There was a night when I was there, ironically, just a couple weeks before his death, and I knew. I just knew. I had no idea how quickly it would all unravel, but a sixth sense deep in my being told me to hold onto that evening. To be very still and very present. To soak it in. That he wouldn’t be with us forever—and that that night held something special. I hated my sixth sense. I hoped it wasn’t true.
We had been to the pool earlier that day—him having to lounge in the shade, a port in his arm and all. (A visibly sick man supervising his playful family from the sidelines. He was supposed to be in the pool splashing around with us. How did any of this make sense??) Instead, he lay to the side with his friend Steve on the chaise lounges, as they checked World Cup scores on their iPads and dreamed up Caribbean catamaran trips that the two couples would take later that fall, after he was well. Oh, the plans that were made for “later,” after he “got well.”
On the way home from the pool, he whipped us into the parking lot of a local shopping center, popping inside to pick up dinner—delicious bratwursts from a local delicatessen—his idea. He, much like my cousin, always makes things special, makes things fun (even in sickness, when he felt his very worst). They enjoy the good things in life, and they enjoy sharing that with others, too.
We ate out on the deck, a perfect June evening. He DJ’ed—Jack Johnson, Zack Brown Band, sharing fun facts and tidbits as he shuffled through catchy, toe-tapping songs (he always seemed to know at least a little bit about everything and everyone). He couldn’t really taste the delicious brats, his taste buds so dulled, so he piled on the hot sauce and extra seasoning, while Jen and I relished the flavorful tastes of a quintessential summer meal.
Our conversations were not groundbreaking or profound that night, yet they were enjoyable and flowing and, most of all, nearly normal. For a moment of blissful escapism, it all felt normal.
Last night in bed, many of the emblazoned images of my second Chicago visit of the summer rose to the surface out of nowhere, washing over me. They include vivid pictures that will likely stay with me forever, memories I dare not taint with words. They are moments so raw, so tender, so sad and yet, sometimes, so eerily, twistedly beautiful. Parents saying goodbye to their son. A young mom saying goodbye to her life love, the father of her four children. Scenes one should never need to witness. Scenes that just weren’t supposed to happen. But they did.
How does one navigate sadness? What can you do with such immense sadness? Some emotions get a boost from good cries or the reading of inspirational quotes, etc. etc, etc., but with sadness, it just sits. Until it passes. And it gradually visits less often. It seems there is no other way.
I am now so very grateful for that summer dinner out on the deck. When it felt like everything, even though it really wasn’t—maybe for a moment anyway—would maybe, just maybe, be okay.
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