that you were gone.  I thought, I'm in Brooklyn and I don't have a dad, I don't have a dad.  But now that I'm in LA I think you're just at home with Mom in Port Jeff.  I know you're not, but it doesn't seem that way.

This whole process, I don't think it's going to ever make sense.  I don't think there is ever going to be a time that it will be real what happened, that you will actually be gone.  It's just a lot of back and forth between thinking about it consciously and not thinking about it consciously, and time keeps flowing on and the more time that passes the more it becomes solidified into fact, like sediment, this idea that you died.  But it still seems just as absurd and untrue as it did two months ago, and people say "I'm sorry that your dad died" and I say yes, thank you, but inside I'm still thinking what are you talking about, that is just so wildly untrue.  But now it's "oh, my Dad died a few months ago" which just sounds like something that happened.  To other people, it's just a thing that occurred.  But that's not how it feels to me, it's still THE thing that occurred, the everything that clouds all my life now.  Two months sounds like an amount of time that has passed, but it's never been so minuscule, this amount of time.  When it happened, right when you died, I said, okay, how long is this going to last?   A year?  What can I expect here, a year of grieving?  I needed a timeline.  It's only now that I'm starting to understand that it really will last forever.  You will always be gone and in a way I will always be grieving, and I will never think it sounds right when someone says that you died however long ago.  We just have to go along with what is allegedly fact, what has had so much water flow over it that it's turned into sedimentary rock.

I love you and miss you.  I'm staying with Susan, in West Hollywood, then at a hotel in Joshua Tree.  I'll text you her phone number and send you the address for the hotel.

a

February 25th

Well, today wasn't as bad as I was anticipating.  It was a day to think of you, and miss you, and celebrate the things about you that I loved.  We had an impromptu dinner down at Billy's in Port Jeff.  Mom wanted to go there because it was one of the only places around that she'd never been to with you, so it wouldn't bring up any sad memories.  Sashi and Dinesh decided to come too, and of course they were hilarious.  You really thought Dinesh was funny, and I see why -- you've got to listen really closely, but when you do you realize he is hilarious, which is also how you were.  Quietly and almost unexpectedly funny.  And then there is Sashi, who is just overtly over the top funny.  She walked into the dingy back room of this local dive bar practically dripping with diamonds and said, not quietly at all, "I've never been here.  Dinesh says this is where all the low-lifes come."

Driving past one of Heatherwood's golf clubs on 347 today, there was a giant flock of seagulls soaring through the sky.  There were so many of them, white wings all glinting in the sunlight, circling around a bright blue winter sky.  It was really quite pretty, and since they were not near the water and were inexplicably doing this above and around the golf course of the company you were in house counsel with for nearly half of your life, I figured they were probably putting on a show for your birthday.

You were such a good person.  You really loved life, and people, and joy, and laughter.  I miss you so much, Dad, but finally I'm not sad, even if only for a minute.  I'm just happy, so happy that I was lucky enough to have you as a father.  So happy that I got to know you.

In celebration of your life, here is a poem.  Megan read this poem at the memorial service I forced you to all participate in for my cat Owen, and it's always stuck with me.  It's inspiring and life-affirming and really a bit scary.  It reminds you how precious and transient the time we have here is, it reminds you to celebrate it.

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
The one who has flung herself out of the grass,
The one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I've been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Christmas

You and Mom did Christmas well.  When we were kids and we'd finally get to come downstairs on Christmas morning (you made us stay upstairs until 6am, so you could drink your coffee in peace), there would be a room full of wrapped presents.  One time, there were matching silver scooters leaning up against the fireplace which we immediately took outside.  You thought they were pretty cool.

Going to sleep the night before Christmas as a kid is impossible.  That feeling of anticipation -- when else is that really matched in life?  That unadulterated, jittery, excited, pure exuberance at the idea of the future.  If I could catch that feeling in a jar.  And Megan and I would wake up bursting out of our beds and running downstairs, and you would detain us on the other side of the doorway, really enforce the rule that we couldn't come down until 6am.

Of course, Christmas is different as an adult, it loses the magic, and Christmas now will always remind me of your sickness and your death, so Christmas as a holiday is dead.  The idea of it makes me want to vomit.

Tonight I have what I can only describe as the exact opposite of the excited anticipation a kid feels the night before Christmas.  I have this intense and visceral dread, a rising panic as the day draws to a close and I know I will go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow and it will be your 72nd birthday, but you won't be here to turn 72.  And I don't want to love people anymore, if this is how it turns out, you know?  Because this is too awful, and I don't want to do it again.

I loved you so much, Dad, you have no idea how much I miss you.

a

Joseph A. Dempsey, Jr.

You never, ever skipped the middle initial. You thought it was more distinguished to use it. It meant you had pretty good initials for your cufflinks and things, though, Jad. All of your mail was addressed to "Joseph A. Dempsey, Jr."

I've been on lots of calls with Mom in the past couple of months (yes, yesterday was two months since you were alive, and today is two months plus one day and it sucks just as much) and every time she gives her name she gives out her middle initial, too. Very formally.

I never use my middle initial anymore, but you used to make me use it everywhere - certainly it's on all my diplomas and credit cards and things.

Anyway, Jad, your middle name was a weird one. For many years I had only heard it said and not seen it written, and it was pronounced "al-ew-ish-us."

But the proper spelling is "Aloysius." Huh? The first time I saw it written I couldn't reconcile it with your name. According to Wikipedia less than 0.001% of babes are saddled with this name. I am glad about that. I don't know, though, where this name came from. I'm going to ask Aunt Terry. Not that I plan on using it if I ever have kids.

Love,
Megan

Paradise City

When I was in fourth grade, we got MTV.  Paradise City by Guns N'Roses was really popular at the time, and you used to love singing and dancing along to the music video, which played endlessly.

Take me down to the paradise city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty...

You would get the words to the chorus right, but never knew any of the other words and would just sing along enthusiastic gibberish while dancing like crazy.  You loved Axl Rose's head slamming.  I think part of you was making fun of us for liking this music, but the larger part of you really loved it.

You also got (or rather tried to get) really into rap for a while.  You never knew what any of the words to rap songs were, so you'd just sing along 100% gibberish while dancing or bopping your head along. Rap presented a problem, though, because you weren't into the vulgarity and misogyny of most mainstream rap, so eventually you gave up on it.  At one point I tried to get you to listen to some less offensive hip hop, but Tribe Called Quest and Mos Def didn't do it for you.

I'm pretty sure you never got over Paradise City and the head slamming, though.

xx
a

Give it a Minute

Getting into my car tonight, the thermometer on the dashboard read 11 degrees.  The cold air burned my nostrils.  Has it always gotten this cold?  I waited for the heat to kick in.

"You have to give it a minute, Amy," you would say when I would impatiently blast the heat as high as it would go the second I entered a car.  You'd turn it down all the way, say you have to give it a minute to heat up.  If you left it like I had it, it would just blow cold air at you.

We used to go to the Elk's for dinner sometimes when I was a kid.  That was a big night out, and I loved the round white dinner rolls, and the white cloth napkins that Megan and I would pretend were blankets.  We would lie down on the leather booths and cover ourselves with cloth napkins and pretend to go to sleep.  Time lasted forever those days, and a dinner out felt like a lifetime.

The coldest I can remember feeling as a kid was coming out of the Elk's one night, a cold night like tonight.  And we rushed to the car and squealed as soon as we got inside "turn up the heat! turn up the heat!" because there is nothing you crave more than warmth on a night like that, on a night like tonight.

You have to give it a minute, you'd admonish.  You had endless patience, it seemed.

I gave it a minute when I got in the car tonight, and it took more than a minute, and as I drove I cried, because I cry in my car now.  I cry in my car and in the bathroom in public places and wherever else I can get a minute alone.

I'm giving it a minute, but it's taking longer.

a

Dogs and Sandwiches

This is what happened two months ago today, though it feels like two minutes or two hours ago.

