After all the formalities were done, we went to a
nearby restaurant for lunch. The
restaurant, I believe, was one that Mike and/or the family had eaten at many
years earlier when they lived in that area.
The place must have been a local favorite, as it was completely
packed. We all had to stand on long
lines to order food, and then try to find empty tables where we could. Again, I ordered something to please
everyone, but barely ate. It was just
the beginning – the beginning of the end.
We agreed on a Thursday evening wake, and a Friday
morning funeral mass, all in our town.
That meant we had several days of waiting and preparing. I dreaded every ounce of it. I wanted it all to be over with. I wanted it never to arrive. I just wanted to be out of this entire
situation and back with Mike. Wherever
he was, that’s where I wanted to be. I
didn’t care about anything else. The
days and nights were filled with many visitors, food drop-offs, shopping for
attire for the services, editing the newspaper’s death notice (which I did at
least half a dozen times, going back and forth with the funeral director with
multiple changes from grammatical corrections to better wording). We went to the church and met with one
of the priests to discuss Friday’s service and how it would run. We chose some songs that were meaningful (one
of them being “How Great Thou Art,” one that Mike loved, especially the version
done by Elvis), and decided that instead of a typical eulogy filled with
how-great-he-was memories, we would read two blog posts written by Mike in the
past year or so. We wanted his strong,
beautiful words to be the lasting words our friends and family would hear. After all, Mike always said it best. One of the posts, entitled “When an Answer
Comes Along,” was something Mike wrote after he felt God speak to him one night
through The Pretenders’ song, “I’ll Stand By You.” The other reading would be something he wrote
about my love for him. We told that
priest that we wanted a family friend to sing “I’ll Stand By You” at
the end of the service. The girl was a
young, talented singer, and we knew she’d nail the song. Since the song was a secular one, we had to
convince the priest that this song had great spiritual meaning, and that it was
a song Mike felt was a message to him from the Lord.
Meanwhile, friends and family were preparing to come
in from all parts of the country. I had
to begin choosing pallbearers and readers, so I needed to find out who was
coming. It was no surprise to me that everyone was coming. I decided I wanted the pallbearers to be
John, Anthony, Jay, Pete, Paul and Tim.
I asked Jeff and Aaron to do the readings. Meanwhile, some of the girls were out trying
to find red pieces of jewelry that we could all wear for the services. Red was Mike’s favorite color, so we wanted
to show our unity and love by wearing something in that shade. We eventually found red beaded bracelets, and
got them for all the women in the immediately family, as well as a few others we
wanted to share them with. The tension,
though, was evident. One afternoon, as a
bunch of us sat in the dining room going over plans, AnnMarie came in from
being out somewhere. She was out looking
for something to be used as part of the services, and started sharing what she
found. Somehow she and Ellie started to
bicker about it. It escalated until
AnnMarie said, “Do you want me to leave?” and Ellie snapped back, “Yes, I
do!” AnnMarie stormed out of the house
and drove off. Everyone was silent, but
I just started weeping. I cried and
said, “Mike would not want this.” I
hated what this whole thing was doing to us.
I think MaryEllen called AnnMarie and was able to calm her. Eventually, she and Ellie made up, but it was
all more than I could handle.
One of the days, I took a trip to the mall with my
mom, Ellie and a couple of the girls. I
needed shoes for the wake and funeral, and I found a nice pair of red
flats. I also found a thick, strong
silver chain so I could wear Mike’s wedding band around my neck. It wasn’t much, but it was something to let me feel closer to him. There was one bit of closeness I couldn’t
handle though – I couldn’t bear the thought of going back into our house. I couldn’t face walking through the door
knowing Mike would never step foot in there again. I couldn’t face walking through the house seeing
his clothes, his books, his wallet – everything he owned just as he left it six
weeks earlier. I couldn’t stand to see
the house full of his essence, knowing that when he left this house for the
last time, he never knew he’d never return.
I hated the feeling of knowing something Mike didn’t know. Regardless, I knew I had to return to the
house. I had to get clothes, as I hardly
had any and I needed dresses for the week.
