Number 210

Nora Is Sad In This One

Take one 

My father and I weren't particularly close, especially in my adult years. I don't mean to suggest that we were estranged - far from it. If either of us ever felt the need to get in touch with the other, that's what we'd do. All I mean to say is that we weren't particularly close, ya dig? There were a few different reasons for this. Probably a lot of you out there have similar relationships with a parent or two for exactly the same reasons, so there's no need to explore why. Besides, that's not what this post is about...

Perhaps I need a better start to this whole thing to correctly communicate what I'm trying to get at.

Take two

My dad died 7.5 years ago, and I miss the hell out of him. I can't tell you the number of times I've thought to myself how I'd love to talk with him only to remind myself that he's no longer here. Most of the time it's insignificant reasons that make me think about reaching out to him, but the reason doesn't really matter one way or the other, 'cause the ache I feel when I remember he's gone feels just the same.

I'm 58 years old, and I'm right on the cusp of being a person who begins attending funerals more often than weddings. It's put me into a contemplative mood, and caused me to reflect back on important folks in my life that are no longer with us. Is this overtly morbid? Perhaps. Am I intentionally trying to make myself miserable? Could be - I wouldn't put it past me. I mean, there's nothing about this that makes me feel good. But I think it's important to acknowledge sadness and/or its cause when it's at work on my psyche. In that spirit, it seemed appropriate to put these thoughts down into words.

Three-fourths of my grandparents were gone before I reached the age of 10. I've always lamented that my only memories of them are mere wisps with little substance. If there weren't a few photographs to jolt my memories, I wouldn't even have that much. So too, I never got to introduce my true self to my one grandparent who lived long into my adulthood. It was from her that I chose the name of Nora. I think she would have been pleased.

My Aunt Mary died much too young. You couldn't be with her and not have a smile on your face or a laugh on your lips. The irony was that her own life was a misery in which she felt trapped. A cancer diagnosis in her 40's provided an escape as the disease raced through her body in record time. I took my middle name from her. She deserved better.

I lost my Uncle Bill and Aunt Helen long before I understood their significance in my mother's life. 

You know when you meet someone, and you realize that they have a soul that shines out as if made of gold. That was my cousin Jan. A wasting dementia criminally claimed her way too fucking young.

After our parents divorced, my brother and I moved from Ohio to Connecticut with our mother. This move was not especially popular with either of us, but it was especially hard on my brother. He was going into his junior year of high school, he had good friends and was seriously crushing on the young woman he would one day marry, and he was shaping up to be one of the studs on the basketball team. Our mother had her reasons, but it was still a shitty deal for him. When the school year started, Scott and Michael befriended the new kid when no one else did. What I remember most was that they were the first friends of my brother to include me, too.

Huge games of RISK were a thing, and I was occasionally allowed to participate. There was only one directive. Scott, who was saddled with "Pugsley" as a nickname most of his life, was particularly skilled at the game, and wasn't shy about sharing that opinion with others - to the disgust of everyone at the table. "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, as long as you dick 'Pugsley,'" was the mantra on everyone's lips. Scott delighted in the abuse, and more often than not, still managed to win the game.

Michael became my brother's closest friend. As a result, he was around the rest of us quite a bit. It's no exaggeration when I tell you that he became a favorite of my mom, my sister, and me. He was a touch shy and very unassuming. It seemed he often came to pick up my brother as we were finishing dinner. "Michael! Come sit down and have a bite," we'd all say, genuinely glad to see him. He'd always say "no," and then after we pestered him a little more he'd agree to a glass of water. It became a running joke.

I'm not sure what exactly caused Scott's passing. He'd always been a bit heavy, but still, he died much too young. Michael, bless his soul, had a tremendous fear of hospitals and doctors all his life. He was only in his 40's when he began feeling poorly. Had he sought medical attention he'd probably still be with us. Alas, he did not. His phobic fear kept him from seeking treatment even though he knew he should. His passing hurt all of us hard, especially my brother.

My nephew Eric was 32 when he died of an overdose. Whether it was accidental or purposeful no one knows, but he was all alone when it happened. There are many of us who continue to second guess ourselves when it comes to Eric, but... You know what, the whole thing just fucking sucks.

There are many others. Of course there are. Part of living is learning how to live in a place where death exists. I've been told that death is the reason that life is so special. Still, there are many others I miss, with individual stories of what made them special. When I married Rebecca, I won the in-law 'lottery.' Mary and Joe were both one of a kind, wonderful people. The extravagant way they welcomed me into their family continues to be a joy in my life.

Then there are the loved ones who, though they are still alive, are no longer in my life. A busted engagement in my early 20s to a person I still think of with tremendous fondness. A pastor or two who moved on to new horizons. Friends from Connecticut I lost contact with when we moved to Maine. Friends from Maine I lost when we moved to Minnesota. A friendship of almost 40 years recently imploded in what feels like the blink of an eye, leaving me to wonder I'll ever be able to gather with other college friends again. There is a lot of pain when I think of all these people.

Rebecca died a little over eight years ago. "Time heals all wounds," the saying goes. If so, I'm still waiting. I could try to explain how much I miss her by using a lot of adverbs and adjectives, but no. I miss her. And it still hurts.

Epilogue

Am I wallowing in self-pity or completing a necessary catharsis exercise? I honestly don't know. I know my depression leaves me open to existing on a plane of perpetual sadness (which is, quite honestly, exhausting). I spend a lot of time by myself which often lets my mind wander into unhelpful areas like regret, shame, and guilt. Which is another way of saying that the subject of this essay is never far from my mind, so that writing about it is just an extension my usual thought process. 

I haven't yet decided if I'm going to click the 'publish' button yet, but I probably will. I'm usually too impressed with my own writing to not want to share it with y'all. But I'm still struggling with what purpose publishing it will serve other than some sort of literary mental masturbation.

I don't know. Maybe it serves as a cautionary tale. You know, "Don't be too sad about death or you'll end of like Nora." Maybe I'm trying to normalize grief. Let the world know that it's okay to be sad about the folks we've lost. Or maybe I just want you to know how much I hurt.