time – 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

Now “medical journal” rare

Dear Tim,

I know you will remember when Annabelle was born. I had multiple bags of water and when one came out “intact” the nurse was excited about it, saying it was rare and your entire face lit up and you said “like medical journal rare?!”

Poor nurse had to let you down easily saying, “Well, no… not quite medical journal rare. But I don’t see it everyday.” I saw on your face as you smiled at me that you were trying not to be disappointed by that.

Throughout your entire ordeal in the hospital, it felt like everything was unprecedented. I heard “perfect storm” many times, and many medical professionals weighing in, looking at options, coming up with the next course of action. I remember saying to you and hoping you could hear me, “Tim, you are finally medical journal rare. Pull through this, and you will be in the medical journals.” I may have even written that to some of the staff I wrote thank yous to after we left the hospital.

In March of 2019, I got an email from the associate director of ECMO at Inova Fairfax Medical Center (who I remembered) saying:

The ECMO team is interested in trying to publish data regarding the infections your husband faced while being on ECMO. My hope is that centers that do not see as many cases as us learn from our experience. The data does not contain any identifying materials, however I wanted to have your consent prior to proceeding.

Well, I couldn’t imagine a thing you’d love more, so of course I gave my consent. I asked for a copy when it was published, but when I didn’t hear again, I assumed it just didn’t work out.

Fairly recently (it has taken me some time to get this down) your friend Melissa, reached out to me. She is an infectious disease physician, and came to see you in the hospital. She said she was doing a literature search at work and found Tim’s paper! I said “what?”

You finally made it… a scientific paper about your infections.

https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2211753919300491

I’m so sorry you are not here to read it. I admit, for me, it’s a heavy read. Brings me right back to those days. But I am ever so grateful to Melissa for finding it for me, for your parents and friends, and someday for the kiddos. If the facts of your case help save even one life…

Goodness, I miss you, my love. Sleep well.

Always, MaryBeth

“He said he’d love me all his life, But that life was too short” ~ Taylor Swift, I can do it with a broken heart

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

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.

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.

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

Three years

I remember so vividly three years ago today. There are times when I could not tell you what I had for lunch yesterday, but those last moments in the hospital are crystal clear. I mentioned in June 11th is coming. that right there at the end I sang to him our wedding song, and I told him, “I will not make a big deal of this date.” I knew he would hate that. And I’ve tried to maintain that… plan the memorial sporting event around this time of year / father’s day, plus “celebrate” father’s day. And I managed again this year to not tell the kids what today was… I didn’t think I would get away with it this year, because A mentioned it the other day, “isn’t June 11th the day daddy died?” But she did not mention it today, and I did not bring it up. I told them there was a special end-of-the-school-year treat coming. And it did – we had an ice cream truck come to our cul de sac! They loved it!

Tim and I once took part in an “ice cream Thursday” tradition at work, and today being the ultimate “ice cream Thursday” brought me some joy. It also brought the opportunity to celebrate the end of this difficult school year, with three months of the kids at home, all of us at home, staying safe from the corona virus. We were delighted to have other neighbors come down for the ice cream truck, including R’s first grade teacher!

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But I can not help that this day hits me hard. As much as I want it to be just any other day. The date is everywhere. I wrote the date on a million forms and papers, had it engraved several places. The date is engraved in my heart. And try as I might to not make a big deal of the date, it ends up making a big deal to me. So many memories flood in. The whole day feels heavy. Tim loved me so much for who I am, I am sure he would forgive me for this. This guy here, his son. This week I mentioned daddy while we were in his hammock together, and D turned to me and said very seriously, very matter-of-factly “Mama, my daddy – he is always dead.” It surprised me as he has never said this before. But it is also simply true, however much I hate that this is his reality.

I am sad that due to the corona virus, we will not be able to celebrate with friends and family at the memorial sporting event this year. But I am hopeful that we will be able to do that next year. This time in history that we are in right now also feels very heavy: emerging into summer, and a phased re-entry into a “new normal,” and trying to imagine what comes next.