I had to grab pictures and mementos that we would display around the
funeral parlor. And I had to go back and
find our estate planning files so I could re-read exactly what Mike wanted in
the event of his death. When I finally
summoned the nerve to go to the house, I brought reinforcements. Susan helped me gather all kinds of things
around the house, including a replica of the brick we had placed at CitiField,
and the booklet containing the story Mike wrote for me when he proposed. I wanted to approach it like the Marines –
get in, do the job and get out.
It was now Thursday, the day of the wake. For the past five plus days, I was able to
avoid a portion of the reality of it all.
I knew Mike was gone, and it was real because this was the longest we’d
been apart since we were dating, but now I had to see him, lifeless. By early afternoon, we all piled into our
cars – full of photos and mementos – and drove the 1.7 miles to the funeral
home. As soon as we pulled into the
parking lot, which was still empty, the sick feeling in my stomach grew sicker. No matter how I felt, no matter what I could
handle, I was going to have to walk into that building and come face-to-face
with the moment I was dreading all week – actually, the moment I was
subconsciously dreading for eight and a half years. I got out of the car, and, wearing one of my
red dresses because it was Mike’s favorite color, I walked into the
building. To add insult to injury, Mike
and I actually met with someone at this funeral home about a year and a half
before, after his near-fatal bout with Tamiflu-resistant pneumonia. The incident spooked him so badly that he
wanted to have things in order in the event that next time left him less
lucky. As I entered the building, the
sickeningly familiar smell of lilies and other flowers forced its way into my
nose. We were met by the funeral
director, and softly directed into the room where Mike lay. As I entered the room, I knew there was
nothing I could do but look to the front.
There he was, in a box, where he looked as peaceful as he’d looked in
weeks. And yet, that peace was anything
but peaceful for us. It was surreal for
us all, but Debbie seemed the most affected.
She was frantically crying, as if she was watching someone she loved
being hurt. I just looked her in the
eyes and said, “Debbie, he’s OK. He’s OK.” That seemed to calm her and give her peace,
and she told me later that those words helped give her some strength to proceed
throughout the day. If only I was OK….
We all busied ourselves by peppering the various
areas of the funeral home with the pictures and keepsakes we’d brought with
us. Michael consumed himself with
setting up a music/photo montage which he and Debbie had been compiling
throughout the week (I gave them our entire photo collection to use, as well as
about 25 of our beloved or meaningful songs).
We each eventually and reluctantly made our way up to the casket, to
face the fire head on. AnnMarie’s kids,
who hadn’t seen Mike in the hospital, and who hadn’t seen him since his
birthday party the weekend before he was admitted to the hospital, were
understandably confused and hesitant.
Mikaela, the oldest, was especially hard-hit by the loss, though she did
her best to control her sadness for fear of making everyone (especially me)
more sad. Within the hour, guests began
trickling in. As if having to stand next
to Mike’s dead body for five hours wasn’t enough, now we had to entertain
hundreds of people.
After being pulled aside by the funeral director
regarding payment, and having to go pull my credit card to settle the bill in
the middle of everything, the visitation was in full swing. The core of the family was there – Mike’s
parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, my parents and brother, aunts, uncles
and cousins. Ellie stood to my right,
and for a while my mom stood next to her.
The rest of the line consisted of Mike’s sisters. Jack “worked the room” on and off in order to
deal with his grief. My grandparents
couldn’t make the trip up (ironically, since Mike specifically mentioned them),
but I understood. It would have been way
too much for them. Mike’s best friend,
Tim, was there the entire time, and a slew of friends from high school showed
up. Our co-workers came together in a
pack, coming up one by one to pay their respects. Even our co-worker, Trina, from the Ohio
office, flew in. I was shocked. Mike would have loved it. She said that since she never made our
wedding, she at least had to come in now.
