On his birthday or Christmas, Andrew would often request a mix CD. Sometimes he would give me a list of specific songs. For the most part we shared a love for the same kind of music. I could usually predict what he would like.
Andrew also introduced me to some obscure bands and singers. He was always up on the latest thing and knew what kind of sound I would like. Whenever these bands come out with new albums, I listen with him in mind.
A few days before he died, Andrew stopped by our house and I remember discussing a particular new song with him. I asked him if he'd seen the video and he hadn't but he liked what he'd heard.
In the days after his death, I worked on a presentation of pictures and videos from his life. We decided to use his brand new laptop to set up and run the slideshow. I opened up his media player to get started, and there was the last song he had listened to. The one we'd discussed together.
Yesterday I fell in love with a song from R.E.M.'s farewell album. Just a sad, sweet, somewhat vacuous song about making the most of life.
Listening to it today, as I drove to meet a friend, it struck me why. I knew Andrew would love it too. Exactly his type of song. No one else would quite understand why I turned up the volume, pressing play over and over, the bittersweet breaking my heart.
Showing posts with label missing A. Show all posts
Showing posts with label missing A. Show all posts
3/06/2012
10/03/2010
The truth about Andrew
Quite recently, someone told me to my face that my brother's funeral was much too long. Also, it seems, we were "deifying" Andrew. Stunned, I dismissed it as the nonsense it was, even as my mind flew silently to Andrew with a Jim Halpert stare. I said, only, "Hmmmmmm." When it comes to confrontations, I have a rich fantasy life.
I was angry for a long time. But then, as I sometimes do, I thought (not to deify him or anything)-what would Andrew say if he heard this? "Yeeah, I'm gonna need you to go ahead and stop deifying me, mmm-kay?" Something like that. He had a way of diffusing rudeness with humor and just the right amount of sarcasm.
I may be a little bit biased but I'm not stupid and I'm not blind. Yes, sir, I'm remembering him correctly. All that good stuff you heard? It's true.
I was angry for a long time. But then, as I sometimes do, I thought (not to deify him or anything)-what would Andrew say if he heard this? "Yeeah, I'm gonna need you to go ahead and stop deifying me, mmm-kay?" Something like that. He had a way of diffusing rudeness with humor and just the right amount of sarcasm.
I may be a little bit biased but I'm not stupid and I'm not blind. Yes, sir, I'm remembering him correctly. All that good stuff you heard? It's true.
10/02/2009
On the eve of remembering
"In grief, nothing stays put. One keeps emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I'm on a spiral? But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?"
It occurs to me that five years ago today, my mother was on a walk to remember my son, unaware that the very next day she was to lose her own. I wonder, sometimes, without really expecting to understand, where I might be on the learning curve of grief. I'm not sure how productive it is even to speculate.
I do know that it doesn't hurt as much. What sticks with me the most is a feeling of unreality. From the moment the doctor stuck his head in our small waiting room and shook it slowly, so sorry, he was sorry. Unreality held hands with the coldest, truest facts of death there in front of us. I was seized over and over with the need to tell Andrew about it as he lay under the sheet, sneakers pointing up. "Andrew! You will not believe what just happened. You died!"
This can't be real.
Home from the hospital, we sat in chairs and stared at each other. Can't believe this.
Here we are, five years later and just the other day Keith said to me, "I still can't believe it. Why did it have to be Andrew?"
It still feels like he is on a trip somewhere.
******************************************
I sat down the other day and read C.S. Lewis' "A Grief Observed". A small book: bullets of despair, doubt and questions prompted by the death of his wife. So true to me. Yes, yes and yes.
Most of the time I feel honestly stuck in the doubts which he spelled out so clearly. I want to move past them. By the end of the book, there is some resolution to his anguish. A little hope. A kind of hope that feels real, like I might believe it someday:
"When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer'. It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head, not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'"
It occurs to me that five years ago today, my mother was on a walk to remember my son, unaware that the very next day she was to lose her own. I wonder, sometimes, without really expecting to understand, where I might be on the learning curve of grief. I'm not sure how productive it is even to speculate.
I do know that it doesn't hurt as much. What sticks with me the most is a feeling of unreality. From the moment the doctor stuck his head in our small waiting room and shook it slowly, so sorry, he was sorry. Unreality held hands with the coldest, truest facts of death there in front of us. I was seized over and over with the need to tell Andrew about it as he lay under the sheet, sneakers pointing up. "Andrew! You will not believe what just happened. You died!"
This can't be real.
Home from the hospital, we sat in chairs and stared at each other. Can't believe this.