I so hope that this time brings transformational social change that we desperately need, change that makes it a better, kinder, safer world for every single citizen on earth. I know that is what Tim would want for the world his children live in.

Three years, and so much has changed. We have all changed – me, and each of the kids. The world around us is changing fast. I hope we continue to change with it. I have no doubt that Tim’s light, life, and spark will be in our hearts always. Always.

“You have stolen my heart

And from the ballroom floor we are a celebration

One good stretch before our hibernation

Our dreams assured and we are, we’ll sleep well… sleep well… sleep well… sleep well”

~ Dashboard Confessional “Stolen” (Our wedding song)

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.

New Year’s Resolution

Like all people, I am lousy at keeping them.

I will vow to write more, but I am unlikely to follow through.

“Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?”

Eliza. I do. Just today I told someone who never knew him about how much he hated when people put their windshield wipers up on their car in preparation of a snow storm. Only a few hours later, a friend of his reached out to me to share a post about someone not understanding that practice – and how it will always remind her of Tim. (Because it snowed today.) Yes. That. He hated that. And he hated pie charts.

I will tell his story.

But my 2020 resolution is simply this: I resolve to fell less guilt.

Guilt runs in my veins. Catholic. Female. Not-quite-millennial. Whatever it is, I feel all the guilt. Like most mothers, I am sure, but extra as an only parent.

I resolve to remind myself that anything I do to take care of myself and be more physically and mentally healthy – is as a byproduct healthy for my children, and I do not need to feel guilty about it.

If someone – even if it is my children – look and say, Damn, she’s selfish…. This is not a thing I need to worry about. If I reach that point – I will have arrived. I have resolved.

Where his body is (a letter to our children)

Dear A, R, and D,

I know there are many hard conversations ahead of us. Some, I can never imagine. Others, I know will happen one day… and I always think “that day is not today.”

Maybe its true that I have already had the hardest conversation… but that doesn’t make the future ones easier.

D, I often wonder how the understanding will have played out for you. When you are grown, and look back, you will surely never remember a time when your father was alive. But, how will you remember your understanding of death to have taken shape? To be honest, I can’t say how I want that to happen for you. When we were at the beach this summer, there was a day when you and I and A, walked back from town together, hand in hand. R was ahead of us on her scooter. We were talking about where in the beach house you left your daddy doll (I try always to know since you will not sleep without it – thank goodness we have 3!), when A said something about Daddy the person and you said, “where IS Daddy?… Big daddy?” and I realized it was the first time you’ve ever asked that. I said, “well, Daddy is in Heaven…” Annabelle piped up and added to it, and we both talked about how great he was, how much we miss him, how much he wishes he could be with us. But I really don’t know what of that you understood. I don’t understand what Heaven is, so how can I really even try to explain it to you? Recently, you looked at the picture in your room and said “I am wearing blue, and Daddy is holding me.” I stopped what I was doing and looked at the picture and said, “that’s right, D, you are!” There was no more, but it pierced me. I wanted that photo right there where you could always see it, and see his face, and how happy he was to be with you! And here it was having that desired effect. I think. I don’t know. I never know how to do this.

Recently in the kitchen alone, R, you looked at me so earnestly and said you don’t know where daddy’s body is. You said “I don’t understand what happens to us when we die,” and I answered honestly. “I don’t understand either. But here’s what I believe…”

The other night, we were at the pool with friends. The big kids did a play, and there were zombies. Later it came up about a smell… “couldn’t be the zombies! … What? … Zombies are dead! Have you ever smelled a dead body?… No!? … Gross.” My whole body went rigid, wondering whether any of the 3 of you heard… what you might say… what questions you might ask me.