I've already talked about the call from the hospital that came just before 5am, the one telling us to get up there to be with you, the one saying it was time.  And I've talked about what happened later, in the hospital and at the funeral home, but this is what happened then, in those hours in that hospital room.  Your hospital room.

When we went in, you were lying there as you had been the night before, but your breathing was slower and you didn't react to us.  The screen that reported your oxygen levels and heart rate and all the other vital statistics that we (and you) had been so obsessively watching over the past ten days was showing your numbers as low, very low.

I don't know what I expected.  The only time I'd ever been with someone when they died is when I had to put my cat Owen to sleep almost two years ago.  The morning I woke up with him dying was another awful one; I knew he was dying the second I looked at him.  I ran with him to the vet in my pajamas, handed him over and started weeping in the waiting room.  Sitting on the plastic chairs with my face buried in my hands, a stranger came up and wrapped her arms around me, said she was sorry.  The vet said that poor Owen had been minutes away from dying when I'd gotten there, but they gave him something to make him feel better temporarily.

Still, there was no choice left about what to do.  They asked me if I wanted to be there when they put him down and at first I said I couldn't do it.  I knew the vet pretty well at that point, I'd been in the hospital every day for nearly two weeks.  He said Owen would want me to be there, that it would make it much easier for him if he felt safe and knew that he was with someone who loved him.  And so I stayed, I held Owen while they shot him with whatever lethal injection they give to put animals to sleep.  And he died in my arms, and it was awful, but I was so glad I had been there with him, and it was quick.

And, no, I don't think you are or were a cat, and I knew no one was actually "putting you to sleep," but I guess I thought it would be quicker, that's all.  I thought we would get there and you would be dying right then and there, and it would be awful but quick.  But it wasn't.  We all sat around your bed crying, and holding your hands, and your arms, and your legs, and crying and sitting.  Dad, I couldn't bear to look at you, it was too awful.  Your breathing was so slow.  And there you were, dying.  And when do you ever want to watch someone die?  I wouldn't want to watch my worst enemy die, let alone you.  You, my beloved father.  And we were all silent for so long, what felt like days.  And I had to put my head down and rest it on my arm because I was bursting at the seams with discomfort, with lack of emotional endurance, with the inability to be there.

At least an hour went by like this, I think more.  It was probably around 6:30am or 7am at that point, and Mom asked one of the nurses if they could bring in coffee.  We had been woken up in the middle of the night, or so early in the morning that only you would have been naturally awake at that hour, and we had been sitting there with you for quite some time.  Coffee is a physical necessity in the early hours of the morning on no sleep and all stress, and apparently death doesn't change that.  On the one hand it seemed almost inappropriate to sit around and drink coffee while you lay dying, but on the other hand it seemed like the only way to survive.

I was reminded of a part in that Nabokov story, I don't remember which one, where a man is about to be executed, he is standing up there in front of the firing squad, or with his head in a noose, literally seconds away from death, and he adjusts the position of one of his legs.  It's a simple and small adjustment that he can't help but make.  The reality of his impending death does nothing to counteract the reality of the slight physical discomfort that he feels and must account for.  And so it was with the coffee.  And snot.  How does a human being produce an endless supply of mucus while sobbing uncontrollably?  I've produced so much snot these past few months, never more than sitting in my car in the parking lot of the hospital after I left you every night.  Isn't mucous supposed to protect you from foreign bodies?  Does it see sadness as a foreign body, is it trying to expel the sadness?  Because it is impossible to cry for very long without attending to the snot, and it brings you back to the physical reality of your situation, the very absurdity and inconvenience of having a human body, no matter how caught up you may be in the emotional realm. And I'm sorry I thought abstractly of a Nabokov story while sitting there, but maybe that would make you happy.  I was putting my education into practical use like you'd always hoped I would.

After the coffee, or before, I don't remember the order, things were so excruciating for me I did not think I could exist any longer.  Of course I didn't want you to die, but it didn't really seem like you were alive anymore, and living in that grey area, in the throes of it, it was just too much.  At that moment, I wanted it to be over.  And of course now I think back and would live for days in that moment if it meant you were here and alive, just for a single second.  But at the time it was unbearable, and then Marc saved me.

He broke the silence that had been going on for hours, what felt like days and months and years, and he said "Dad, I don't know if you can hear me right now, but I want to talk to you about my childhood and those times we went camping up at Lake Taconic." And he went on to talk about what those camping trips had meant to him, about what an amazing father you were, about how you shaped who he is as a person today.  And at that time, in that moment, when he started to speak, breaking that unbearable dying silence, that was the strongest and bravest thing I've ever seen anyone do.  I don't know if you heard him, and he couldn't save you, but I hope it at least made you feel something, some small twinge of relief and safety and love in some of your last moments.

Megan talked to you next and told you some of her favorite memories, and it was still like shattering glass every time someone said something in that silence, and still I was so thankful that they were talking to you, and helping you, and helping me.  And eventually we just started talking, Dad, reminiscing about things in our family's past.  I talked to you about a golf course on a sunny day, with bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds.

I thought thank god, thank god we are all here and he isn't alone, and thank god we are all touching him and holding his hands and I don't know if he even knows we are here but thank god we are here with him.  I hope it helped you to know that you were with people who loved you.

I brought up a story that I'd heard many times before, but one that I'd specifically asked you to tell a few days earlier in the hospital when Jennifer had come to visit.  I asked you to tell it because it made you happy, because you relished telling a good story, and because it lightened the mood, if only for a minute.

You had been running, or biking, or playing tennis, and you came home and you were really, really hungry.  The kind of hunger that only comes around after a really good work out.  You set to work building a masterpiece of a sandwich, really took your time with it, made it just right.  You used to make fun of me for designing the perfect bite or taking ages to spread the butter on something exactly right, but you could be the same way about food.  And that's how you were with this sandwich.  Right as you were putting the finishing touches on it, the doorbell rang.  You were only gone, only had your back turned, for half a second and then you realized -- oh noooo.

You turned around and there was Zoe, Zoe your favorite dog who could do no wrong, with half a sandwich hanging out of her mouth.  She'd already devoured the first half.  And when you told this story you would say that was the only time in your life that you were legitimately really mad at Zoe.  When she stole your perfectly crafted sandwich. But you would be smiling and laughing as you said it, and you could see even when you were most mad at her, how much you loved her.  And we were talking about this, and laughing, and it was then that you were gone.

And Aunt Terry said, he died while you all were sitting around talking about your family.  And you did, you died while we were talking about dogs and sandwiches, and what could be more fitting?

And it was two months ago today, but it feels like two minutes, and it doesn't feel right. And I never want it to feel right.  I miss you so much, Dad.  I really do.  I miss you so much.  I wish there were other words I could use, but that's all I have.  A whole lot of missing.

love amy

Real Men Wear Pink

A few weeks ago I was looking through the photos on your phone (I'm sorry for the invasion of privacy).  Scrolling through, I came across a video and pressed play.  You had filmed a couple of deer standing on the golf course.  They weren't doing anything, just standing there looking regal, and you shot a little video of them.  Watching this, I thought, my Dad was the sort of man who saw a couple of deer in the middle of his golf game and stopped to watch them, to appreciate their beauty and grace.  So many people refer to deer as pests, complain about overpopulation, but I just think they are so regal, so amazing to see.  And of course you did too, that's the kind of man you were.

It's true that your ideas of the world come from your parents, at least in the beginning.  And I'm so grateful that my idea of masculinity was shaped by a man who stopped to film the deer on a sunny day on the golf course.  By a man who dressed sharply and was not afraid to wear a pink dress shirt, or a deep purple crew neck sweater.  A man who did not differentiate between gay and straight in his dealings with people.  Someone who never objectified women, who refrained from crass remarks, who was kind and friendly and helpful.  A man who used people's first names and looked them in the eye, who tipped well and always said please and thank you.  A father who took us to the opera, and the philharmonic, who loved animals and wept the day we had to put the dog to sleep.

