grief – Gather by Image

Eight years

Today was the last day of school for our kiddos. When I first saw the 2024-2025 school year calendar, that jumped off the page at me. The date always does. Today is also eight years from the day Tim took his last breaths.

My oldest had several more conversations with me this year about today’s date, and June as a whole, with the memories (and lack), Father’s day, and all the feels around this month. My youngest had a lot of feels around it this year as well. I was so glad they both talked openly with me about their feelings.

But I admit, its still hard for me to sit in it. My truest nature wants to fix it for them, wants to make them feel better. Even though I know I can’t. When it comes up, I know all I can do is listen, and sit in the silence, hear what is unsaid, and validate how they are feeling. My dad didn’t die when I was 5, 4 or not yet 1. I can’t pretend to know exactly how they feel. But I can imagine. And I can hold space for what I don’t precisely know.

A theme I observed in conversations with the kids about this was a feeling of wanting to talk about it sometimes, of wanting to “be asked how I am doing,” to have the suck-y feelings validated. I’ve noticed this in my dealings with adults about Tim’s death. There is often a sense of “relief” that the kids have fewer memories and would have correspondingly fewer painful/grief feelings. I do not think this is accurate. Grieving the life you never got to have is real too. I also know the language and the communication surrounding Tim’s death is difficult in the best scenarios, but I am beginning to understand just how avoidant many people are with the subject of death, as though it might be contagious.

There’s also a thing I’ve heard repeatedly about how difficult the second year after a traumatic loss is… particularly as others start moving on, and reach out less… I think that’s how it is for the kids now.. as they come into ages where they want to process their grief, they are expected to be over it by now, or worse, for it to be insignificant for them.

The best I could do was to share with them the experiences I have with people expecting me to be “over it.” I also told them that they have an experience most won’t have for many, many years, and so it can be hard for others to know how to imagine, empathize, or relate.

There are still many moments that take my breath away, just how much I miss him. I’d say the most notable shift this year is in the questions from and processing with the kids.

Photo below is me and his legacies with the DC united “Tim Gaige forever a fan” brick, in between games at this year’s Tim Gaige Memorial Sporting Events. I can hardly imagine a thing Tim would have loved more than walk-between back-to-back sporting events.

” You’re the loss of my life.” Taylor Swift

A letter to Tim at Seven years

Dear Tim,

It’s hard to imagine that it’s been 7 years today since I watched you take your last breaths.

Yesterday my bestie asked me what my plan was for today. I rattled off that I was leaving work early for one of the kid’s end of year party, but I also had to stalk a retailer who sold me a product without all the parts and I am pissed and I need it for Friday and I was so worked up I thought “why are you asking me about my plans for a random Tuesday?”

Then I remembered.

I didn’t forget. When I saw the date of that particular school party I signed up because I liked the reason to work a half day on that day… I never quite know how today will hit, or what to expect.

I remember at your bedside when I knew it was the day, I told you I wouldn’t make a big deal of this date, because you would not have wanted that. Since then, I’ve looked back and smiled because you know me. I remember dates. It’s who I am. And I know you would not fault me for that. But to stay close to my word, I’ve never made a big deal of this date with the kids. Your birthday or father’s day will be celebrated, but this date I try to slip under the radar for the kids. But I can’t change who I am, and this date will always jump off the page for me. Like all things in this life without you, I find the best compromise.

I did something different this year though with your #1 girl. She is at a tough age. You adored her and yet she challenged you. I can only imagine the challenges she’d have brought you (too) as a pre-teen-almost-teenager. In preparation for this time of year I spoke with her pre-mother’s day and said I was going to be very real with her – this time of year is challenging for me. If I am shorter fused, if I get set off and yell at her more quickly and easily this time of year I wanted her to know its not her. I wanted her to know why. This turned into both of us crying, and both of us sharing memories of you, and I was so glad I did it. I told her it was just between us. And she kept that. I think she appreciated the confidence.

I think you’d have loved that if only for a moment, when asked last night my plans for today, I did not immediately understand the question. It’s probably one of the best gifts I could give you at this point.

There are some moments when I am glad you are not here for certain things. There are some unpleasant aspects of growing older that you’d have hated. There are some moments in parenthood that would break your heart. There are some happenings in the world, I can be glad you never saw. But they are few and they pale to the things I absolutely loathe that you miss. This gives me perspective.