Because here’s the thing. It’s been two years and none of you knows what happened to Daddy’s body. I’ve explained that he died. That he’s gone from this earth. That he’s in our hearts. That he’s in “heaven.” I know you understand that you will never see him again. When I was young, as long as I can remember I went to funerals. I grew up Catholic, where funerals are part of the social experience. Where open casket viewings are common, traditional. I grew up going to Mass on Sundays, and more often than not going to the cemeteries after for my parents to visit their parents, for me to visit with them – my grandparents. I remember going to funerals. The Mass, the viewing, the open casket, the procession line, the cemetery, the lowering into the ground. Unfortunately, your dad and I never spoke very clearly with each other about our exact wishes upon death because it was the furthest thing from our minds. Before our youngest child even finished nursing, or his first year of life, before our oldest child finished Kindergarten, the idea of one of us dying and the other needing to deal with death was unthinkable. And yet, your father was a passionate, opinionated man and I did know exactly what he would NOT want.

You all know that we had a celebration of life because Daddy hated funerals. We have a tree and bench (two actually in two different states) because Daddy didn’t like cemeteries. But you do not know WHERE his body is. And one day you will want to know.

So, here is the answer. He was cremated. This means his body was turned to ash, instead of being put into a box and lowered into the ground. Does this sound harsh? Both options sound harsh I think. But in one you can keep the ashes with you at all times – or you can spread the ashes out in the world in a place he would love to be. We are going to do both. And I can tell you for sure Daddy would not have wanted to be in a box in the ground. And here’s another thing. I made sure he could be in so many places. I used to tease him about his desire to go everywhere. He was a homebody who was also restless. He was no good at travel, and yet he dreamed of moving so much more than I did. He’d throw out options all the time. Let’s move to California! Buffalo, NY. Minnesota! Wisconsin. Boston – definitely Boston. Austin, TX. Ireland. London. Australia. New Zealand. It never ended. But the plans to move were never well formed. Just dreams he liked to mention. I wanted to visit these places, because I love to travel. Your father simply wanted to move there. I often wonder if somehow, he didn’t feel deep down in a place that never caught his conscious mind that he wasn’t here on Earth for a long time. So how did I make sure he could be in many places? When they asked me about an urn.. they mentioned they could do several keepsake boxes of ashes, and I asked how many. They didn’t know. I said as many as you can. So I have no big fancy urn on the mantle. I don’t need it to have him with us. We have so many other reminders of him visible in our home. I have all keepsake boxes. I’ve already given away the ones to Daddy’s family. To the other people who were blood and family and so special to him. Allow them to chose where their part of him should go. Stay close with them at all times – or spread in a place he loved of their choosing. But the others are still home with us. Home with us where he would most love to be while you are young. When you are old enough to read this, to get this information and understand it, all of you, then we will talk more about spreading his ashes out in the world in places he would most love to be. I have a small keepsake box for each of you. I will give it to you when you are ready. You can keep it with you, or you can spread it out in the world as you choose. Then I have 3 more. There is so much that can be done: keep, spread, and more… I’ve seen some add the ashes to an hour glass. Still others have had the ash made into jewelry of all types. I have a big trip planed for us when you are older to spread one keepsake box in a place far from here that Daddy and I loved, that we loved together, and I want to show you. I think I’d like to spread another at his tree with you all, if you agree, when you are ready to do so. And the last, I will save. And my wish is that you will share it with my ashes someday. I absolutely hope that you will have me cremated. If nothing else, to save you the money of a traditional burial! Mix some or all of my ashes with your dad’s. Either keep the commingled ashes with you, or spread them in a beautiful place where we’d love.

At the end of the day, it’s ash, it’s dust. Our bodies will be gone. But I hope that we will live on in you. Always.

So that, my dears, is where daddy’s body is. Some day we will let go of his ashes together. For now, they are with us. His spirit lives on in our hearts forever. The personality traits, quirks, mannerisms, and love that you have of Daddy’s – you have forever. Daddy is in our hearts. Always.

All my love, Always,

Mom