You could fix anything, worked your way through law school as a plumber, knew how to change a flat tire, occasionally liked to watch sports, had a garage full of tools and were good with electronics and installing air conditioners, but you didn't fit the stereotype of "male" beyond these things.  You never yelled and I don't think you had a violent bone in your body.  When we were kids, sometimes you would crack your belt, pretending you would hit us with it if we didn't get in line.  We would always laugh hysterically, as the idea of you hitting us was so outrageously out of the realm of possibility.

There was a party we used to go to every year and this one guy who was always there was really obnoxious, really crass.  None of us liked him, but because he was sort of misogynist and a "guy's guy" he didn't bother too much with me or Mom or Megan.  He did, however, talk to you.  And on several occasions I heard him make a remark to you -- something crass or obnoxious -- and I would think how on earth is he going to handle this?  And you know what?  You never once laughed along to be polite or go with the flow.  You would just sort of ignore him and move on.  You had strength of character and then some, this guy could have learned a thing or two from you.  The only time I can remember you responding to him is when he made some derogatory comment about animal lovers.  You looked at him very seriously and said "you are talking to a man who loves his three cats very much."

It took me a very long time to understand that men and women are not actually equal.  I thought feminism was something that had come along, solved women's problems, and was over.  This is because I grew up in an isolated environment, sure, but it's also because you and Mom never treated Megan and I any differently because we were female.  You played sports with us, sent us to tennis camp, expected us to do well and to exceed in school, to succeed to the same extent that a man would in everything we did.  There was never a single thing said or implied to make me think that I somehow deserved less or something different because I was a woman.  What a gift this was.

love you, Dad.  Thanks for setting such a good example.

No Numbers

In the last few years, you started saying "no numbers" whenever the subject of your birthday came up. How old are you going to be again?  "No numbers!" you would respond.  I think you even stopped saying our ages (mine, Megan's, Marc's) because it made you feel old to have kids as old as us.  It's the only time I ever noticed you really getting bothered about aging, and you dealt with it in typical Dempsey fashion, as in "if I don't acknowledge it, it won't happen."

A few years ago when we were walking down Court Street in Carroll Gardens, coming from the restaurant you and Mom liked to go to when you visited me, you had to stop and stretch your back on a sign post.  The walk from the restaurant to my apartment is about a mile and a half, which I thought nothing of when I took you there.  We are a family of walkers.  This whole stopping to stretch business was new, and I didn't like it.  Mom made a comment about how you couldn't walk that far anymore.  You were the athlete, though, the one who was always playing tennis and biking.  By this point you had moved on to mostly golf, though, and you weren't doing as much other exercise.

In any case, I didn't like this development.  It was the first time I saw any signs of aging in you.  I don't know if you noticed, I hope not, but over the past year or so I guess I was becoming increasingly concerned about you getting older (not about Mom, who still shows no signs of aging, really, and who I am fairly certain will live into her 90's, as her Mom did).  I started quietly collecting data from you or Mom or Uncle John or Aunt Terry about how long other people in our family had lived - how old was your dad when he died?  Mom's dad?  And his dad?  What about his mom?  And I used this data as a buffer against worry - your dad was into his 80's when he died, Mom's dad at least very late 70's, and I'd think, okay, we have time.  We have time here.

But, the data lied.  We didn't have time.

The Oscars are on tonight.  I was going to go to an Oscar party at Seth's apartment.  Before the party, I went to my bar method class and towards the end of class I started thinking about watching the Oscars and I burst into tears.  It's the first time in a few weeks that I've broken into sobs in public and couldn't pull it together.  Luckily it was the end of class, and I ran into the bathroom and cried, dripping tears and snot all over the floor.

The Oscars?  Why the hell were the Oscars such a trigger?  And then I saw you, sitting there in your yellow recliner chair in the breakfast room, reading while Mom and I watched them on TV.  I realized I would usually be out in Port Jeff Oscar weekend because it always fell right around your birthday.  And we would have gone out to dinner last night and maybe I would have stayed Sunday night as well.  And that's when we'd sit there together in that warm family room and watch this interminable award show.  You would be reading, as I said, and you would claim not to know who anyone was when you occasionally looked up and watched.  Such a simple scene, so regular.  You would go to bed early, far before the show ended.  And so it was your whole birthday weekend that we missed, Oscars and all.

And it's a birthday you should have lived to, had the data not lied.  I won't use numbers, but I'll be thinking about how young you were this week.  The week of your birthday, the week of no numbers.

love a

Life Isn't Fair

"Life isn't fair" is something you used to say all the time when we were kids.  It always infuriated me because it was invariably in response to one of us saying "it isn't fair" regarding some issue that would  have been easily fixable, easily remedied "fair" with adult (your) intervention.  For example, "She got a cookie and I didn't, it isn't fair."  The desired response to this was, of course, "you are right and that is not fair, here is a cookie and now everything is fair."  And sometimes that would be your response.  But more often than not you would instead say "life isn't fair" and that was that.  I hated when you said it for so many reasons -- one, your refusal to correct an easily fixable wrong and two, the fact that that phrase was the final word on the matter.  There was no continuing to argue after "Life isn't fair" was brought out.  When I think about times I've really, really disliked you there are not many, but most of them were probably preceded by the "life isn't fair" remark.

When I spoke at your memorial service, I talked about this phrase, and how angry it made me when I was a kid, but about how it also came into my head all the time as an adult.  Every time my internal monologue says the words "not fair" your voice, gravelly and slow, jumps in immediately with a stern "life isn't fair."  It's such a simple lesson, but one that seems so hard to learn, or so hard to accept.  When we were kids and it would have been so easy to create fairness, you declined.  Was this out of principal, laziness, or a real desire to let this lesson soak in, to help us to understand from an early age that things in this life will happen all the time that are simply not fair?  That there is no overall scale of justice measuring out what is fair and not fair and making sure life acts accordingly.

Because, what the hell has happened here?  You were alive.  And you were fine.  Or so we all thought.  And then ten days later you were dead.  How is that fair?  It's not even conceivable, still, let alone fair.  And I think life isn't fair, life isn't fair, and it is in your voice, always in your voice in my head.

Megan said she is terrified of this week.  I am too, Dad.  I'm really scared of it, dreading it as if something really terrible were scheduled to happen.  And, it is.  Tomorrow is the two month anniversary of your death, and two days after that is your birthday.  And I could handle the two month anniversary, I think, but your birthday...  Isn't it too soon for that?  We just lost you, and then we were immediately hit with Christmas and New Years and now this?  It isn't fair.  And there is no one to appeal to, no one to say "excuse me, that's enough now, thank you."  As if life were a waiter coming up to refill your glass and you could cover it and say I'm all set, thank you.  I'm all set on the pain and heartbreak for now, no need to pour anymore.  And, I guess that was your point all along, right?  Life isn't a waiter and there is no one to whom you can appeal when things aren't fair.

Somehow I miss you more every day.  I don't think February 25th has a right to exist as a date anymore, Dad, not without you.  It isn't fair.

a

The Dead

I have a confession to make, Dad. I'm terrified of this week. It's two months ago that you passed away on Monday, and your birthday is Wednesday.

So you are in my thoughts a lot, most of the time really. 

And for some reason, your passing is calling to mind the other beings I have loved and lost. My week has been tinged with thoughts of them. 

When I was a little girl, our neighbor Red Miller died. He was an kind old man who lived a couple houses up from us, and let all the neighborhood kids sled down the big hill in his front yard when it snowed. As a hobby he carved wooden ducks and painted them; Mom still has one or two at home. He was the first person I loved who died, and I remember that I used to sit up in bed, looking out the open window that was right next to my bed at the stars (it must have been summer) and thinking about him. Mom found me crying one night and I blurted out "I miss Red." We were so lucky to know him.