There are so many regular moments that you’d have given anything to be here with me, with the kids. In every accomplishment, milestone, or struggle, I can feel you in my heart, and the missing you still takes my breath away. I have the challenging parenting moments where I think “how did you leave me with this?” but it’s the good moments (big and small) that you miss with the kids, that hit me the hardest.

In my more selfish moments, I grieve the person that I could not be because you are not here. In my heart, I hope you see me, and are proud of the person I have become without you here.

I hope that whatever is out there beyond this life, you are at peace, but you feel all the love we have for you.

After all this time. Always, MaryBeth

“I cry a lot but I am so productive, it’s an art.” ~ Taylor Swift

The 2024 Tim Gaige Memorial Sporting Event

We had so much fun remembering Tim with DC United last summer, we are doing it again. Some pics of last year’s event below. Hope you can join us!

Details:

Saturday, June 1st at 7:30pm, D.C. United vs. Toronto FC at Audi Field

To reserve your tickets, contact MaryBeth at 703-863-3292 OR marybeth.gaige@gmail.com. The first 77 tickets are guaranteed at $45 per person, with a portion of the ticket price going to Together Rising, and still less than standard ticket price! Please reach out soonest if you know you want to join! (This year we will be sitting on the side with the setting sun to our backs!)

Plan to arrive early, and pre-game with fans of Tim Gaige and the Soccer! Kickoff at 7:30, gates open at 6, party at the pitch (outside the stadium) starts at 4:30.

If desired you can pre reserve parking on spot hero:https://spothero.com/search?kind=destination&id=72485&view=dl

If you are unable to join us and simply want to give directly to Together Rising in Tim’s name: https://fundraise.givesmart.com/vf/TimGaige/team/2024

To read more about why I chose to benefit Together Rising, you can go to my 2018 post.

*Tim and MB at a DC United Game in 2007*

*Tim and A at a DC United game, April 2017*

*Tim posing with his girls before leaving for a DC United game, April 2017*

*Gaige kiddos at D.C. United game, September 2022, posing with Daddy’s brick*

Early crowd for the Memorial Event June 24, 2023!

D posing with his Party at the Pitch Face paint, pre game June 24, 2023

Pre-game at Memorial Event June 24, 2o23

Kids pose with Talon before the game, June 24, 2023

Six years, learning to take my own advice

This time of year is heavy. Each year, it comes around and I think it will be less so, with the passage of time. And each year, I am wrong. As I wrote in my post Pain, my body remembers. It’s that simple.

This year seemed poignant because all the days of the week lined up with the dates as they did 6 years ago. When he first got sick, diagnosed, each and every milestone. I try to logic my way out of it. Why is this time hard? It actually happened 6 years ago. It’s not actually happening again.

In some ways, it happens every day. In some way or another, I feel the loss of him, each and every day. I have moments where I feel so very robbed, I feel how much he was robbed, and how much the kids were robbed, and in unexpected moments, they feel it (and share it) too. This life is full of gut punches.

But this time of year is simply hard. I do get great feeling from reflecting on the memories. Particularly on the ways in which people showed up. So many different ways. And in the ways they keep showing up. I’ve run into people in the last year that I haven’t seen since we lost Tim. They have shared stories of their experience of watching the news of Tim’s death unfold from afar, their own reactions to it, in some cases, how it changed the course of their lives. Some have shared memories of Tim that I never knew. I’ve also had to tell people the story. New acquaintances, parents of A,R, and D’s friends or teammates. It is always tricky to share the story. It’s a heavy story for small talk, but it is integral to our lives, so sometimes it must be shared, as much as I know it can deeply affect others.

This past year has included many changes for us. Joyful times, and difficult ones. I’ve felt myself often in the midst of quite a “midlife metamorphosis” and I have often questioned my own decisions. In all ways, but particularly in parenting. I wear the mantle of making decisions for all of us, and it can be a heavy one to bear, full of second-guessing, and shaming myself.

Over the years, I have loved to speak to other widows and widowers about our experiences. When I do, I always encourage them to be gentle with themselves. I encourage others in any heart break to go with their gut, to not “should” themselves, question or shame, but trust their instincts to make the best decision available at the time, and know that they are building a beautiful life. When difficult moments come, or one finds themselves on the wrong path, love themselves, and find the way to course-correct. You don’t always have to DO or fix. Sometimes your home, your world, your life will be messy. Sometimes you accept, sometimes you just have to rest.