Here we are, five years later and just the other day Keith said to me, "I still can't believe it. Why did it have to be Andrew?"
It still feels like he is on a trip somewhere.
******************************************
I sat down the other day and read C.S. Lewis' "A Grief Observed". A small book: bullets of despair, doubt and questions prompted by the death of his wife. So true to me. Yes, yes and yes.
Most of the time I feel honestly stuck in the doubts which he spelled out so clearly. I want to move past them. By the end of the book, there is some resolution to his anguish. A little hope. A kind of hope that feels real, like I might believe it someday:
"When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of 'No answer'. It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head, not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, 'Peace, child; you don't understand.'"
7/24/2009
On your birthday
(sorting shells, Gloucester Harbor)
"Old days, don't come to find me,
The sun is just about to climb up over there.
'While my heart is sinking I do not want my voice
To go out into the air'.
Did you leave the darkness without me?
You're always miles ahead.
And you're standing in tomorrow on the runway..."
Innocence Mission: Tomorrow On The Runway
10/03/2008
October 3
Last night, watching the debates for about three seconds, I remembered the Bush/Kerry debates four years ago. Andrew stopped by our house on his way home from a Bible study, all fired up to see the spectacle. I was surprised by this informed, political Andrew who shouted out once or twice at the TV and kept up a steady commentary throughout. I offered to make some popcorn and he sat, ranting at the media and eating out of the pot.
I wasn't much of a housekeeper that summer and fall so I guess it's no surprise that three days later when he died, the dirty pot sat, still untouched on the back of my stove. When I finally confronted my kitchen clean-up, I became paralyzed by the sight of it, popcorn kernels congealed on the bottom. A pot with sudden value.
Yesterday I was painting a second coat on a bedroom wall which gave me some time to think. I was thinking how glad I am that we have two dates to remember Andrew every year. His birth and death dates. Because, to be truthful, you start to forget someone who hasn't been around for four years. It's good to remember and it doesn't have to be sad which is what I tell the little voice in my head that whispers, "That's enough now. No one wants to hear this stuff again."
As I painted I remembered. I did cry a little but I also laughed right out loud. When Andrew stopped by we often went out and rented a movie and his regular request was 'something funny'. I remembered a time we were watching a Mystery Science Theater movie and at one particularly pathetic scene, his laugh, as sudden as a violent sneeze, propelled him off the couch, where he rolled around on the floor clutching his stomach.
I remembered a time after a family gathering at our house when we stood at the front window and waved to my parents who were getting ready to leave. Andrew began to formulate aloud a dialogue between my mother and father. It involved my mother forgetting something and needing to come back inside, a fairly typical scenario. Sure enough, a minute or two later, my mother stepped out of the car and came inside with some request or a reminder. I'm sure she wasn't surprised to see us all laughing.
I know it's not helpful or healthy or even possible to think about Andrew every minute or even every day. Even so, I'm more and more aware of my own faulty memory and am glad for a chance to remember when I can.
I wasn't much of a housekeeper that summer and fall so I guess it's no surprise that three days later when he died, the dirty pot sat, still untouched on the back of my stove. When I finally confronted my kitchen clean-up, I became paralyzed by the sight of it, popcorn kernels congealed on the bottom. A pot with sudden value.
Yesterday I was painting a second coat on a bedroom wall which gave me some time to think. I was thinking how glad I am that we have two dates to remember Andrew every year. His birth and death dates. Because, to be truthful, you start to forget someone who hasn't been around for four years. It's good to remember and it doesn't have to be sad which is what I tell the little voice in my head that whispers, "That's enough now. No one wants to hear this stuff again."
As I painted I remembered. I did cry a little but I also laughed right out loud. When Andrew stopped by we often went out and rented a movie and his regular request was 'something funny'. I remembered a time we were watching a Mystery Science Theater movie and at one particularly pathetic scene, his laugh, as sudden as a violent sneeze, propelled him off the couch, where he rolled around on the floor clutching his stomach.
I remembered a time after a family gathering at our house when we stood at the front window and waved to my parents who were getting ready to leave. Andrew began to formulate aloud a dialogue between my mother and father. It involved my mother forgetting something and needing to come back inside, a fairly typical scenario. Sure enough, a minute or two later, my mother stepped out of the car and came inside with some request or a reminder. I'm sure she wasn't surprised to see us all laughing.
I know it's not helpful or healthy or even possible to think about Andrew every minute or even every day. Even so, I'm more and more aware of my own faulty memory and am glad for a chance to remember when I can.