My boss, Rich (a chronic leukemia sufferer who often compared notes with
Mike), was also there, and I know the loss hit him hard. I know he saw part of himself when he looked
at Mike and saw his ultimate fate. The
list of visitors continued – cousins, young and old on both my side and his;
aunts, uncles and cousins from my hometown; my aunt and uncle from Michigan (my
aunt and uncle from Oregon came in the following morning); my friends Robin,
Roni, Claudia and Chris from back home; and Jen from North Carolina. My friends Mike and Deanna came in from
Pennsylvania. They brought their son,
Logan, who brought a drawing he made for Mike.
Mike’s friend Carrie came in from Iowa (and the tears and inconsolable
look on her face stunned even me). Sean
came up from Florida. Jeff and Joyalle
came down from Maine. Aaron flew in from
Illinois. Pete, Mike’s best friend from
college, also came up from Florida. I
saw him as soon as he entered the funeral parlor. He was a wreck. As he made his way to the casket, it looked
like he was going to drop to the floor.
I hugged him and almost felt like I was consoling him more than he was
consoling me. Pete was also going
through a contentious separation and was facing divorce, and Mike had listened
to him vent so many times in recent months.
Pete admitted that maybe he was the one who should have been listening
more. A couple of the men Mike coached
Legion baseball with were there. They brought
a commemorative baseball for me, and I told them that Mike was wearing their
team’s baseball shirt the day he passed.
One of the young players, Matt, showed up with his father. Matt was visibly shaken and his eyes were
full of tears. As much as I hated seeing
visitors in pain, it somehow gave me consolation to know how deeply Mike was
loved. Jack’s friend – a Massachusetts
Senator – was there. Mike’s dentist, a former professional baseball player, came to pay his respects. Even my Irish cousin James flew in from
Alaska, and James had (I think) only met Mike once. Seeing the faces of so many people we’d
shared life and love with – some who we saw last at our wedding – was hard
enough. Hearing them share their memories
and love for Mike was so much harder.
Mike’s cousin, Leo – the one who had worked behind the scenes to arrange
free infertility treatments for us (twice) – simply said to me, “Mike would
have made a great dad.” My Uncle Dennis,
who always had a penchant for corny jokes, approached the receiving line. Referring to the surprise birthday party we
had for my uncle only a few months earlier, where he and Mike sat and chatted,
he began again with one of his lines:
“Two men sat down at a barbeque …. and they were better for having known
each other.” He choked back the tears as
he said this, and it was the most emotion I’d even seen in my uncle. Mike’s oncologist, the stoic Dr. B, came
to pay her respects, along with nurses Karen, Cindy and Kristina. I’ll never forget Cindy looking at Mike and
smiling and saying, “Awww….” I think it
was her nursely way of expressing her grief.
Every once in a while, I would turn to my left and look at Mike in the
casket. It never became easier, but the
constant flow of friends and family allowed me to look with slightly less
heartache. The amount of people who
showed up was astounding. It spoke
volumes to who Mike was. Michael and Jay
said that during the height of the visiting hours, the line was out the door.
As 9PM approached, the crowds began to dwindle. The priest from the church gathered everyone
to the center of the room. The
still-large crowd came together where the priest said a few words and then led
everyone in the Lord’s Prayer. When he
was through, he asked if anyone wanted to say anything. I knew I had to speak up. Through my tears and pain, I said exactly
what I felt Mike would have wanted me to say.
I reminded everyone of how strong Mike’s faith always was, to the
end. I told everyone that as painful as
this was, to please not let his death hurt their faith. Mike wouldn’t want that for anyone. As dumbfounded as I was and as angry at God
as I was, I felt the need to say those words.
After leaving the funeral home, Mike’s friends, from
both high school and college and other parts of his life, went down to the
harbor and spent a couple hours at a local pub. They had some drinks and reminisced with Mike
stories, and drank a toast to the friend they loved. The rest of us went back to the house to
emotionally regroup and to prepare for the next morning. Karen worked on the “words of remembrance”
she would share at the service. She
volunteered to do it, partly because of the special relationship the two of
them had, and also because Karen was a lovable family target due to her sweet,
overly emotional nature. Mike and Jack
would always tease her about never being able to deliver a speech without
crying, citing the example of her emotional reading at AnnMarie’s wedding. They told her that she’d cry if she had to
recite a dinner menu. Karen stayed up
late making sure she had everything for her speech in order. Before bed, I took some time to sit down on
the bedroom floor and write Mike a letter.