This life of mine is full of gut punches, difficult conversations, and challenging choices. I also have moments where I look around and see how incredibly blessed I am. I know in aging, how much Tim would prefer to be here with the new wrinkles or pains. I know how much he’d love to wake up surrounded by the three beautiful souls he helped create, who I wake up to every morning. We wake up with a roof over our heads, and food to eat, love to share.

The only thing I can do, is take things one day at a time. I may not always succeed, but I try to take my own advice, and be gentle with myself.

Saying Goodbye

I shared this on Social Media on July 7, 2022:

Today was a deeply sad day for the kids and me.

Over 14 years ago, Timmy Gaige and I met Benjamin Joseph Saunders-Gaige at a Homeward Trails adoption event, and not long after he came to live with us. Tim made him an email address and a Facebook account, and let him up on the bed when I was traveling for work. We took him camping, and basically any place we could get away with. We knew we drove some people crazy with our obsession with him…. But then he always won them over!

Almost 11 years ago we started bringing home strange new beings who took all of our time and attention. Yet he watched over them. And always (from the beginning through today) his Dr. Julianne Fisher was there for us and for him.

Nearly 17 years, a million squirrels chased, walks, hikes, runs, pats, kisses, belly rubs, tears in your fur, 2 surgeries, countless roadtrips. You were my constant companion. You loved my babies like your own.

I know how much you missed Tim. How much you lit up when you heard his voice on video after he was gone.

I know he is waiting for you on the other side of that rainbow bridge. I will miss you so much, BJ, as do your human siblings, but I know how happy you are to be together again with the tall one. I will dream of your reunion.

I can’t wait to see you again, it’s only a matter of time. I will take my time… I have more living and loving to do, but I will see you both again when my time is up!

#always

I have no doubts or regrets regarding how we handled the end of BJ’s life. It was his time, and I am so glad that he was able to go peacefully, with a mouth full of chocolate – kisses and reese’s – surrounded by the ladies who have loved him most. Here are some photos of the end that I didn’t share on social media:

Saying Goodbye surrounded by those who love him with our whole hearts.

I remained calm and steady here up until I held his paw and said to him “Say hi to Daddy for us.” And then the tears flowed.

It’s not the first time I held someone I loved until they stopped breathing. Different, yes. But there is something universal and other-worldly about those last breaths. Something about being with someone you love at that moment when they cross to the other side. Something beautiful and gut-wrenching and breath-taking and indescribable.

Even though I knew then and know now that it was for the best, that he went in the best possible way, and I am so grateful for that – it doesn’t lessen just how much I miss that companion. When I am the first one home, I open the door expecting to see him. I still expect to see him next to me when I wake up. I thought the loss of our dog would be dwarfed by the incredible weight of the loss of Tim. I was wrong.

What an incredible testament to the boundlessness of the human heart’s capacity to love.

Afterall, grief is the price we pay for love. (I believe Queen Elizabeth II is creditted with this one.)

The price is high, but I will keep on paying it. There is no other way.

Five years

A while ago I received a beautiful save the date in the mail for my cousin / Godfather’s daughter’s wedding. It caught my eye immediately with the date:6/11. That date always jumps off the page. I am excited today to celebrate a new marriage, young love, and I hope dearly that they experience the same beautiful union, with all its messy pieces that I lived (hopefully with many more years). At the same time, I hold Tim in my heart in a special way on this day. In a quieter way than his birthday, perhaps, but in a way that is deeply meaningful for me.

Recently, I saw a note in a widow’s group that said “When’s the last time you took a moment to appreciate how far you’ve come since your loss?” – Jen Santaniello

Five years certainly seems like the right time to pause and do that. While its hard for me to quantify how far I have come, I can certainly see how far the kids have come. My ability to shepherd them through life on my own, is certainly a thing I would have deemed impossible for the first 35 years of my life. I hold that as the greatest measure of how far I have come, but there are small, less measurable ways that I have evolved that I know Tim would truly appreciate. Reflecting on those allows me to see “how far I’ve come.”