Other followed, of course. Such is the only possibly trajectory of life. Mom's father when I was in high school, your father when I was in college, and unexpectedly, Aunt Ruth (my mom's aunt) who was a sweet, gentle person. She used to take Amy and I to feed the ducks on Thanksgiving and Christmas at the pond near her house in Massapequa. Mom's Mom just passed away a few years ago. 

And then we come to all the animals, many of whom died when I moved to California. Foxy, Zoe, Midnite, Cali, Tootsie. The whole pack, diminished one by one. 

For many of these deaths, I was coping with my own health problems, and I am not sure I mourned them all properly. It helped, at the time, that I was completely obsessed with my first pet I got on my own, my crazy cat Buster, who is still hanging in there at 16. 

I find that I am grieving for everyone now, along with you. I suppose for myself, too. 

It is snowing today and Idriss and I took a long walk, as we often do. The harbor is partially frozen, and huge chunks of ice and snow are floating on the water and massing on the beach. The tones are blurry blues and greys, and it is difficult to separate the Sound from the horizon line. 

On our way home, we stopped by the library. While standing outside, I gazed at the grand old Blue Atlas Cedar right outside. I think I pointed it out to you before when we walked to the park in Sea Cliff, because you love these trees, too (although the one in your backyard is still kind of scrawny). This tree is the largest of its kind I have ever seen, and the green blue of the needles melded with the grey in the air and the white of the snowflakes to become a painter's vision. 

As the snowflakes swirled around the tree, I imagined you and Aunt Ruth and Red Miller and my grandparents and all of our beloved pets as snowflakes, each one lovely in its own way, but fleeting, soaring gracefully through this earth and my life. 

The beauty of the scene called to mind the ending of one of my favorite stories, the "The Dead" by James Joyce. In his own words, far more eloquent than mine: 

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." 

I love you so much, Dad. 

M

Pinstripes and polish

Your love of old, free t-shirts has been documented on here. You also loved good suits. You definitely cared a lot about looking nice for work, bought many snazzy ties, and generally dressed quite elegantly during the week.

In fact, I can remember many conversations like the following:

Me: Mom, what are you wearing to xxx (wedding / bar mitvah / fill in the black)?
Mom: I don't know, I need to look through my closet. Maybe a black cocktail dress.
Me: OK, I'm still looking, I haven't found anything to wear yet.
Dad: Ahem. Aren't you going to ask me what I'm wearing? (big grin)
Me: Sigh. OK. Dad, what are you wearing to xxx?
Dad: My charcoal Boss suit, with a white shirt, pink tie, and my black wingtips.

Or, your summer khaki suit with a blue shirt, striped tie, and brown loafers.
Or, your navy pinstripe with a Thomas Pink tie and a checked shirt.
Etc.

You always knew, you had always thought about it, and you always made sure you had the right items dry-cleaned. You also always, without exception, polished your shoes before going anywhere slightly out of the ordinary. I took your shoe brush from your office for Idriss, so you did this at work, too.

When you got a new suit (say, from the Barneys outlet), you would saunter downstairs and ostentatiously try to get my / Mom's / Amy's attention. If we didn't realize you were fishing for a compliment you would say: how do you like my new suit? Brioni / Boss / whoever cuts a nice jacket, doesn't he?

And, many, many times over the years I've come to visit you and you made sure to wear a tie I gave you to work / out to dinner / whatever. You'd wave it in my face until I noticed, too. On Thanksgiving this year you wore a J. Crew sweater and collared shirt that I got you years ago. I love that you assigned some personal meaning to your clothes.

I miss you so much lately.

Love,
Megan

Bus Driver

In elementary school, piling onto the big yellow schoolbus one day, I was hit with a brilliant idea.  As soon as I got home, I told it to Mom: Dad should become a schoolbus driver so he can work the same hours that we're in school!  That way he can be home when we are home.

Mom told me that schoolbus drivers didn't make the same amount of money as lawyers and that you couldn't switch your job to bus driver.  I was disappointed at how quickly she shot down my idea, dismissed it out of hand.  I didn't really get the different amount of money part - a job was a job, right?  What's the difference if you wanted to be a bus driver instead of an attorney?  

Sometime within the last ten years, you briefly expressed regret to me that you hadn't been more involved when we were kids.

But, you were around, Dad, and you were involved.  Not to the extent that Mom was, but you were definitely there.  You came home from work every single day at 6pm, like clockwork.  You'd walk in the back door and head into the kitchen, where you would drop your briefcase and sort through the day's mail, which would be sitting on the counter.  You always opened the mail immediately upon getting home.  I've never been able to do this.  

After you'd sorted the mail, you would go upstairs to change out of your suit and into more comfortable clothes.  When you came down, we'd have dinner together as a family.

"When are we having dinner?" I can remember asking a million times, and the answer was always "When Dad gets home."  What time will that be?  6p.  It was always 6p.  Very, very occasionally you came home later if you had a meeting or something.  

I've never had a schedule coming even mildly close to this consistent since I left home for college at 17.  It was such an anchor when I was a kid and a teenager.  No matter what happened, there you were at 6pm and there we would all sit and eat together.  You were there, Dad, and you were involved.  How could you so consistently be the voice in my head if you hadn't been?

You were a great Dad, and I learned so much from you.

a

What time are you coming home?

When Amy and I were little, your arrival home from work (almost always around 6pm) was a big occasion. Every day we would ask Mom "what time is Dad coming home today?" even though it was always the same answer.

If you hadn't called to confirm your schedule, I would call your office, which I loved doing. Then we would wait by the door or look out the windows in the living room. We always called out "Dad's home" when you pulled into the driveway.

I guess days were so long back then, the afternoons after school endless stretches of time, and your coming home was kind of a punctuation mark on the day. And, we were alway starving, so your arrival  meant we could eat. But before we could eat, you had to go upstairs and change out of your suit. It always seemed to take forever, just like the afternoon.

It's funny to think of how much your arrival elicited excitement and anticipation. It was like something good happening every day. I loved that routine.

xx
M

A Billy's Burger

When we were in school, there was no greater joy than a snow day. Obviously! Sledding and snowball fights and igloos and no school. What could be better?

Maybe when I was in middle or high school, we had a huge blizzard. You had to stay home from work, and we were all a little bored.

You then had a brilliant idea. A Billy's cheeseburger. You were, typically, so excited about this prospect. Mom declined to come, but you, Amy, and I walked downtown. I was so surprised that you thought it was OK to bring us there. Billy's was (and is) a bar!

It turned out there was a dining room in the back. We - the three of us - ordered bacon cheeseburgers. I remember you loved yours, loved pigging out like that in the blizzard.  You almost certainly said something like "now, this hits the spot."

To this day, I think cheeseburgers are blizzard food. Wish we could have one together today!
m

Ice, Blizzards, Sounds, and Oceans

I'm sorry I haven't written to you in over 48 hours!  That's the longest I've gone since I started writing.  It's not because I forgot about you, I was out at your house in Port Jeff this weekend.

Port Jeff is frozen over, Dad, you wouldn't believe it.  There are piles of snow everywhere you look, some much taller than me.  And ice!  So much ice!  I walked down to the harbor today in the bitter cold (coldest day on record put there today), and it looks like the whole Sound is frozen over.  The beach is covered in ice, and the water is ice, and there is ice on the railings and big crunchy packets of ice on the ground.  There were still tons of seagulls sitting out there in the Sound, but you could tell they were sort of looking around confused like "this is different somehow."  Don't they get cold sitting on the ice like that?

I had so many questions I wanted to ask you when I got home, like how is the ferry still running?  Is it just a big enough boat that it plows through what has got to be rather thin ice?  Why did the ice on the railings freeze in this cool sideways icicle way, is it because it froze when the winds were that strong?