I wrote to him about how things were supposed to be, and my disbelief at
losing him. I apologized for a couple
things, and just told him how much I loved him, and would always love him. It was a letter I placed in his left suit
pocket before the funeral.
Friday morning we all awoke early for the most dreaded
day of our lives. I don’t remember being
able to eat, though I think I mustered the strength to ingest a single piece of
toast. We then took several cars over to
the funeral home, where the immediate family gathered to say their final
goodbyes. Several of my co-workers, who
couldn’t make it to the wake the night before, were there to have a moment to
pay their respects. They were quite
emotional, and again, I was rather shocked by the amount of tears and sadness I
saw from people I never expected to see react that way. Then, it was time for our final goodbyes –
the absolute worst part of the entire process.
I forget what I said, but I know I tried to say something meaningful and
perfect to the ears that couldn’t even hear me.
My words just seemed empty. What
could I possibly say at this point that would make any sort of difference?
We drove in our own cars for the mile or so ride to
the church. Mike accompanied us in the
hearse. When we arrived, the guys
brought him out, up the steps and inside. When we filed into the building, it was
already well-packed. We sat up front, of
course, and the service began. Most of
the funeral is a blur to me. It
contained all the usual elements of a proper Catholic service which,
ironically, was not Mike’s taste. The
priest did his thing, our friend sang the chosen hymns, the incense rose, and we
took communion. Aaron read one reading,
while Jeff, tearfully, read another.
When it was our turn, I accompanied Karen and the rest of Mike’s sisters
(along with the younger kids), up to the podium. We all felt the sting. Karen was wavering, but I put my hand on her
back to let her know she could do it. She
told me later that my gesture was what gave her strength. She began to read, and prepared a small intro
before sharing Mike’s two original pieces.
As she read, I just remember stoically looking out at the crowd to see
who was there and how they were reacting to it all. I saw some faces that I didn’t even realize
were present. As she finished the
reading, she explained to everyone that our friend would soon be singing, “I’ll
Stand By You,” the song that Mike believed contained God’s words to him. She asked them to please listen carefully to
the words. Once she finished her
reading, the entire congregation erupted in applause. I had never seen anything like it.
The service was concluding. The organ began to play, and our friend began to
sing. This was the song that would put
us all over the edge. This was the song
that meant everything to Mike, and one that now meant something to everyone
else. We in the first few rows began to
rise as Mike was wheeled slowly down the aisle.
I don’t know how I had the strength to walk. I had my mother on one side, and Mike’s
mother on the other side. All I could do
was stare ahead at Mike’s casket and towards the sunlight coming in through the
open doors, beckoning him. Amazingly,
people stayed put inside the church and listened to the song, as if to soak in
and digest every line they were hearing.
Outside, Mike was brought back down the steps and into the waiting
hearse. Again, all I could do was
stare. This couldn’t be real. A few hundred feet away, a bagpiper
played. He was a friend of John’s, and
came down to play as a favor to him.
John so wanted to do this for us, and even though I sensed some
resistance on Jack’s part when I first mentioned it, I allowed it. I knew it was important to John. He shows his emotions so rarely, and I knew this
was his way of showing Mike, and me, his love.
I know Jack’s hesitation only came from fearing the emotion the music
would stir.
As the time approached for the hearse to leave, we
each came by to once again say goodbye.
With tear-filled eyes, I kissed my hand and placed it firmly on the
casket, leaving it there for several seconds as if to keep him there for as
long as I could. Anthony was crying
uncontrollably as he looked at the casket that held his beloved uncle, about to
see him leave for the last time. This
boy I first met when he was barely three years old was now a young man, and the
pain I saw on his face just killed me.
