I was ready to work. I knew it was going to be hard work. I made a list of who I was going to work on first, second and so on. I had a plan. I read the list to Tony. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest and let out a hardy laugh and said, “you have a list. That’s cute.” I felt a little embarrassed, looked at my list, crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash can. I should have known better. Grief doesn’t work that way; neither does processing grief. And just because there are stages, doesn’t mean they go in order or once you’ve “accomplished” all of them they will never return. I just looked at him with a sheepish smile and asked, “so, how do I begin?” He had me close my eyes and tell him who was on my mind right then. The answer was Jerry, my music mentor. We started with him.
I was to meet with Jerry in two weeks to have dinner. I knew he was sick. I knew his time on this earth was limited but he was coming to Chicago, to Lansing to see me. That is what I was focusing on, so when I got the call, I was devastated. I dropped the phone and cried. I wanted to tell mom, I remember I looked over at her chair and she wasn’t there. My dog, Schnookies, came to my side and comforted me, like she always has. I held her tight and she had her paw on my lap. Jerry was my music teacher from elementary school but thanks to Facebook, we reconnected as adults and it was such a joy. He lived in Arizona but would come back to the Chicago area to see friends, and I was on that list. He was a mentor. His advice was brutally honest but somehow gave it in a caring, loving way that I couldn’t get mad if I wanted to. He loved deeply and taught me how to do the same without losing myself. He was empathic like me so we connected on a deeper level. Tony asked, “without thinking about it, what will you miss the most about Jerry?” I responded, “his laugh.” It was sincere, hearty and jolly. (I’m thinking of it now writing this and smiling) My assignment was to go to the place Jerry and I were going to go for dinner. Have dinner, toast Jerry and imagine him there with me and upon leaving, say goodbye. I did just that, had a good time. Looked at some people and chuckled at what Jerry might have said about either them or their situation (afterall, I went to his favorite bar in Lansing). The hard part was when I walked out the door, Jerry walking me to my car; I couldn’t say goodbye. I stood by my car for about 15-20 minutes because I knew this goodbye was g-o-o-d-b-y-e. I looked up at the sky with tears running down my cheeks, blew a kiss and whispered, “goodbye Jer, until we meet again. Rest easy.” Got in my car and went home. To no one but Schnookies who was waiting as if she wanted to hear about my night. We crawled into bed, snuggled and I left journaling until the morning because I did not want to lose the feeling I had. It was one of peace, warmth and acceptance.
Next week: Facing Mom’s Loss
Until Next Time…
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