I read this in the book I am reading this week, and it deeply resounded with me:

“All will be well”….
And when I had recoiled at how trite and superficial that sounded.. she’d said
“I don’t mean that life won’t bring you tragedy…
I only mean that you will be well in spite of it… there’s a place in you that’s inviolate. You’ll find your way there when you need to and you’ll know then of what I speak.” – Sue Monk Kidd (The Book of Longings)

It is my greatest desire to honor his life, all that he loved and held dear, while living my own life to the fullest, honoring all that I love and hold dear, and ensure our kids are held and safe, as they continue to become.

Life check

There are a lot of memories for me today… 5 years ago today was the last time I heard Tim’s voice. It was the day that I decided to take him to the hospital, and he never came home. I wrote about this a bit in my letters: A year without your Voice and Another year without your voice.

Today, I want to reflect on this past weekend. I chose to go out to Vegas with my 3 best friends from college for a reunion weekend and an all day Music fest: Lovers and Friends. I know that everything is a risk. Especially these days, with covid (less life-threatening thanks to vaccines) but still rampant. Especially, because we live in America.

My friend Anne was ready to go before the headliners, so we walked her to the gate and told her to get an Uber not the bus back to her hotel.

Shruti, Stacia and I went back in, to the main stage area for TLC (which was awesome). Next up was Usher, Ludacris and lil Jon on the main stage. It was a break so we sat down on the ground. There were a good number of people around us also sitting down. There was DJ music, so medium loud but the three of us were chatting. I was beat. Closed my eyes a few times. Trying to think if Stacia and I could convince Shruti to leave before Lauryn Hill, because it was a long day standing on blacktop that was hotter than the surface of the sun and I was whooped. All of the sudden Shruti says “Get up! Get up! Get up!” I look back and see a wave of humans coming at me in the dark. Shruti grabs Stacia, Stacia grabs me, I grip my water bottle and hat (which I ripped off my head) And Stacia for dear life and RUN! People were ducking and running but very little screaming. It was so scary but the crowd was so NICE! Everyone who touched me was gentle like they didn’t want to hurt me but wanted me to know they were there/ to move forward. We rushed towards the stage and ended up near the front, Shruti pulled us to side thinking of getting trampled and we ended up near a security gate to the VIP section and people started jumping it. No one knew what was happening but there was a buzz of possible gun fire. (Because we live in America) I strained hard to listen. It was absolutely terrifying. I’ve never been in a situation like that before. I managed to be afraid both of getting trampled and of being shot at the same time. People were trying desperately to stay together with their people, and also move in the right direction, and keep each other safe. Stacia started shaking with repressed sobs and I nearly lost it too. I immediately thought “I cannot let my children be orphaned because I wanted to go to a concert.” Somehow this steadied me. I knew I had to keep my senses sharp and remain in control.

When we got to the fence, Shruti struggled to get over it and people helped her. When we got over into VIP we were able to head towards a VIP exit but still no one knew what was happening. But we were ready to get out! We got back to the hotel where we parked, and asked security for first aid because Shruti’s foot was bleeding. Some random concert goers stopped and had bandaids, gauze etc in their clear plastic bag. Stacia and Shruti had some things in a locker, that we will never see again but thank God Stacia had her car keys! (She also had my sunglasses and I had everything else I brought, phone, wallet in my skirt pockets.) It took a long time to get out of the garage but we eventually made it home to Stacia’s house. While exiting we heard Usher and realized that they kept playing! But clearly, we were done.

The music was absolutely phenomenal, but it’s definitely my last festival. That’s not a risk I need to take. Earlier in the day, I thought the heat was the big drama. I will always hold close that in the heat of the moment, Shruti saved my life.

In all things, I wonder #WWTD. I know he’d have understood my desire to go. He’d have wanted me to see my friends. He’d have encouraged it. I went out to Vegas with those 3 when I was very pregnant with D in 2016. I am a person who knows deep in my bones that no matter what precautions you take – tragedy can strike. That even when you marry a man with excellent family history, who takes little to no risks, follows all the rules, avoids tobacco, drugs, motorcycles, firearms… you can get hit with a perfect storm of nearly unbelievable disease and he can die at 37 years old in the prime of his life.

I live in the balance between carpe diem and which risks are too much.

I came home today. I held my babies close. I told them the story. I held HIS babies close.

