When it gets you
It’s never the moments you expect it to get you. Not when you’re sitting and thinking about him, about how it won’t be the same, about how much you’re going to miss him, about how you’ll get by without him, about what he was like. It’s not when you’re sitting shiva, either, when you’re trading war stories with your family, sometimes even laughing at the memories.
Those are hard, but they’re not the ones. You feel sad, wistful, and lonely, but that’s not what gets you.
No, the ones that get you are when you say, “I should call Dad so we can be on the phone when the Celtics win the championship.” And then you think, “Oh yeah.” That gets you. All of the sudden you feel a tightness in your chest and struggle to keep your composure.
It’s when you’re playing ping pong with your son, seeing him slam your best shots right back at you, thinking, “Damn, one day this kid might be better than I am…Dad would have loved to see him, to teach him just like he taught me.” That gets you, so you turn away and say Dad needs a breather.
It’s at your son’s bar mitzvah when you see your brother and your sisters around you and your mom smiling proudly at her grandson, who is stupidly dancing with his friends. And you’re so happy to see your whole family coming together to celebrate, until you remember that you’re not all there, that your family will never be whole again. That gets you.
Holy God that gets you. Unconsciously your eyes scrunch together, your cheeks rise, your nose starts to run, and you know all too well what’s coming next.
You think of everyone asking, “How’s your mom?” and how it made you understand, or at least internalize, that as painful as this is for you, it’s so much worse for her. Your life goes on more or less as it was before, for sure with holes where he used to be and in those moments of realization, but the day-to-day isn’t so different. You work, you take care of your kids, you do the laundry, you eat, you drink, you write, you watch Netflix, you complain about the cold, then the heat.
But not mom. Her constant companion of almost 60 years is gone, and now almost everything she does she does alone or with someone who’s not him for the first time since she was in her early twenties. Sleeping, going out to eat, flying, going to the doctor, buying a printer. Each one is a brand-new experience for her. The moments that get her must get her all the time. Like all the freaking time. How could they not?
Yet as you stand there with your arm around her, the moment of it getting you at hand, she is in her reverie watching your boy. Barely two months later and somehow she is so joyful. You think, not now. Don’t remind her of what she’s lost, not during this blessed, temporary reprieve. Don’t be selfish. Don’t ruin this moment for her.
It’s too late. Like when you were playing ping pong and watching the Celtics, it gets you, and this time it gets you bad. It tackles you and refuses to let go, like a schoolyard bully who finally corners the class weakling without any teachers in sight. So you look at the ground, hoping no one sees you, or that they’ll think you lost a cufflink or a contact lens, even though you’re wearing glasses. You hold your breath, desperately trying, with limited success, to restrain a sob or the ugly sound at the back of your throat waiting for the slightest opening to jump out.
You feel your mom’s hand on your shoulder, and she pulls you close and asks if you’re OK. In your mind you curse—not out loud lest the sob or ugly sound escape, and cause you’re with your mom for chrissake—you curse because you failed, you’re bringing her back to reality when your only goal was to suppress that inevitability for as long as possible.
You are selfish. Today is about your son, this moment is about your mom, and you’re making it all about you. You’re supposed to be the grownup. You’re supposed to be there for your parents now. You’re supposed to pay them back for taking care of you. But look at you, you’re still just a little kid and your parents still have to take care of you. You still need your mom and your…
“Oh yeah.” And you remember where he is and then it gets you all over again.
Your heart is racing, your teeth clench, and you are visibly shaking, and you can’t imagine it ever letting up.
Somehow through your imperfectly sealed eyes and the burning saltwater that leaks out of each side, you notice the most beautiful girl in the ballroom abruptly stop dancing with her cousins and walk directly to you. Without saying a word she pulls you in for a hug and you wrap your arms around her, having enough sense not to squeeze too hard, not wanting to crush her delicate, ten-year-old frame.
Your tears soak into her hair, but now you find you’re also crying thinking about how something so perfect could have possibly come from you.
Then she steps back, looks into your eyes, and smiles, as if to say, “It’s OK, Daddy. I got you.”