7/24/2008
Ethan and I were talking about today being Uncle Andrew's birthday and he asked how old he would be. I had to stop and calculate and then do it again. Of course I don't know my own age at any given moment, but 26?! That is old. Hard to imagine.
So many thoughts buzzing around my head that day as we all shuffled around Andrew like zombies in our grief. One I could not push away was how he would become, over the years, a legend of sorts. A tragic story spoken of in hushed tones around the campfires of various social circles. That boy named Andrew? The one who just fell over right there on the field? Remember him? No?
The idea that he would live on in this manner was entirely hateful to me. His life becoming no more than a death. Years from now, the people who should have known him, known his humor and his face, would know him as a lull in conversation and tears in the eye.
Ethan asked if we could send him a balloon today although this is what we usually do for Seth's birthday. I hesitated. Ethan thought about it and then asked, "But won't the balloon get burned up in space?" My boy is getting older and I don't want to answer these questions.
Ethan and Andrew, 2003.
So many thoughts buzzing around my head that day as we all shuffled around Andrew like zombies in our grief. One I could not push away was how he would become, over the years, a legend of sorts. A tragic story spoken of in hushed tones around the campfires of various social circles. That boy named Andrew? The one who just fell over right there on the field? Remember him? No?
The idea that he would live on in this manner was entirely hateful to me. His life becoming no more than a death. Years from now, the people who should have known him, known his humor and his face, would know him as a lull in conversation and tears in the eye.
Ethan asked if we could send him a balloon today although this is what we usually do for Seth's birthday. I hesitated. Ethan thought about it and then asked, "But won't the balloon get burned up in space?" My boy is getting older and I don't want to answer these questions.
Ethan and Andrew, 2003.
5/24/2008
Memorial Field. Rain or Shine.
"Sometimes I still think I will see you in New York
And we will meet on the platform of the train.
And with your great leaning stride
you'll cross back to my side,
And my old life will be my life again".
-Now That You're Gone, lyrics by Elaine Rubenstein
A few weeks ago I looked up the commencement date for the University of New Hampshire. And not because of a nostalgic, lingering interest in my humble alma mater. Only because it is the school Andrew was attending four years ago this fall and would be graduating from. Today. The 24th.
I've already pictured it many times. Maybe I would have been able to attend. We'd strain to see him among a field of black gowns and hats. We might be able to pick him out, standing tall, his back held straight, hands in fists by his side. Would he be wearing those aviator sunglasses? Would he find us in the crowd and wave? I know I would feel proud of him, happy for him, this goal of his met and his face turned toward the future.
Of course I know any number of things could have changed his college plans if he had lived. He might have transferred to another school, changed his field of study, left school for something else. It's hard to have nothing left but speculation. For that reason I guess it seems important to me to have this one last event with a date we can mark, knowing what his plans could have been for this day. To be able to say with some confidence, this is what today would look like with Andrew in it.
And we will meet on the platform of the train.
And with your great leaning stride
you'll cross back to my side,
And my old life will be my life again".
-Now That You're Gone, lyrics by Elaine Rubenstein
A few weeks ago I looked up the commencement date for the University of New Hampshire. And not because of a nostalgic, lingering interest in my humble alma mater. Only because it is the school Andrew was attending four years ago this fall and would be graduating from. Today. The 24th.
I've already pictured it many times. Maybe I would have been able to attend. We'd strain to see him among a field of black gowns and hats. We might be able to pick him out, standing tall, his back held straight, hands in fists by his side. Would he be wearing those aviator sunglasses? Would he find us in the crowd and wave? I know I would feel proud of him, happy for him, this goal of his met and his face turned toward the future.
Of course I know any number of things could have changed his college plans if he had lived. He might have transferred to another school, changed his field of study, left school for something else. It's hard to have nothing left but speculation. For that reason I guess it seems important to me to have this one last event with a date we can mark, knowing what his plans could have been for this day. To be able to say with some confidence, this is what today would look like with Andrew in it.
7/24/2007
Happy Birthday Andrew
...I tell myself now
things I would have told to you,
the smallest plan, the greatest news.
The more days come, the more it’s true.
Right now I’ve got to get back home,
in from the sad day out.
Missing you forever,
yes, I shout, yes I, yes I, yes I am.
It seems the right time
to let go of the steep incline
of this day and to know you’re mine
forever and I will be fine.
In me will you shine,
shine, shine, will you shine.
I’m stepping through
the streams and fountains of the sad day out.
Missing you forever,
yes, I shout, yes I, yes I, yes I am.
Yes I, yes I, yes I am.
I'm going down Lake Shore Drive,
I think I see your face.
