What About My Books?

Who will take care of all my books?

What will happen to the framed photo of POTUS and me or the baseball cap Anita bought me at Tahquamenon Falls a few years before she dumped me or the skinny shot glass Dave Dempsey snagged from the airport gift shop on his way home from Ottawa?

What about my shirts and sweaters and shoes? What about the silverware and CDs and pens and power cords that have birthed babies over the years or the bed that Amy and Gary Kohlhepp said I could keep if I moved out of their basement?

What about the toolbox I picked up and stocked years ago and haven’t yet used? What about the machete purchased online from Brasil to protect me from home invaders, or the 9mm handgun that replaced it when I realized I don’t want to get close? What will happen to the thank you cards saved as proof that sometimes I’m nice or the laptop I’m writing this on (my parents’ last gift to me)? 

Seems wrong for all this to be landfilled once I’m done.

I don’t have children. Anymore. Few friends and loved ones to speak of – dead mom and dad, a sibling 3,000 miles away who I’ve disappointed by being me, and lots of exes – so the task of sorting through my shit when I’m gone is up for grabs.

I suppose I can contact Habitat for Humanity or a library or shelter or church. No promises though. (I’ve learned they’re meaningless.) I’m okay with the idea that I won’t be remembered but my stuff deserves a better fate.

I’ve got some good books.

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.”