Saturday, September 24, 2011
I seem to have reached a new stage of grief over Mike’s death. It’s been more than six months since he died, and the gaping void he left seems emptier than ever. Which in a way makes me sadder than ever.
Could just be the time of year—golf season for my son, as well as his birthday and my parents’ fall visit—but lately there’s just so much I want to share with Mike … mostly for his uniquely Mike reactions.
My son earned his first “medalist” title at a golf match this week (meaning he beat every kid on every team, and this was a three-team match). Carson’s name and score were in at least three papers, and when I showed one clipping to a couple guys at the Soldiers Home, they were charitably polite, but nowhere near Mike levels of enthusiasm.
Mike would have sworn, possibly twice: “Hot damn!” “Holy shit!” or a combination of both. He would have bellowed, “I am so damn proud of that kid!” three or four times today, and a few more times the next time I saw him. He would have beamed, and I would have beamed, and I would have told Carson and he would have beamed.
Mike also would have called me last week when I was sick, more worried about me than about himself. This time of year, he would have had the Iowa game on TV so I could see the score before Bingo. He would have slipped me money to buy Carson a golf gadget for his birthday (I always slipped the money back to Mike). He would have lost sleep over his excitement of seeing my parents. And then he would have hugged them and laughed, and we all would have had lunch at the Snack Bar, and I would have used the gift certificate Mike surprised me with for my birthday in February. (I can’t bring myself to use it alone.)
I can picture every single detail of all of that and, thankfully, I can hear Mike’s laugh and almost feel his joy. And his support.
Almost. And, more than ever, that’s not enough.
I seem to have reached a new stage of grief over Mike’s death. It’s been more than six months since he died, and the gaping void he left seems emptier than ever. Which in a way makes me sadder than ever.
Could just be the time of year—golf season for my son, as well as his birthday and my parents’ fall visit—but lately there’s just so much I want to share with Mike … mostly for his uniquely Mike reactions.
My son earned his first “medalist” title at a golf match this week (meaning he beat every kid on every team, and this was a three-team match). Carson’s name and score were in at least three papers, and when I showed one clipping to a couple guys at the Soldiers Home, they were charitably polite, but nowhere near Mike levels of enthusiasm.
Mike would have sworn, possibly twice: “Hot damn!” “Holy shit!” or a combination of both. He would have bellowed, “I am so damn proud of that kid!” three or four times today, and a few more times the next time I saw him. He would have beamed, and I would have beamed, and I would have told Carson and he would have beamed.
Mike also would have called me last week when I was sick, more worried about me than about himself. This time of year, he would have had the Iowa game on TV so I could see the score before Bingo. He would have slipped me money to buy Carson a golf gadget for his birthday (I always slipped the money back to Mike). He would have lost sleep over his excitement of seeing my parents. And then he would have hugged them and laughed, and we all would have had lunch at the Snack Bar, and I would have used the gift certificate Mike surprised me with for my birthday in February. (I can’t bring myself to use it alone.)
I can picture every single detail of all of that and, thankfully, I can hear Mike’s laugh and almost feel his joy. And his support.
Almost. And, more than ever, that’s not enough.