A few years ago I asked you why Long Island Sound was less saline than the Atlantic Ocean even though they were allegedly the same body of water (I mean, they are connected and the Sound is basically just an inlet of the Ocean.  But they are totally different).  You had an answer at the ready.  How did you always just know things like that?  I never questioned it, just assumed that was a thing that Dads did -- they knew things.  Like all the answers to the random questions a six year old would ask, but when the questions were a bit more complicated and asked by a 34 year old.  You always just knew the answers.  And it turns out that it's not just a thing that Dads do, it was just you.

Who will I ask all my questions to now?  Google?  Sort of a depressing prospect.

Remember a few years ago -- I think it was December, 2010 (you would know for sure) -- when there was this huge blizzard over Christmas and Megan and I got stuck out in Port Jeff and we were all going stir crazy and me and you and her took this great walk around town and through the drive of the High School.  The snow was practically up to our waists.  That was a great walk, so pretty, so quiet..  Why did you stop taking walks with us?

Miss you, Dad.

love a

Grinning like a fool

Dad, I had to help Mom find your citicard in your wallet. She'd emptied the (millions of) cards into a bowl. I went through them and I had to laugh (and then I cried). You are grinning like a huge dork in all of your ID cards.

You driver's license - I mean, that is actually a great photo of you. How could you summon a smile like that in DMV? I imagine the person waiting in line behind you thinking you're on something...

Your library card is the same - totally jolly. Your Suffolk County Court ID was a bit more subdued.

Amy and I have talked about your genuine good nature on here. It comes out in the most unexpected places these days.

I am missing you so much on Valentine's Day, Dad. How on earth are we going to cope with your birthday in a couple of weeks?

xxxxxxxxx
M

Valentine's Day

It's Valentine's Day today.  Not a real holiday, but still I was about to write that this is the first holiday we have to celebrate without you.  Obviously, that is far from true as we've already done Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Years.  But, we didn't really celebrate those so much as exist through them, letting the days wash over us practically unnoticed as different from other, miserable days in the wake of your death.  I guess I'll just say this is the first holiday that's happening more than a week out from losing you.

You were actually very sentimental and romantic, much moreso than Mom.  You loved opera, classical music, and could be really, really corny.  I can remember times when you would come home from work and give Mom a really big and dramatic kiss in the kitchen.  You'd say something about your "beautiful and lovely wife."  Mom would act embarrassed and sort of brush you off, but behind her eye-roll she had to suppress a grin.  I always thought she secretly liked your romantic side.  And at times like those, I always thought I hope I have a husband one day who acts like that.

I can't remember if you had a Valentine's Day tradition, I don't think so, but still today has got to be hard for Mom.  I got her flowers and Junior Mints, which you two always used to get on your movie dates.  I'm sure she wishes you were here to share (and by share I mean eat almost all of) the Junior Mints with her.

I hope the cats don't eat the flowers and then vomit them up on the rug.  Right after you died, the house filled with flowers.  Really beautiful arrangements came from everyone and everywhere.  But, in typical Dempsey household fashion, the cats started eating them and then puking them up in unfortunate places.  So we had to start bringing all of the flower arrangements into the upstairs hallway at night, or move them outside, or put them places we thought the cats couldn't reach.  Every evening and morning there was a procession of flower moving.  Like our long history of various animals who don't get along and need to be separated into different quadrants of the house, this really did feel like something that would only happen in our house, a true Dempsey Family special.  I thought you might find that story funny.

love you,
a

Traveling clothes

We might have been going to Mexico on vacation. We were definitely going somewhere on vacation, I can't remember where.

You came home from work delighted. You had bought a new vest, maybe from a store like Brookstone, for our trip.

It was khaki and it was a traveling vest because it had at least 18 various pockets and things. It was ridiculous and Mom was horrified. But you always had a thing for gear, and you couldn't wait to try it out. When we got to the airport check-in desk though, you had a momentary scare.

Where did you put the tickets?? Did you forget them? No. They were lost in your vest somewhere. You had to take it off, and by this time you were starting to sweat it. I think they were in a zippered pocket in the back when you finally found them. Mom must have been thrilled to prove how absurd that vest was!

This isn't the exact vest, I think yours was more over the top, but it was along these lines.

To be honest, I like gear for traveling, too. But more along the lines of Tumi luggage and fancy travel wallets. Much, much more practical. :-)

Love, M

2 months, 2 days

I can't figure out why month anniversaries seem worse than other days. It's stupid really. It's two months, two days since you went into the hospital, and it's just as horrible as it was on two months. 

At the end of the day, time is just a construct, anyway. Even so, you were very precise about it. When I ask Idriss the time, he's likely to round up to the nearest 15 minutes, or even half hour. As in, if it's 4:40, he might just tell me it's 5pm. So annoying! You would never, ever do that. When asked the time, you would answer: 4:41 on the dot. 

In college, I once asked my friend Chris to give me a minute. He answered: Megan, I'm not father time. I can't give you a minute. You thought that was awesome. You told me, that Chris, he's a clever guy. 

Other things you liked to be precise about included: 

- The temperature, both inside, outside, and in the pool. It's 62 and sunny. It's 32 but the wind chill makes it feel like 17. The pool is 74 and the water is nice and soft. 

- The fullness of the moon. So many times have we looked at the sky, and I've said, oh look at the lovely full moon. "That's not quite full Megan. I'd say another day or so to get there."

- Dates in history. You were a history major and you remembered every important date ever. In middle school I learned that the U.S. entered into WW2 started in 1942, and you were horrified. That was incorrect. The correct date was December 1941. How could a history teacher round up a date regarding a war?

- Measurements in cooking. You liked to make soup, which you sometimes embarked upon once a week (always a Sunday) and you followed the recipes to a T. 

- Golf games, tennis scores, etc. 

I am sure there is so much more. I will add to this as I think of it. 

Megan x 

Evidence of mis-matched socks

And a fondness for matching sweaters with Mom!

Sav Mor

It's really cold here tonight, below 10 degrees.  You're missing a cold winter, Dad.  I just came home, happy to be in from the frigid wind outside, and opened my closet to look for the coziest thing I could find to put on.  I grabbed my navy blue hooded sweatshirt with the Sav Mor Mechanical logo emblazoned on the front and back.  The passion you had for t-shirts, I have for hooded sweatshirts.  I have at least 15 of them.  But this one is the oldest and the most treasured.

When I was a sophomore in High School, I sort of co-opted a Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue zip-up hoodie from you.  It was about 25 times too large for me, but I loved it and wore it constantly.  At some point in the years that followed, you presented me with the one I am wearing right now, my very own Sav Mor Mechanical navy blue hoodie.  No one else in the world would love these ugly sweatshirts as much as we do, would cherish a free and logo clad hoodie in quite the same way.

Walking into the bathroom just now, I caught sight of the Sav Mor logo in the mirror and flashed back to sitting in the hospital on that Wednesday.  The Wednesday after the Friday when you were admitted to the hospital, the Wednesday when you had the surgery and the biopsy that would finally be the answer to whether or not you had cancer.  Up until that point, I had been operating with a sort of absurd and unrelenting optimism.  I really, truly believed that you were going to be just fine.

And sitting there in the waiting room with Mom, waiting for the surgeon to come speak to us, trying to tune out the white noise from the TV's above my head, my eyes landed on a brass plaque on the wall that said Sav Mor Mechanical Co.  It was the only time I'd ever seen the logo anywhere aside from on our matching blue sweatshirts, and it really caught me by surprise.  Sav Mor must have been a hospital donor or something.  Either way, I took it for a good sign.  I thought it meant that everything was going to be just fine.  I'd forgotten about that until just now.

A thousand times a day, I think of you.  A thousand and one.

xx
a

Some Metallic Things

For some reason, I love small metallic objects.  The more dense and heavy in my hand, the better.  This extends to jewelry and watches, which you know I have always been obsessed with.  I always attach meaning to a piece of jewelry I love, and to me it's almost more about the story of the piece - where I got it, how I was feeling at the time, what it signifies - than the look of it.  Anyway, here are some metallic objects having to do with you:

1.  When I was in Junior High School, dog tags were a huge trend.  Stores at the mall sold them and you could get whatever you wanted engraved on them.  But, I had the real thing - I had your dog tags from the army.  Do you know how cool that was?  I wore them every day.

