On Living

Boy, did you know how to push my buttons. Politics. Religion. Gluing the toilet paper. The "bugs" under my pillow. The jokes that made me cringe and wonder how many Hail Marys it was worth. Oh, and remember the time you so kindly helped me visualize the bloodied and broken body of my mother-in-law (whom I love dearly--she's seriously a saint) while I took the wheel on our trip to visit your son (who just so happened to propose to me the very next night) in Georgia? I don't know why you thought getting me to cry while traveling the Smokies on a foggy night was a smart idea. But, your wife telling you to "Shut it" was worth it.

You were such a pain in my arse. From telling me I could give a stick figure a run for its money (I was not skinny, I just didn't care to eat a pound of fried cheese sticks. Those, my dear father-in-law, were all yours) to believing I was the worst thing that could happen to your son because I was a bit too rebellious, you gave me hell. You tried to boss me around. I bossed you right back. You wondered why the hell I wasn't pregnant 3 minutes after I was married. I said that once you pushed a Volkswagen out of your hoo haa, then maybe. You always told me my views were always wrong, I told you your views were never right. I made your blood boil. You made me cringe.

But, you loved me.

I loved you. More than anything.

We had a unique relationship, didn't we? I loved you not only for being the father of the man I married, but I loved you for being a father to me . . .

December 11, 2006
Your hands are resting at your side. Your mouth is strained open, as if you are trying to say something. The monitor beeps. The tubes stretch across your body. I lay my hand on your's and put on a brave face.

Your son needs me to be strong. I will be.

But I can't help but to silently beg you to wake up. To yell at me. To make fun of me. To spar with me over politics. Religion. The sucky Detroit Lions.

Deep breath.

You are the patriarch of this family. You are the heart that keeps it beating . . . I stare at their faces. They are lost. Your daughter. As the oldest, she tries so hard to hold it together. Your sons. I know they are running images of you in their mind. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Firsts. They are negotiating with the guilt and regret of things said, unsaid, done, not done.

Your wife. Anne, my mother-in-law with the soul of a saint. Her pain runs so deep in digs trenches into my resolve to remain strong.

And I look to your son, my husband. You and he shared something that went beyond father and son. Beyond even a simple friendship. He got you. You got him. I know that when you go you'll take a part of him with you.

Yet. You are still you. Even at the end. As your three sons, with breaking hearts and tears in their eyes lean over you, telling you they love you, you lean forward. And with a raspy voice barely above a whisper, you tell them, "Don't be a bunch of pu$ies." The bite back at their laughter. That was an "I love you" if I ever heard one.

I plead with my tears, for they are not mine to cry. But I know they'll fall . . .

December 12, 2006
Today is my husband's birthday. Today is the day you brought the love of my life into the world.

And today. You say goodbye.

The cancer that ravaged your body is gone. It claimed your lungs, your bones, your brain, and ultimately, your life.

I know I shouldn't be. But I am still so angry. How it forced itself into your life, a BIG life. How is stole your sly smile and robbed you of your laughter. You were such a force and to see you as you crumbled under the pain was something I will never be able to wipe from my memory. One moment your voice filled the room as wild energy whirled around you. The next moment you were so small. So frail. A victim, beaten and robbed.

But in the end, it didn't claim your soul. And today, your spirit is so alive. In sweet Anne's heart. In T's sense of humor. In R's stubbornness. In S's charm. In your daughter's wisdom. In my vivid memories. And now, in his sly little smile. Sweet Baby J, who entered this world only nine months after you said goodbye.

Your grandson. I now know why you wanted him for us. Why only two weeks after you left us we found out about him. He was a gift. He soothed our hearts and helped dry our tears . . .

One day, I will tell him stories that will have him filling a room with his laughter (your laughter). He will know you. He will cherish you the same way I did. I'll make sure of it.

And so you know, I'd give anything to have those moments back. The edgy banter. The lame jokes. The totally inappropriate comments. The moments when I knew I meant the world to you . . .

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I know that nearly every one of you has been touched by cancer. Although is can tear lives apart, in its wake are often the most courageous of all stories. I just keep reminding myself that the body is temporary, the soul (regardless of what you believe) lives on . . .

To Faith, the most beautiful young girl I've ever seen. I miss you. 19 years old.
To Timmy. I can only imagine who you'd be today. Greatness. Undoubtedly. 14 years old.
To Maddie. I miss you, grandma. That fiery red hair. That fiery personality.
To Len. You knew how to live. And you did, up until the last breath.
To Amy. You survived. You did it! You amaze me.

To Roman. Your grandson looks just like you . . .

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