I reread tonight Another year without your voice and I am reminded how much I’d want to share not only our children, but this world we live in with Tim. I watched one of my friend’s husband’s respond to what we went through and I saw Tim. This, remains so true today:

I’d want to tell you about the disappointing things going on in our country and in the world… I’d want to hear your outrage – not because I want you to be upset, but because it always inspired me, and because I’d know there was one more white male in this country who GOT IT. I’d want to tell you what has happened with me, with my work, ask your advice, report on friends, with other family.. well, I’d want to tell you everything. But you probably wouldn’t let me get to it if we were short on time. All you’d want to hear would be our children. I wish you could see them now! I like to believe you can. I wish we could see you! I guess I do. I see so much of you in them every day. No matter what, you live on in us.
Another year without your voice

On the very same day that I experienced this, in Buffalo, NY, a city that my Tim loved with his whole heart, from his camp days – experienced a terrible white supremacist’s massacre in a super market in a predominantly black neighborhood.

The terrifying experience made me realize just how much I need to appreciate my life. It is, of course, a thing I should have learned 5 years ago when Tim’s took the craziest turn. But all of the things I worry about daily can be reduced to nothing when you consider the sanctity of life. May we remember that, appreciate it, and fight for it always, not in cells that are growing as a part of a woman’s body, but full, live humans of every race, religion, orientation, gender identity.

May we all offer each other every day the same love, grace, and respect I experienced from the Lovers and Friends festival-goers of May 14, 2022.

Four years

Recently, a friend told me that a friend of hers (who I don’t believe I’ve ever met) said “How long has it been?… almost 4 years? She’s not seeing anyone now? What are you doing to help her with that?”

I have found that there is a continuum of widowhood. At least on the observation (judgment?) scale. Its “ooooh, too soon” to “mmmm, when is (s)he going to move on?” There is no set time when the switch flips, but as soon as it does, you can FEEL it. Not internally, but in the way others treat you.

There have been things in the last 4 years. Flirtations, situations, intimacy. I have no regrets. Things happened when they did, why they did, for reasons that I can not explain, and yet for which I am very grateful. The first was, by all external observation “too soon.” And yet, I am extremely grateful for it. It was just what I needed, when I needed it. It was joy, excitement, sadness, distraction, but most of all, it helped me understand myself so much better than anything else could have at that time. I guess I could say it was a revelation. It was about me, and not about only my loss. And when it needed to be over, it was so very clear to me, in a way that it would not have been for a younger version of myself, for a pre-Tim, pre-children version of me. In that time, I was telling myself I was only surviving, but I found that I wasn’t only surviving, I was fully living, and I was getting to really know who I am. If anything, I was falling in love with myself. Another situation was just as rewarding. It was good for my heart, fun, and freeing. It may have been cut extra short by global pandemic, and yet helped with that too. It was truly always on a timeline. And in all things, as a mother, my children – their happiness and safety – come first, and other choices fit around that.

I told someone else recently that my father died last year, and their first question was whether my mother would remarry. I immediately found this an interesting and (to me) unexpected response. Like, do you remember you are speaking to a widow at this moment? I’m not sure he did. He was thinking of when his own father died, and that his mother did remarry. And that’s ok. I understand that we live life relative to our own experiences, what we know, what we understand.

On Glennon Doyle’s podcast, We can do hard things, she and Amanda were talking about the question “What happened?” Their topic was specific to infidelity, and the end of both of their first marriages… but Amanda talked about how awful that question is, and specifically because its never for the person being asked, always for the asker (I am paraphrasing – I 100% recommend listening to the actual podcast We Can Do Hard Things). Amanda talked about the person asking wanting to know what happened, so that they can understand, analyze, diagnose how it happened, so they can mentally come to terms with how it won’t happen to them.

How MUCH I identified with this. I had to laugh, too. Imagine Tim’s response if I told him I identified with a podcast about infidelity. He was the most fiercely loyal human I have ever known, he would have been initially aghast. But he also never lived through the aftermath of the love of his life’s death, and I know he’d have a lot of grace for that unknown. I had a very intelligent friend ask me if the fact that Tim lost his hair so young was a sign? Was it the cancer? I couldn’t even believe he was asking me this…. and yet I did. I understand the NEED to look for a reason, or for a sign that we all missed. I understand looking for that comfort. It may not be a luxury I have, but it doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.