Within minutes, the car began to drive away. I stood there with my arms crossed, as if to
console myself. My eyes remained
transfixed on the hearse as it slowly drove up the road, until it was out of
sight. For several moments after it left
my field of vision, I still stared. It
was all too much to believe. Everyone
spent a few minutes standing outside of the church, making small talk and
lightening things up with some laughter.
Almost everyone then made their way across the street to the parish hall
where we had Panera Bread cater lunch for our guests, which numbered well over
a hundred people. The coffee was
donated, free of charge, by the proprietor of a local coffee
chain. We met her a year
or two beforehand at a Leukemia & Lymphoma Society benefit. There, I took a picture of her and Mike, and
we displayed the photo at the luncheon above the coffee dispensers.
I spent the next hour or two making rounds, like
visiting with guests at a wedding. It
felt so awkward going around and talking to everyone without Mike. Here they all were, tons of people gathered
to honor Mike, and he wasn’t even there to be part of it. I felt like I was walking around in a fog,
trying to thank as many people as possible, but not feeling like talking to
anyone. I remember many people trying to
get me to sit and eat, but I never had a bite.
I had zero appetite, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling the desire to
eat again.
The crowd eventually began to thin. I said goodbye to some of the friends and
family who had to get on the road and make the long drives back home. I sat for a while in the outer sitting area
with my friend Jen, and Mike’s friends Pete and Aaron. I remember us talking about life and faith,
and I remember discussing Apple CEO Steve Jobs, who passed just nine days
before Mike (I remember Mike even seeing it on the news and saying, “Oh, he
died?”). Aaron and I noted the sad irony
of how Jobs seemed to have everything in the world – money, connections and
resources – and yet it couldn’t save him from his cancer. Aaron further noted that the thing Jobs was
missing most of all was Christ, and we were so thankful that Mike had that.
Once we left the church, the family went back to
Jack and Ellie’s house. Aaron, Pete and
Jen came back with us. We all tried to
unwind knowing that the worst (as far as the formalities) was over. Pretty soon, an impromptu Wiffle Ball game
broke out in the backyard, with all the guys participating. It was the absolute perfect way to honor
Mike. Jen came with me so I could go
back to our house and get a change of clothes along with my camera. I also grabbed some beers, which were left over
from Mike’s birthday party, so we could all have some drinks and toast Mike. It was a painful, though touching, sight to
see the guys playing Mike’s favorite game.
On another day, under other circumstances, Mike would be leading the
charge on such a game, and he would have been the one most interested in
sharing the game with his two nephews. A
few of us watched from the deck, and I took some pictures. Later, once the game had commenced, we
gathered inside in the kitchen and had some beers. We toasted the man of the hour and continued
to release some of our pain by sharing stories.
As darkness began to fall, Pete and Aaron were getting ready to
leave. They worked out a carpool
situation since they would both fly out the next morning. We stood outside in front of Jack and Ellie’s
house and shared tearful goodbyes. The
conversation I had with Pete will stay with me forever. He told me how much I meant to Mike, and that
after God, Mike loved me more than anything in the world. He told me how Mike and I had a relationship
that most people never have, and that he was jealous of what Mike and I shared. It was a comment that made me so thankful for
my wonderful husband, and also made me miss him more. Most of all, I knew that my marriage to Mike
had all the markings of a perfect love, and Pete’s comment reinforced that
everyone who knew us knew it, too.
October 21 marked the
last day I ever saw Mike. It marked the
last day of a week-long series of shocks, reality checks and goodbyes. It marked the end of me being Mike’s
wife. Yet, it was the beginning of a
world of grief and a journey of coping and healing that I never, ever thought I
would survive. Perhaps the best reason
to have taken nearly three and a half years to write this is to show that I’m
still here. I did survive, and while I
will spend the rest of my life coping with this great loss, I know that as long
as I’m coping, I’m still living. The
best way to make up for Mike’s shortened life is to make the best of mine.
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