The Last Time We Met

It was raining on the last day I saw you. Heavy rain - sideways.

We had become accustomed, my brother and I, to a way of life over the last few weeks leading up to that day. Staying together at the Marriott, my children some 3,000 miles away while I slipped into a different routine.

It wasn’t wake up, make the kids breakfast and lunch, argue over lost shoes and a scratchy shirt until we catapulted ourselves out the door, somehow getting everyone strapped into the car and on the way to day care. Inevitably someone on the verge of tears; oftentimes me.

The only similarity now was being on the verge of tears. The new routine looked like this: getting out of an unfamiliar bed after another sleepless night, holding vigil by your side throughout the day. Simple and overwhelming at the same time. This was a matter complicated by the fact that we were still deep in COVID. Furthermore, at that time we were smack dab in the middle of a nationwide surge. Families, hundreds of thousands of them, losing loved ones daily. What made us so special? What didn’t? At least I got to be there with you - all families were not nearly as lucky. This isn’t lost on me.

Staying with you, reading, listening to the Oldies that were once the background to our Saturday errands. Back when we were both young and vibrant. The Blue Plate Special on Oldies 103.3 Boston, a station that, like so many things, no longer exists. It’s funny, the things I remember from my childhood. The seemingly mundane at the time things that stuck in my psyche, in my soul, and are now the narrative of my past.

Where was I? Yes, holding vigil; knowing you were in hospice but negotiating with any larger entity: God? The Universe? The sun and the stars? for a miracle. People make it out of hospice alive sometimes, right? Yes, my friend - Cara, her mom made it out. Got a new lease on life. At least for a little while. All I needed was a little while longer. I didn’t get a chance to hear your stories about growing up on the South Side of Chicago or starting your company or visiting our ancestor’s homeland in Austria. Why didn’t I ask? Why didn’t we talk about these things when you were here and well?

And then there were the family dynamics. The broken alliances and words spoken, never to be taken back over a plate of nachos. How peculiar that a family could disintegrate like this. Turned to dust in a matter of minutes. Did it really happen this quickly? What were the cracks along the way? Which ones had been fixed with glue that that lost its hold?

But, like I heard from an acquaintance in December 2023 about the “Conflict in the Middle East” aka Genocide in Gaza: “This isn’t something that will be solved any time soon so we should focus on what we can change.” Imagine that? Hundreds of thousands killed, your family disintegrating right before your eyes and chalking it up something that can be put off to be dealt with later - like the laundy or dirty dishes - picking up the dog shit in the back yard; inevitable that eventually someone will step in it.

Back to the hospice, back to the Blue Plate Special, back to life, back to reality- Oops, there goes gravity. Was this reality now? A world without you? When I walked out of that room on January 16th, 2021 I knew it was the last time I’d see you. Our last moment together. 38 years or 13,877 days from the first day we met. Although, I’d always felt that our souls knew one another long before we met in this life and will continue to know one another beyond. Maybe it’s because my experience was that you always saw me. Always accepted me.

And now I had to leave. Physically you would no longer see me, nor I you. Visiting hours were over an hour ago and once again I’ve overstayed my welcome. How can we timebox these human experiences? “This is the last moment you’ll see the most important person in your life, please make sure to leave by 8:30 PM local time.” Because why? Because…why? Later I’d attend therapy sessions - also timeboxed. In one hour I could present the current struggle, receive guidance, coaching, reflection and wrap it up as long as I kept it all in the tidy box of one hour. Isn’t that fascinating? How it all fits so nicely - tied up with a bow? I guess I was so nieve to think that some things could take more time.

So I left.

But before I did, I took your hand in mine. “Dad,” I said seriously and looking at you with all 38 years of love. “Come with me back to California. You can have a beer with Muigui and ride your motorcycle at the beach with Earl. We all want you there.” And you, who had been nearly catatonic for days, you opened your eyes and you winked at me! My heart nearly skip a beat. Everything I know about our connection was validated in that moment and soon to be validated even more.

The next day I got on that plane: Southwest flight 2346 - Boston to Midway. Midway to Sacramento. Ironic that I would fly through the airport that you grew up right down the street from. Like I was going through your life but backwards. I would stay the night in Sacramento before going to pick up my children at a friend’s house. So when I got back to California, I settled into yet another Marriott. This one not as nice and lacking the companionship of my older brother. Not knowing what to do with myself I went and sat on a weather worn lounge chair by the pool despite the temperature reading 52 degrees and dropping.

“Dad, I’m here now in California - you can come!” Within minutes my phone buzzed. “It’s time. It’s happening,” the message read. A message from the family left behind with the nachos. So as you passed, I Knew you were with me. I Knew you were not gone, you’d simply “slipped away into the next room.” just like Henry Scott Holland described in his poem. But I didn’t want you in that room, I wanted you there, with me, in California.

And now, 4 years later, the grief is still destabilizing at times. Dripping over me like thick mud. Yes, eventually it will wash off but I wish I had that rain - the heavy rain from the last day I saw you to wash it away right now. So, for now I’ll carry this mud, blurring my vision and my thoughts, knowing that despite the feeling of loss, you’re still with me. I see you in my kids and myself. I see you when I see someone walking down the street wearing an MIT shirt or riding their motorcycle. I know you’re still with me and I’ll wait for a rainy day to wash some of the grief away and remind me of the last time we met.