After you died, I became absolutely panicked that I had lost your dog tags and that they were gone forever.  Because of my attachment to all things small and metallic, I was really, really focused on having them, and I couldn't remember seeing them in ages.  Luckily, I found them in a drawer of yours.  I worried that I would have to fight Megan and Marc for them, but neither of them were particularly interested (they are obviously crazy, as these are the greatest treasure).  Here they are, one of them has glitter on it from a Halloween costume I wore 20 years ago...

2.  This pencil sharpener was one of the things I took from your office.  It's so heavy!!  I love it.  Did you actually use pencils?  Why did you need such a robust 30 pound pencil sharpener?  It's utterly absurd, and totally awesome.

3.  These two little metal cats also came from your office and are satisfyingly dense and heavy.

4.  Another item from your office.  No one really wanted this bizarre miniature brass tennis racket, but I absolutely could not bear to see it thrown away (you know how I am), and so I took it.  And I will treasure it.

5.  You and I shared a love of nice pens.  You took me to buy my first nice pen when I was a kid - actually a pen and pencil set - made by Cross.  I must have had $100 saved up or something, and that's what I wanted to buy.  You were patient while I spent hours looking at every single pen in the store before I made my decision.  This Cross pen and stand came from your office as well.  The pen is similar to that first one I bought, but gold rather than silver.  (You also had a really nice Waterman pen in your office, which Marc took, and which I want...)

6.  The day after you died was Christmas Eve.  Megan and I went on a walk in town and stopped in Ecolin, the jewelry store in Port Jeff.  People were shopping for last minute Christmas presents, and Megan and I went around looking at everything we wanted and couldn't afford.  We both find comfort in jewelry.  The saleswoman asked if we were sisters, and said she could tell by the way we spoke to each other.

I found this ring, which is not something I would normally pick out.  But I wanted a talisman, something that could function as your memorial ring.  This ring is heavy, and it sort of looks like a shield.  I thought the shield aspect was something I could use, some protection from the misery surrounding us.

If you'd been around when I came home that day, I would have said "look what I got" and then put out my hand.  You would have inspected the ring with your reading glasses on and come away with the declaration that it was "very nice."  This is a good ring for fidgeting with, it's large and easy to clutch.  You would tell me to stop fidgeting, if you were here.  Anyway, I always think of you when I wear it.

7.  This is my watch, which of course you know.  You took me to buy my very first watch - a dark blue one with fish on it - when we were in the Virgin Islands when I was in elementary school.  This watch is one I got about 8 or 9 years ago, a vintage piece I found in a tiny store in the West Village.  It's always held huge value to me, more than any other item I own.  On the day that Owen my cat (or "little fat boy," as you called him) died, the battery died and my watch stopped.

On the day that you died, the watch stopped again.  The battery wasn't dead, though, it was relatively new.  And a few days later it started up again, but it keeps stopping.  It's not keeping accurate time anymore either.  I need to bring it to get fixed, it needs more work than just a new battery.  It sounds absurd, and I'm hesitant to say it lest I sound crazy, but this watch knows when something is wrong.  It stops time when it feels like time has stopped.

8.  This is a small knife from your office.  I almost cut my finger off trying to close it.  Marc, Megan, and Mom only let me take it when I agreed never to open it again.  What were you doing with this unsafe instrument!?

9.  When your father died, you found this box in his apartment and gave it to me.  It houses a nice silver pen.  Your note (written on a yellow post-it, per usual) said "add it to your collection."

xx a

Lonely at the Top

As Megan mentioned in another post, you had a serious obsession with t-shirts with writing on them.  Your favorite were free t-shirts, but you would also occasionally buy them if the occasion called for it.

One such occasion was when we took Megan down to college for her freshman year at University of Pennsylvania.  I think you were really excited that she was going there, you were impressed with everything on campus, and thought it was all "pretty cool."  You were the same way when you took me to Northwestern.  I think you were really proud of us, and proud that you were able to send us to these schools.

On that first visit to U Penn, you found a t-shirt in the campus book store that said "It's Lonely at the Top" and had logos of all the Ivy League universities, including Penn.  You loved this t-shirt, thought it was hilarious.  And of course you bought it.

And you wore it.  Many, many times.  Not many people could have gotten away with wearing such a blatantly arrogant and elitist t-shirt, but because you were not arrogant or elitist in general, you totally pulled it off.  As I said, you thought it was funny.  But I also think you liked it in a less ironic way.

You never said this, but I know it meant a lot to you that you were able to send us all to private colleges without strapping us with student loans and debt, to give us what you never had growing up.  You were quietly proud of this, and the lonely at the top t-shirt was your way of showing it.  Dad, I didn't realize it at the time, but this was such a big deal.  This was the ultimate gift, and I can't thank you enough.

a

A Confession

I'm bad with socks.  I can never keep pairs together, I always seem to get holes in them, and I almost never remember to pack them when I go on a trip.

As a result of my inability to remember socks, I wound up borrowing a lot of your socks over the years when I went out to Port Jeff.  You were very good with socks.  As a kid, sometimes I'd sit with you while you collected your socks from the dryer, matched each with its pair (I'd help with this part), and rolled them up into little balls.

As an adult, coming home for the weekend, sometimes, I would say "Hey, Dad, I forgot socks.  Can I borrow some?"  You would look at me with slightly raised eyebrows, as if this were a really big deal, a huge request you had to consider for a minute.

But other times, I'm ashamed to admit, I did not ask you.  If you weren't home, I just went into your closet and took socks.  They were always paired correctly and never, ever had holes in them.  I did make an effort to take socks that seemed replaceable - like white athletic socks - but sometimes I took nicer ones.  The nicer ones never fit correctly and would bag up around my foot where they were too big.

Many times, I'd drop these worn socks into the laundry basket in the hallway before I came back to the city.  But other times, I wound up taking them home with me.  I've stolen so many pairs of socks from you, Dad.  I'm sorry!  There's no other way to say it, though.  I'm a sock thief.  Thanks for never reporting me to the authorities.

Love you.
a

P.S. I am making more of an effort with my own socks now.  I even have some pairs that have managed to stay together after several rounds of washing...

How Does Anyone Survive This?

The day started just before 5am, when the hospital called to tell us we might want to come up there, to say you weren't responding to treatment, to say that it was all ending.

Mom knocked on my door then, and I jerked awake and it felt like someone pounding their fists into my gut.  I leaped out of bed, heart going a mile a minute.  I had only gone to sleep a few hours ago; I'd been with you until pretty late the night before.

It's like when the phone wakes you up in the middle of the night, or from a nap, and you panic: what is wrong, what have I missed, am I late for something.  Usually it's fine, you come out of your groggy state and nothing is wrong.  But this was the actual call, the call to say that everything was just as wrong as it could possibly be.  The call to say your Dad is about to die. 

I opened the old wooden door to the bedroom that used to be yours and moms, and looked at Mom, stood close to her.  She told me to get dressed.  I went downstairs and my heart was pounding through my skin, I wanted to vomit.  Trembling, I had to keep saying out loud to myself "It's okay.  You have to be strong.  Be strong.  You can do it.  Be strong.  Be strong."  I've never felt so far from strong.

It was the worst morning of my life, but not as bad as it was for you.  A few hours into our hospital visit, right after you were pronounced dead, we shuffled out of your room and into the hospital waiting room.  Numb and raw.  Uncle John and Aunt Terry were there too.  One of the nice nurses came out of the elevator, saw us, and asked how you were doing.  I shook my head in reply, stifling sobs.  Oh, no, she said.  I am so, so sorry.