Now I'm looking for you every place,
Yes I, yes I, yes I am,
Yes I, yes I, yes I am.
"Lake Shore Drive"-The Innocence Mission
12/20/2006
Christmas past
Looking through some pictures yesterday, I got stuck on one in particular from a series that Brad took on Christmas three years ago. It represents the best of Christmas gatherings and really any of our family times. Things got good when Andrew showed up. Here he comes, hands full of presents and I can feel that lift in my spirit at his arrival.
That was our last Christmas with Andrew and it's never quite right without him. When we are together as a family it is always bittersweet because of course, being together makes us think of him. It's easy to imagine his quiet remarks breaking any silence and making us laugh. I love this last picture as well because, while I don't find it particularly flattering, I know so well and miss so much the moment it captures. Andrew in the background, making me laugh.
10/03/2006
Traveling Fred
I'm writing you to catch you up on places I've been...
didn't have a camera by my side this time
hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it
when I'm in the mood
to lose my way
with words
Today skies are painted colors of a cowboy cliché
and strange how clouds that look like mountains
in the sky are next to mountains anyway
Didn't have a camera by my side this time
hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it
when I'm in the mood
to lose my way but let me say
You should have seen that sunrise
with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
you'll be with me next time I go outside...
Guess you had to be there
Guess you had to be with me
Today I finally overcame
Tryin’ to fit the world inside a picture frame
Maybe I will tell you all about it
When I’m in the mood
To lose my way
(lyrics by J. Mayer, picture taken by Brad)
7/24/2006
Mighty 24
"And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,...
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage..."
--John Updike, "Perfection Wasted"
Yesterday as Ethan worked on a puzzle, he sat on the floor, one leg tucked under him and the other leg bent up, his chin resting on the raised knee. As I watched him, I suddenly remembered that this was just how Andrew used to sit for long periods of time as a young boy, reading books. We often marvelled at how he could stand to stay in this position for so long. A small thing, to be sure, but anything that evokes such a memory is a gift.
I wish that Andrew would not be defined only by his absence. Today, on his birthday, I like to remember the many ways he made us laugh. I just had to pull out the 'ol gingerbread clip for any who dare take the time to download it. (all 13 MB!)
The crushing of the gingerbread
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,...
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest the lip of the stage..."
--John Updike, "Perfection Wasted"
Yesterday as Ethan worked on a puzzle, he sat on the floor, one leg tucked under him and the other leg bent up, his chin resting on the raised knee. As I watched him, I suddenly remembered that this was just how Andrew used to sit for long periods of time as a young boy, reading books. We often marvelled at how he could stand to stay in this position for so long. A small thing, to be sure, but anything that evokes such a memory is a gift.
I wish that Andrew would not be defined only by his absence. Today, on his birthday, I like to remember the many ways he made us laugh. I just had to pull out the 'ol gingerbread clip for any who dare take the time to download it. (all 13 MB!)
4/03/2006
Remembering
Ethan and I were playing Go Fish a few days ago. This particular version uses letters and when we had finished a round, Ethan requested that I spell out his name with the cards. Lately, his interest in letters and words has really increased. So, after his name, he asked me to spell out mine, then Keith's and finally Drew's. I thought we were done and then he said, "Now, Andrew." As I spelled it out, I wondered if he would specify since there are several Andrews in his life. And he did, all on his own. "The big Andrew." He told me that he remembers Andrew picking him up. Who knows how much of this is video and/or pictures that he's seen but it's nice to know he has some memory of Uncle Andrew.
10/03/2005
6/15/2005
What you wish for
Yesterday I was hurrying home from shopping, driving through the parking lot and happened to glance over and see a young guy walking along the sidewalk. I thought, “Wow, he looks like Andrew” and I looked again. He looked JUST like Andrew, at least from that distance. He was striding along in my direction with the smallest hint of a smile on his face. I don’t think he ever noticed me, he was just looking ahead with that smile. It reminded me of just something Andrew would do if he had seen me. He might not look directly at me, just walk straight ahead until he got close and then he’d dart over to my car and stick his head in my window or something crazy. As he walked closer, I could see he was actually a little taller than Andrew and turned my car reluctantly out of the lot. It felt sort of like waking up from a dream. That choking sadness of missing him. Such a physical reminder was a blow.
The experience stayed with me the rest of the day and into the night as I lay thinking about it. I began to realize it was a little lesson to me. For so long I have wondered why God couldn’t or wouldn’t give me some sort of unmistakable, clear glimpse of Andrew. I just thought how could it be too much for God to let us see him again, if just for a minute. God could do it, couldn’t he? And doesn’t he see how much I need this? Why is he so silent, so MEAN?
