Connected

 

Alfie - Sarah Vaughan

Goodbye, Jack

What happens to one’s wisdom and experiences when one dies?

I know we touch and teach people and leave marks of various degrees and help shape others and live on in the hearts of our families and all that, but when someone lives a long time, that person accumulates a great deal of knowledge. Unless he or she writes a book or becomes famous, is that all wasted, just lost, when the person leaves?

I ask because my 83-year-old dad died on Christmas – 72 days after my 80-year-old mom died alone in a regional hospital in Spalding County, Georgia, gasping for air – and I’m afraid. All the people he knew and music he liked and lessons he learned and experiences he had and achievements he amassed and wisdom he gained from eight decades of life – are they just lost with him? He didn’t write any books or give any TED Talks; he touched many people but memories fade and life goes on and I just feel right now like the list of reasons why this was such an indescribable loss not just to me and his other loved ones but to the universe is immeasurably long.

Yes, he left the world a better place. Yes, he loved and was loved, and he was smart and compassionate and strong and interesting and charming and patient and talented and generous. He was multi-faceted and caring and unselfish and genuine and wonderful. He taught me so much about so much. But who’s gonna know this when there’s no Wikipedia page, no statue in a park, no offspring to keep his memory alive ‘cause we’ll be gone at some point too? Who’s going to be aware of all that Jack Diehl knew and saw and learned and was? Blog posts and framed photos don’t convey this.  

Everyone dies, I know. And so many people have been lost to Covid. It’s overwhelming, though, to everyone left behind. Because not only do we suffer the immediate, up-close loss of our loved ones – their empty chairs at our dinner tables, their laughs no longer filling our rooms – but collectively we suffer the loss of all that each of them was, all they knew and offered and represented in the bigger scheme of things.

I don’t even know if what I’m writing makes any sense. But it doesn’t make sense to me how someone can live for decades – learning and loving and being and giving – and then just leave one day for good.

There are no buildings with Jack’s name on them, no charitable foundations dedicated to preserving his memory. But he deserved this and so much more. I’m sad that someday no one will know this.

And I’m devastated by how much we’ve lost.

Untitled

 

Hurt - Johnny Cash

 

Rest in Peace, Mom

Kay Diehl
1940 - 2020

My mom had a great sense of humor. She was really smart and good with words. (She was an English teacher and a paralegal.) She loved music, golf, photography, and playing cards and board games with family and friends. I inherited my love for reading and writing and my interest in politics from her. She made me feel loved and important and likable. She wasn’t a perfect mom, I suppose, but she was close enough for me. She made the tastiest sandwiches, that’s for sure.

I wasn’t a great son. I didn’t call or visit as much as I should have. I always thought I’d fix that: I just needed to get that new job or save up a little more money or get over this hump or that one. When I had a partner and kids, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was single, I just couldn’t get away. Then when I was depressed, I just couldn’t get away. She understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.

I hope she knew because I can’t tell her anymore. She died last night. Alone, struggling to breathe, in a hospital in Georgia.

The last time I saw her was in early 2018, just before breaking up with Anita. We took the kids and visited Anita’s sister in Georgia before heading to my parents’ place. I didn’t give my mom the time and attention that she deserved during the visit, though, because Anita and I were fighting and the kids wanted this or that and I just assumed my mom would understand. I just assumed she knew I loved her. It didn’t occur to me that I would never see her again.

My memory’s not great but I remember my mom taking time off from work to chaperone a field trip when I was in grade school – and not saying anything when only one kid chose to ride with us. I remember her taking my little sister and me to Cedar Point and Camp Dearborn, to malls and movies and concerts and carnivals. I remember her coming home from work and making us dinner every night. She taught me to be good to others regardless of what they look like. She taught me to do my best but was there for me when I didn’t. She made me laugh when I was crying. She threw birthday parties and encouraged me to do my homework, keep my room clean, go outside and play on sunny days and all the other things that loving moms ask of their children.

She didn’t ask for much for herself, of course. I remember her asking for Chanel No. 5 perfume for Christmas one year. I can’t remember if she ever requested anything else. I do remember all the birthdays and Christmases and Mother’s Days when I didn’t give her anything, not even a card, because money was tight. She understands, I told myself. She knows I love her.