I am, always, who I am because I loved Tim, and because I lost Tim. Not just because of our children that I am raising, but the forever imprint on my heart, my being, and my knowing. He is present in the decisions I make for our family, and I have silly moments when I think of him and it stops me completely still. We move forward as a family, always letting each other become who we were meant to become. I can not wait to see who our children will be in each next step in their lives. And I also look forward to learning who I am becoming.

My mind is open, my heart is open, and I continue to do just “the next right thing.”

“…I chased desire, I made sure I got what’s mine…. and I continue to believe that I’m the one for me. And because I’m mine, I walk the line. We’re adventurers in heartbreak so that our final destination we lack…We’ve stopped asking directions to places they’ve never been. To be loved, we need to be known, we’ll finally find our way back home. And through the joy and pain that are life’s brain, we can do hard things” – Tish Melton

Saying Goodbye to Dad

It was a difficult decision in this environment, and a risk, I know, but I decided to leave the kiddos for several hours today and head up to PA for my dad’s < 10 person funeral mass.

The absolute saddest part of dad’s passing was the timing. Dad had been ready for a long time. Before Tim died, I spoke to him about how much I wish that across the country we had Death with Dignity options. Imagine if Dad could have made his own choice? He would have made it years ago, and gone to rest peacefully, surrounded by the support of his family. My heart breaks to think of the sadness and the confusion of this time. I can only imagine this is the case for many other patients in care facilities across the country, who can not understand why their family members are not able to visit. Death is always sad for those of us left behind. It is a heavy weight to carry. But I like to imagine a world where the suffering can find their way home in peace, in a manner and time of their choosing.

I am glad that I was able to go today. I wrote and gave the Eulogy, which I will share here. I may have broken my own connection to the Catholic Church in 2016, but I can not deny that Father Ed did a beautiful job with Dad’s mass. He had met dad, and he read carefully the background on Dad that my sister-in-law, Gaby, provided. He incorporated those thoughts beautifully and connected them to both readings and the gospel in his homily. My sister, Jean, and my Aunt Kathleen did a beautiful job with the readings, my Aunt Dolly with the prayer of the faithful and the Church staff who joined for the piano and singing did a gorgeous job. The pianist went so far as to add a few chords of ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ at the end after hearing the end of the Eulogy. And my mom, who I hate to welcome to widowhood, was her strong, beautiful, elegant self.

Here are the words I shared today with the small crowd allowed for the funeral mass. Mom hopes to have a burial that more can attend in the future.

Good morning.

(Here I ad libbed that before I started I wanted to mention that my immediate family had joined a video chat the previous evening to wish my 18 year old niece a happy birthday and we had agreed… as weird as this funeral mass is for all of us here – the size, only a few immediate family members – it would have been right up dad’s alley).

We, here in this room today, and others that could not be with us, we are Dad’s legacy. Most significantly, Mom, Joe, Jean, and I (and our spouses and children) are dad’s greatest legacy. Even though he couldn’t always show it the way we might have liked for him to, it has always been clear to me just how much Dad loves each and every one of us.

At my first job after college when someone would accept a new position and be moving on to the next adventure, we would celebrate (sometimes roast) them with a top 10 list, Letterman style. At my husband’s Celebration of Life, we developed a collection of things that “we learned from Tim” particularly for our children to have for years to come.

So today for this small group of us gathered here, I will share the top 10 things that I learned from Dad, whether directly or indirectly…