Megan and Marc and Mom and I split up the calls that had to be made immediately.  I called Peter, your dear tennis partner and friend, and he broke down crying on the phone.  He'd been in the hospital every day, he was a doctor there.  He always looked white-faced when he came into your room.  I don't think anyone could believe how quickly it was happening.  

Someone had to call the funeral home, and so I volunteered.  There was a body, things to do, a business.  Looking back, it feels like I was seeing through a veil that day, nothing is real and at the same time it is all hyper real, too real.  I talked to the funeral director.  We agreed to meet at 2pm.

I don't know why me and Mom and Megan and Marc all took separate cars up to the funeral home, but we did.  Maybe I had an errand to run beforehand, I don't know.  But, I got there early (I know, you can't belive it) and I called Melissa from the parking lot.  I was sobbing like a maniac sitting alone in my Subaru, blowing my nose on the rough brown napkins from Starbucks.  Melissa had been through this before, or at least something similar; her Mom died from the same sort of awful cancer that took your life.

How does anyone survive this?  I asked her.

And she said, for a while it's just going to feel like someone's ripped out your insides.  

And it seemed so dramatic, hyperbolic even.  I thought okay maybe it'll feel like that for a few days.  But, Dad, it's been close to two months and your death is still present in everything I do.  Is it possible I never realized how much you meant to me, how much of a rock you were, my constant?  Or did I just take it for granted that you'd always be here?

Everything I do now, no matter how much joy or laughter is involved, is done in the shadow of your death.  I am not me, I am someone whose father has just died.  But not just any father, you.  I'm someone whose just lost you.  Even when no one knows, when I am with strangers, that's who I am.

So how the hell does anyone survive this?  When I asked Melissa that I was rubbed absolutely raw from your death, from being there, from watching your life expire.  From the days in the hospital leading up to it, your decline, the shock of it all.  And it just seemed too horrible to bear.  I really didn't understand how anyone came through it.

So how do they survive it?  

It helps to have friends like Melissa, who call every single day even though I almost never pick up.  Just checking in, her voicemail always says.  And it's such a comfort to know I'll get a call from her, a new constant.  And to still have Mom and Marc and Megan and to know that they are going through this too, that they are consumed by your loss, but are surviving.

And other than that, I guess it's just by carrying on, by continuing to live, and laugh, and exist.  And then when it hits hard and it's just too unbearable to go on, pausing on the staircase on the way back up to the apartment.  Pausing and breathing and waiting until the unbearable part passes enough that I can keep going, keep ascending the staircase to the apartment, where I will cry until there's nothing left.  

And I still can't believe that we all just walk around with these wounds inside of us, and it still baffles me that anyone can survive it.  Because, Dad, really, it feels like there is a hole in my heart.  

It feels like someone ripped out my insides.  Not all the time, but sometimes, and for a while.  And at this point I know I'll survive it, I just wish I didn't have to.

a

Two months ago today...

Life was normal. I made a Christmas shopping list in the notes on my phone. I went to work, and I was preparing for a visit from Meredith and Jillian the next day.

Then that night, a Friday night, Mom called to tell us you were in the hospital. You know the rest. It's hard to believe that just two months ago nothing was wrong. I mean, of course something was wrong. So wrong. But we were so absolutely blissfully ignorant.

I had a mini meltdown this week about a stationery order gone terribly wrong (I will spare you the incredibly annoying details about the terrible customer service of a fancy old stationer. If you were here still you would definitely cut off this line of complaint).

I forced Amy to meet me for lunch and told her I couldn't stop being angry about this paper order (my favorite selections had sold out and so I wasn't getting what I wanted). As you know, I am ruthlessly pragmatic. So why couldn't I accept this and just move on?

Amy said it was not about the paper. Which I insisted wasn't true. "It IS about the paper" I kept repeating. But seriously, that's total bull.

I realized that part of why I want to stock up on nice stationery is that I got your beautiful Bulgari letter opener from your office. I am totally fixated on setting up a nice little stationery area in my home, with the paper knife you used to open letters. So, that is what it's about. Your letter opener is so, so lovely, and I am constantly afraid that I've lost it or it will get stolen. Also crazy. I never lose anything.

So I guess I'm just misplacing all my anger and sorrows this week onto the paper company. Lucky them...

xx
M

"Wait. What?"

Sometimes you told me stories about your youth so incongruous with my idea of who you were that I had to continually stop you to say "Wait. What?"

You waited until I was an adult to tell me most of the "Wait.  What?" punctuated stories, probably because Mom made you promise never to tell us about your shenanigans when we were impressionable young kids, lest we think we could get away with anything similar.

Apparently you went to something like four different colleges, at least one of which you were actually kicked out of (seriously, what??).  One of these was UCLA (you lived in LA??) and apparently you and your hooligan friend drove cross country to get there.  Or maybe it was just over one summer when you guys drove out to California, at a time when you were just bumming around (seriously, none of this seems true).  Until this point, what I knew about your education was that you'd finished college with GI Bills on Long Island after the army, and then worked your way through law school doing plumbing work.  The words "boot straps" were never mentioned, but, you know, they wouldn't have been entirely out of place.  It was hard to imagine this free-wheeling young college kid with apparently all the time in the world to bum around and get kicked out of reputable establishments.  You were super vague with the details about those college years, and we only discussed it one time.  I have so many questions I want to ask, so many things I wish I knew.

Apparently, there really was a time in your life when you weren't the safety freak we always knew you to be.  Megan told me the origin story of your safety freak tendencies one time -- I never heard this from you directly, and I may have some of the details wrong, but I think it went something like this:

You didn't have car insurance (honestly, Dad, who on earth was this person?) and you got in a car accident.  You couldn't afford to have your car fixed and also pay your college tuition, so you had to drop out of school for a while and work for money to get the car fixed.  This was right around the time the draft was really kicking up for the Vietnam War, and since you were no longer enrolled in college, you were almost definitely going to be drafted.

You wound up enlisting in the army so you'd get placement (and actually lucked out of Vietnam and onto a military base in Munich instead), but still the lesson here was clear:

If you are not extra safe and if you do not have proper insurance, you will be sent to war (or Germany).

Pretty simple.  Your obsession with adequate insurance coverage was sort of a subset of your overall safety freak persona.  Recently, going through old emails looking for something, I came across one you sent a few years ago to all three of your children.  It said:

"A reminder that you should all have glass coverage, its cheap.  Dad"

That's it, just a random friendly reminder to ensure our car insurance was up to speed.

Anyway, my absolute favorite of the "Wait.  What?" stories is from when you were in High School in Glen Cove.  Apparently, something happened to the transmission of your car or something and for whatever reason, the car would only drive in reverse.  Again, you couldn't afford to have this fixed, so what did you do?  Well, you drove around town backwards, obviously.  Wait.  What??

I could not believe it when you told me this story.  What do you mean you drove around backwards? You meant exactly that - you drove around as you normally would -- to work, the grocery store, school, wherever -- with the one exception being that the car was always in reverse.  I asked how you could have possibly gotten away with this without being arrested and you laughed and said it was a different time back then (as if everyone knows it was totally permitted to drive around town backwards in the mid-60's).  You said the cops got to know you as the guy who drove in reverse, and that was that.  They didn't bother you about it.

Mom and you grew up in the same town, but she went to private school and you went to public.  Still, Mom knew who you were and the first time she met you was when you were sent to pick up your little sister from a basketball game, and Mom got a ride home with you too.  You were the hot older brother (and had a girlfriend with you and totally ignored Mom).  She had a crush on you from that point on.  I can't help but wonder, if you'd been in your backwards driving phase at the time this happened, would Mom still have fallen for you?  Lots of girls might think backwards driving was cool and dangerous, but I can't imagine Mom being one of those girls.