I knew she was getting older. She was overweight and just underwent hip replacement surgery so I knew I didn’t have forever to become a better son. I knew the clock was ticking but I was just so depressed and self-absorbed that I told myself occasional phone calls and Facebook exchanges would do for now. Then a week ago my sisters called with the news that both of our parents had tested positive for COVID-19. My dad is in better shape so he was released from the hospital but my mom was not. I spoke with my sister Jennifer regularly and heard about Mom’s rapid, distressing decline.

I talked with my sweet, good, loving, wonderful mother twice on the phone as she struggled to breathe in the hospital. The first call was okay. The second – and last – was awful but I was able to tell her that I love her. She couldn’t say, “I know.”

Love

Someday We'll Linger in the Sun - Gaelynn Lea

Everybody Needs a Sparkly Patrick

I received a package from my Facebook pal Patrick that I have to tell you about.

I met Patrick several years ago online. We were writing for the same website and became Facebook friends. Although I know very little about the guy – I probably knew more but my memory sucks – he’s one of my most colorful and compelling contacts in the Land of Lord Zuckerberg. His posts about politics, current events, entertainment and sex are witty, thought-provoking and fun. He’s an Occupy Wall Street/Don’t Taze Me Bro kind of guy, someone who reads Hunter Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Saul Alinsky and Malcolm X and also digs Dolly Parton, the Bee Gees and watching Leave It to Beaver while stoned. He marches for what he believes in and is pro-cannabis, anti-war and ready for the revolution.

Patrick with Dr. Cornel West

I know he’s from Jersey and lives in the Big Apple. I think he makes his living as a writer but I’m not sure. He could be a waiter or a dog walker or an Instagram influencer or an acupuncturist or all of the above. (Yes, he’s that smart.) I don’t know if he’s 25 or 35 but judging from his Facebook posts and my package, he’s youthful and energetic. He’s also unique and creative and confident, at least online. He’s very theatric and not the least bit afraid of cameras; I think of him as Sparkly Patrick, the campy dude with the boa and sunglasses at night. He’s opinionated too and I almost unfriended him once during a political disagreement but fortunately I came to my senses. What a mistake that would have been.

So anyway, a few weeks ago Patrick posted something in Facebook about how we need brightness in this grim world “so send me your address and I’ll try to brighten your day” or something along those lines – my memory sucks, remember? – so I sent him a DM and we exchanged addresses. Sure enough, a colorful yellow box, bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a microwave oven, adorned with SpongeBob and pig stickers, arrived at my doorstep from New York City a few days ago. It was a gift on so many levels.

The box included:

• Utensil packets from a fast food place
• Hot Wheels Fun Park
• A Pizzaboyzzz lapel pin
• A birthday candle in the shape of the number 6
• Assorted small plastic containers, one full of candies and Tums
• Stickers
• A LOVE refrigerator magnet
• A New York Metro card
• Fluffy ears headband
• Assorted loose playing cards
• Three condoms
• A photo of the Empire State Building
• Loose sheets of paper
• Two packets of Yogi organic tea
• Hand sanitizer
• Knitting for Dummies book
• More stickers
• “I’m With the Band: Confessions of a Groupie” book by Pamela Des Barres
• A small, battery-powered plastic candle flame
• A short personal note from Patrick

How crazy and cool is this? Look at the items individually and then collectively. How wonderful that someone would do this for me? Sparkly Patrick put playful thought into selecting and gathering each item, boxed them up, and spent time and money to mail them to me here in Michigan just to make me smile. How lucky am I to know someone as silly, sensitive and special as this guy?

It’s no secret that I’ve been depressed lately. In addition to the whole “people are refusing to wear masks during a global pandemic and increasing the likelihood that I’m gonna catch the virus” thing and my personal hell despair struggles challenges, there are racists murdering black men in the street. There’s the tragedy that is Trump and all this entails. There’s record unemployment and increased hunger, poverty and abuse. There’s devastating weather and climate calamities. And every day another scandal, crisis or accident, someone being mean to someone else, something bad happening that didn’t have to happen.

If you’re woke, it’s hard to be light-hearted, to smile and laugh and feel like everything might be okay after all. But that’s just what Sparkly Patrick’s package did for me. Hope it did it for you too.

What did the note say? None of your business. Get your own Sparkly Patrick. 😊