The value of family, resilience and perseverance. I know how much it meant to Dad that he and Mom got to fulfill a longtime dream of visiting Ireland together, where they met some of dad’s cousins and saw where his mom was born.
The value of education. Dad always made it clear how important he found education of all kinds. The love of a good book! And a library! Dad was a lifelong learner. And it’s not surprising then that my sister, Jean, is an educator.
The value of hard work – whether this be at school, work, around the house or in the yard, where my brother, Joe’s nickname for Dad – “Johnny Flamethrower” – came. Dad’s favorite tools may have been his lawnmower, leaf blower, and subsequently lighter – to light the leaves on fire… eventually only on the county-approved days.
The value of understanding and appreciating cultural differences. This was something I think Dad struggled with personally all his life. He made a point to talk to me about gender and racial equality in particular, as well as the damage of prejudice, and every year he looked forward to signing right up for the Church and Synagogue interfaith community sessions.
In a similar vein, Dad taught me the value of a good debate, of challenging the status quo, of pushing yourself to think differently then you’ve been taught to think.
Dad taught me that it may never be too late to reinvent yourself. This was something Dad did over and over. Brother, son, friend, soldier, Stone Container worker, husband, Philadelphia Police officer, father, Wharton School Business student, Blacksmith/farrier, rubber stall mat installer, woodworker, chef, grandfather, student of history and law.
Dad taught me the importance of mental health. Mostly, that mental health and challenges with it are very real. I learned through him the damage of secrecy, and with it the value of transparency, openness and speaking the truth.
Dad taught me that It’s never too late to bury the hatchet… When Dad’s brother Hugh was sick, I went to visit him at his home and he told me and Tim about Dad coming to visit him in the hospital. They had not spoken for many years. Uncle Hugh looked me in the eye and said “if roles were reversed, MaryBeth, I don’t know if I would have done it…. He was the bigger man.” Nothing in all the years of my life could have prepared me to hear those words. I was shocked, but I was also incredibly touched, and those words have stayed with me.
Dad shared with me words he often recalled from his sister, Patsy… Regarding burial for GrandPop Saunders, and whether it be with Grandmom Saunders, or in a plot where in the future Grandmom Mary could be buried with him, Dad said Aunt Patsy told him, “Johnny, let us appease the living, rather than the dead.” Dad and I spoke of that many times and it stuck with me. Based on the life I’ve lived, those words have been incredibly important to me.
For many years, on the second Sunday of December, my family would go cut down a Christmas tree. Whenever we would do this, Joe, Jean, and I would wait to hear the words Dad always spoke “Just remember, the farther you walk out, the farther you need to walk back.” We laughed about it a lot, but it’s a valuable lesson in life.

When I was young, Dad and I enjoyed watching The Wizard of Oz together, and he made me memorize “Somewhere over the Rainbow”. He’d even record me singing it on a little black tape recorder.

I hope you are somewhere over the rainbow, Dad. I know a couple people who will be happy to show you around. May you be at peace. May you be at home. There’s no place like home.

May

May came crashing in. I woke up thinking about the hospital time in a confusing wake up where it wasn’t clear where the dream stopped and the conscious thought began.

In some ways it was refreshing to wake up on my own like that. It’s rare. I usually awake suddenly right in the middle of a sleep cycle by one of my offspring calling for me or busting into my room.

I woke up thinking about the hospital time. And then I remembered it was May. Much like last year, all the thoughts are creeping in as the time of year approaches. As I mentioned in my post last year Pain, my body is readying to relive the trauma.

There is a part of me that wishes I could skip this part. Skip the pain …

Last night I went to the gym. Another rarity. I worked hard. At the end I felt like I was going to vomit. But I felt alive. So I’ll take it.

I remind myself what he wouldn’t give to be alive … To be here with me, with his children whom he adored. To take every chance to learn new things, to experience the world, to watch, to play, even to worry. And I know that even with all this pain, this grief, the struggles, I am so fortunate to be alive.

Last night a picture came up of the four of us (before D was born) standing at a farm in the fall in front of a field of sunflowers. I loved that photo. I think I made it my Facebook profile picture after it was taken. But as I looked at it last night on the screen I thought to myself, I never appreciated how perfect my life was. I don’t want to do that again. I’m not sure I can simply STOP worrying about the worry of the day, but I want to consciously appreciate.

Maybe my life isn’t “perfect” anymore with the love of my life dead, but here’s a thing: I can stop and think about how much he loved me and it still fills me up. It still takes my breath away. What a gift to have been loved like that. What a gift to love like that. Even if it ended tragically. That kind of Love is such a gift. And while the task of raising these three humans may seem monumental most of the time, and while I feel like I’m mostly screwing it up… The task is also a gift I need to fully appreciate.

I can be grateful. I can accept the suckiness. I can demand more. I can demand more of myself, and of life and of the world around me.

I can not skip the pain. Feeling the pain… is what it is to feel alive.

I have so much more to write, but for today, this is enough.

Here we go, May! Here I am. I am alive.