But I realized how actually seeing Andrew again for a couple minutes would be so unsatisfying, so painful-how hard to let him go again. Seems like common sense would tell me this but I guess it took a little more. My small, human mind was so frustrated, so demanding, wondering why can’t God just give me this? God knew that if he gave me what I thought I wanted, it would only break my heart.
The experience stayed with me the rest of the day and into the night as I lay thinking about it. I began to realize it was a little lesson to me. For so long I have wondered why God couldn’t or wouldn’t give me some sort of unmistakable, clear glimpse of Andrew. I just thought how could it be too much for God to let us see him again, if just for a minute. God could do it, couldn’t he? And doesn’t he see how much I need this? Why is he so silent, so MEAN?
But I realized how actually seeing Andrew again for a couple minutes would be so unsatisfying, so painful-how hard to let him go again. Seems like common sense would tell me this but I guess it took a little more. My small, human mind was so frustrated, so demanding, wondering why can’t God just give me this? God knew that if he gave me what I thought I wanted, it would only break my heart.
4/03/2005
Deep Thoughts
These old favorites made me smile today...
If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, forget em', cause, man, they're gone.
Here's a good thing to do if you go to a party and you don't know anybody: First, take out the garbage. Then go around and collect any extra garbage that people might have, like a crumpled-up napkin, and take that out too. Pretty soon people will want to meet the busy garbage guy.
Sometimes you have to be careful when selecting a new name for yourself. For instance, let's say you have chosen the nickname "Fly Head."Normally you would think that "Fly Head" would mean a person who has beautiful swept-back features, as if flying through the air. But think again. Couldn't it also mean "having a head like a fly"? I'm afraid some people might actually think that.
Many people do not realize that the snowshoe can be used for a great many things besides walking on snow. For instance, it can be used to carry pancakes from the stove to the breakfast table. Also, it can be used to carry uneaten pancakes from the table to the garbage. Finally, it can be used as a kind of strainer, where you force pancakes through the strings to see if a piece of gold got in a pancake somehow.
If you ever drop your keys into a river of molten lava, forget em', cause, man, they're gone.
Here's a good thing to do if you go to a party and you don't know anybody: First, take out the garbage. Then go around and collect any extra garbage that people might have, like a crumpled-up napkin, and take that out too. Pretty soon people will want to meet the busy garbage guy.
Sometimes you have to be careful when selecting a new name for yourself. For instance, let's say you have chosen the nickname "Fly Head."Normally you would think that "Fly Head" would mean a person who has beautiful swept-back features, as if flying through the air. But think again. Couldn't it also mean "having a head like a fly"? I'm afraid some people might actually think that.
Many people do not realize that the snowshoe can be used for a great many things besides walking on snow. For instance, it can be used to carry pancakes from the stove to the breakfast table. Also, it can be used to carry uneaten pancakes from the table to the garbage. Finally, it can be used as a kind of strainer, where you force pancakes through the strings to see if a piece of gold got in a pancake somehow.
3/10/2005
BLOGTASTIC!!
I like to think about what Andrew would do with a blogspot, if he had been so inclined. It would definitely be interesting with great photos, random quotes and lots of funny stories.
In the last few years, one of my primary ways of communicating with Andrew was through Instant Messaging. I'm really not a big IMer, in fact, Andrew(Caledonia24)and Keith were the only ones on my buddy list. But it was fun to be doing something online and suddenly have a comment from Andrew pop up. He would tell me about the latest Strongbad email or we'd just chat for a few minutes about any old thing.
Sometimes, when I feel lonely for Andrew, I like to open up Instant Messager and click on his name, in spite of the message I know I'll get: Caledonia24 is not available. Even so, it's somehow a comfort to know that Andrew is still on my buddy list and someday, before too long, we'll be chatting again. Right now, he's just not available.
In the last few years, one of my primary ways of communicating with Andrew was through Instant Messaging. I'm really not a big IMer, in fact, Andrew(Caledonia24)and Keith were the only ones on my buddy list. But it was fun to be doing something online and suddenly have a comment from Andrew pop up. He would tell me about the latest Strongbad email or we'd just chat for a few minutes about any old thing.
Sometimes, when I feel lonely for Andrew, I like to open up Instant Messager and click on his name, in spite of the message I know I'll get: Caledonia24 is not available. Even so, it's somehow a comfort to know that Andrew is still on my buddy list and someday, before too long, we'll be chatting again. Right now, he's just not available.