I loved my safety freak father, and am so happy you taught us all to be extra cautious and overly insured, but I wish I had gotten to know this free-wheeling backwards-driving guy as well.  He seems like he would have been fun.  Megan lives in the town next to Glen Cove now, and when I go out to see her I always picture you driving around those streets in reverse.  It cracks me up every time.  Miss you, Dad.

love a

Seeking a constant

Hi Dad,

I listened to Tchaikovsky's piano concerto again today, on the train on the way into the office.

The gracefulness of it overwhelmed me, as I imagine it overwhelmed you many times. If there is a more mellifluous and moving piano piece in the world I have yet to hear it.

I admit to weeping again on LIRR. You were not a weeper in general, but I remember you losing it once at the end of Madame Butterfly at the Met. And again, slightly less illustriously, at the end of Phantom of the Opera :-)

You had the ability to experience music as an art, as a truth, as a beautiful constant in the face of daily life. I am not sure if you would have put it that way, but I am putting it that way for you...

I suppose right now I am seeking the same thing. All I want to do this weekend is see some paintings, something lovely. I am not sure what it's about - this craving and intense need for beauty - but I suppose I am seeking some kind of universal constant right now.

Maybe Keats was right, and "beauty is truth, truth beauty." I am seeking truth in the face of ugliness in the world, in the face of sorrow, in the face of day to day life that just doesn't feel right without you, in the face of daily routine that really gets me down. I got the ability to experience joy in art, in beauty, from you. I got the ability to find beauty everywhere outside, all around me, from Mom, who has never failed to comment on a group of lush trees or a beautiful color in her life. I am so grateful to you both.

Much love,
Megan

That Shirt!

As I mentioned in an earlier post, you were not an over-protective father.  You never got worked up about much, and for the most part didn't get involved in policing who we hung out with, where we went, or what we wore.  Occasionally, you'd get really stuck on one thing - I remember this usually having something to do with whether or not we had our coats zipped up all the way when we were young - and would enforce one weird, random rule strictly.  When we were older, you sometimes said "where's the rest of your skirt?" when one of us showed up in a mini skirt.  But, this was said more for comic effect than out of disapproval.

The exception to this laid back behavior came regarding this one light blue shirt I had when I was 19 or 20.  It was a very low-cut and revealing shirt, to be sure, but also not incredibly different from other clothes I wore at the time (which of course now seems odd to me).  Anyway, the first time I wore this shirt around you, you told me in no uncertain terms that you did not like it.  Okay, I said, and didn't think about it again.  It was sort of weird for you to be commenting on my wardrobe.  I wore the shirt around you again and you said sternly, quietly, in your I-mean-business voice "Amy.  I do not like that shirt."  I may have been stupid enough to wear it one more time before you basically forbid me from wearing it.  This was not something you'd ever done before.

Of course, I didn't stop wearing the shirt, which I loved, I just stopped wearing it when I knew I was going to see you.  That Fall, you and Mom came to visit me when I was studying in London.  You were taking me out to dinner one night along with my new friends Silvia and Mette.  Silvia, Mette, and I would be going out to the bars after dinner, and we were all getting ready together before meeting you.  Silvia was borrowing THE blue shirt that night, and it wasn't until after she had it on that I remembered the rule.  "Oh," I said, "Actually, you can't wear that shirt around my Dad.  He hates it."

"Come on, he won't notice, will he?" Silvia asked.

"Oh, he'll notice.  Trust me.  You don't want to wear that shirt around him."

Silvia threw a sweater over her head to the hide the shirt until we left you - problem solved. Dinner was fun.  Marc's friend Keith was also in London at the time and he came along as well.  You and Mom liked Silvia and Mette right away, and we were all laughing and having a good time.  Then suddenly you looked at Silvia and narrowed your eyes.  "Are you wearing Amy's shirt?" you asked.

Silvia's jaw dropped.  "How can you possibly know that?" she implored, laughing "I put a sweater on to hide it from you!"

There must have been half an inch of fabric sticking out around the neckline of Silvia's sweater, and you recognized the color.  It was so funny and bizarre, like you had a honing device for that one shirt because you usually didn't pay such close attention to what anyone else was wearing.  Luckily for Silvia, you didn't hold it against her and over the years I think she became one of your favorite friends of mine.  She never wore the blue shirt again.

love,
a

p.s. I'll try and dig up a photo of one of us in the shirt, but will you be mad if I post it??

You and I

I'm sorting through the box of things I took from your office today.  These are some of the pictures you kept there.

1 - You and I at some sort of school Valentine's day event.  2nd grade or so?

2 - I don't know where this one was, but we look happy.  Looks to be around my senior year of college.

3 - A college graduation photo in which I look incredibly goofy.  You agreed that I looked ridiculous and then promptly ordered prints because it made you laugh.

4 - A day you and Mom came to visit me in Manhattan, probably 2002 or 2003.  I think we look alike in this picture, and again we look happy.

5 - And this last one is a framed picture I've always had with me, from when I left for college through now.  It's from my 8th Grade graduation dance.  You look so handsome.  I was always so proud you were my dad.

xx
amy

Spaceship Alien

For a while, you were really obsessed with long distance biking.  A year or two into your obsession, you switched over from a regular stand up bicycle to a recumbent.  A recumbent bike basically looks like a small spaceship, and people who ride them usually look just a little bit crazy.

Add to this weird looking vehicle a tall orange flag, the same array of mirrors, flashing lights, and reflectors you always wanted me to use on my bike, and a middle-aged attorney dressed only in patterned neon bike clothes and, well, you sort of looked a little bit crazy too.

Sometimes you would come in from a bike ride in a mis-matched neon outfit so terrible we'd have to avert our eyes.  You really took safety and visibility to a new level.  Mom was horrified at the colors you chose, but you didn't care.  You always had a massive grin on your face when you were on that bike, you absolutely loved it.

You used to do these riding trips up in Vermont, spending a few days with a group of strangers.  You'd come home and talk about how nice everyone had been, tell us in detail about who everyone was and where they came from. And thinking about it now I am laughing, because I bet the very first time they saw you and your recumbent bicycle / spaceship, their initial thoughts were "okay, here's the crazy guy, there has to be one in every group."  But of course, once they got past the bike no one could have disliked you (or thought you crazy).

You'd ride around town on your spaceship alien device, and occasionally a friend would say to me "I think I saw your... Dad?  On some sort of weird... bicycle?" said skeptically, in a he-always-seemed-so-normal tone.  Yup, that sounds about right.  "What is that thing??" they would then ask.

Years later, when I got into biking, I could always count on you to listen to the details of my long rides.  When I was training for my first century, I used to text you my distances and times after I'd finished a long ride, and you always told me I was doing great (despite the fact that I traveled at about half the speed you used to ride).

One time, I decided I needed to learn how to flat tires myself rather than relying on the kindness of strangers.  I plopped my bike down on my living room floor, put the phone on speaker, and called you.  Talk me through this, I begged.  And, you did.  It took somewhere between 2 and 55 times longer than it should have, but I changed that damn tire by the end of it, thanks to your infinite patience and excellent instructions.

You've told me several times about your favorite ride - a ride down in Maryland called the Seagull Century.  One time you when you did the Seagull, you got caught up with a group of really fast riders, and you drafted behind them to keep up with their speed.  Skipping all of the rest stops to stay with them, you couldn't believe how fast you were moving.  You finished that ride in record time.  Pretty cool, you said.  (You always described things you liked as "pretty cool").

The other things you always noted about the Seagull were:  the amount of time you had to book in advance to get a hotel nearby, the ocean breeze and the smell of the salty sea air, and lastly the group of sorority girls who got together to cheer for riders at mile 80.  Ocean breezes are nice, but I'm pretty sure the sorority girl cheering section was the reason this was your favorite ride.

Seth, Jarret, and I are finally going to do the Seagull Century this year.  Don't worry, I know, we'll book the hotel well in advance.  I'm sure I'll think of you through all one hundred miles -- slow speed, flat tires and all.

Thanks for the inspiration, Dad.

a