Send me a Sign

I like to think that I’m pretty observant of most things in my surroundings: people, environment, emotions, etc.  I listen to music and really hear the lyrics, I notice small changes in people’s demeanor or typical moods, and I read almost every billboard I pass.  I take things in and often take them for what they are; information about what is happening, what I am experiencing, or what is out there. But I wouldn’t say I ever really believed in signs or looked for them in things.  I know there are so many people that do and I respect that and then silently wonder to myself if I have just been ignoring signs that have been right in front of me, not really as observant as I think I am.  But there is a song by The Band Perry called “If I Die Young” with a verse that goes:

     ‘Lord, make me a rainbow, I’ll shine down on my mother, she’ll know I’m safe with you when she stands under my colors...’

Ever since Jack died and I’ve seen a rainbow in my heart I believe he is saying hi to me; letting me know that he is there.  It’s a sign I can’t ignore.  I see them when my heart seems to call out for him the most.  There was a rainbow over my house the day we brought Carter home from the hospital; his big brother saying hello, letting us know he was there with us all too.

Two things have happened since Dennis, Sean's dad,  passed away last month that I haven’t been able to wrap my head around.  I haven’t been able to find an explanation for.  And there is a big part of me that has come to the point in my heart that I am comfortable accepting as signs from above.

The day after he died, his house was filled with family that had come down to be with him during his final days.  Not only was it a house filled with bodies but also tears and sadness and a lot of Irish mourners (if you’re Irish, you smell what I’m cooking!).  Now I’m not saying we are empaths, I’m not being that dramatic, but I will go as far to say that Kennedy and I pick up on other people’s emotions very strongly, especially the heavy ones.  I could see it weighing on her little shoulders and her heart as she was desperately trying to remain upbeat and happy and make everyone smile; but I could also see the distress on her little face when she didn’t think anyone was looking or the way she just couldn’t settle.  And so I told her to grab her shoes and coat and to get in the car.  I was going to take her to a wonderfully packed-full-of-stuff-we-don’t-need touristy store that we like to go to when we visit Calabash so we could do a little retail therapy and take a few breaths away from the crowd.  So, we got in the car, I typed Callahan’s of Calabash into my navigation and off we went.  We chatted while we drove about Papa and being sad, as she asked if I thought we’d be sad for a long time, like we are about Jack.  I hated telling her yes, but I wouldn’t lie; I told her being sad is different for everyone, that it would probably take a while before we didn’t feel so sad.  We called my mom and talked to her for a few minutes.  As I was driving, things looked familiar enough to me that I thought I knew where we were going.  It was only when we approached the bridge that I realized: we were being directed to Sunset Beach; the very beach we went to with Dennis each time we visited.  It is Kennedy’s favorite place down there and we all knew it. It has always been the first suggestion for something to do because it was clear there is nothing Kennedy loves more than splashing in the water, and there was nothing her Papa loved more than making Kennedy happy.  I couldn’t believe it; there was no logical explanation for why we were headed there when I had very clearly typed in the right destination.  I laughed and said to Kennedy, “I think Papa thinks we need a beach day!” She laughed too, responding, “Papa loved the beach like me!” It was cold and windy that day, even for a northerner’s standards and I had left my coat at the house, but I should have kept going.  I should have followed the sign all the way through.  Even though I didn’t, I heard it loud and clear.  I told a few people when we got back to the house but it was one of things you had to be there for the wonder to really set in.

The second sign came last weekend as we made our way back home after the memorial that was held for Dennis.  It had been a month since he’d passed and it had been decided then that there would be no traditional services.  He had preferred a big party where people would laugh and share stories and drinks and so that is what it was; a true celebration of life.  It was beautiful and devastating to see how loved he was and just how greatly he will be missed.  Sean and his brother James spoke of their dad to everyone and my heart broke for them all over again.  It kills me that this wonderful boy I fell in love with all those years ago has had to bury both his son and his father before his 35th birthday; it just doesn’t seem fair to me.  I could see a sadness settle on Sean’s shoulders.  The month between Dennis’ passing and the memorial kept things fresh. But now that was over; he was really gone.  

We were making our way back upstate and literally drove through every type of weather there is: rain, sleet, snow, hail, sun.  It was bizarre.  It was also the type of weather anomaly that Sean would have normally called his dad to tell him about.  And, just like that, we saw a rainbow.  Now I know you may be thinking ‘That’s not surprising. You just said it was raining and sunny.’  What we were seeing was the end of the rainbow, or perhaps more accurately, the beginning. This, for me, was an enormous sign. The last time I saw him, I asked Dennis to please take care of my baby and he promised he would.  I knew, in my heart, he was trying to tell me ‘I’ve got him; me and Jack are together.‘  I cried. I cried because I was sad, because I felt relieved, and because at that moment I missed those two Doyle men more than my heart felt like it could stand.  

Are signs really a thing?  Is the Universe really telling us things?  Are those we’ve loved and lost really trying to send us a message?  I don’t know.  Part of me, the logical, rational part of me says probably not-it’s more likely our subconscious thoughts and hopes making their way to the surface.  But my heart-the part of me that took over almost four years ago- tells me that, without a doubt, they are real.  Listen to them.  Let them comfort you.  There are far worse things to believe in than those that give you peace. 

So Dennis, if you and Jackie-boy want to send us anymore, I’m all ears. 

My Old Friend

Grief is like an old friend. The kind of old friend that, over time, you lose touch with.  The old friend that was once such a presence in your life, that you didn’t go anywhere without, but that began to wear on you; you started to lose touch and eventually it felt like maybe your time together had run its course.  Things felt easier without that friend, lighter even.  You go on in life and know, in your heart you are better off apart.  And then, one day, your old friend shows back up-somewhat unexpectedly.  It is amazing how quickly the two of your fall back in step with one another, like you’d never been apart.  Part of it feels comfortable, in a strange way like you belong together.  Your old friend wraps themselves around you like an old blanket from the past, and as you breathe in its smell, the memories come flooding back with all of those tears with them.  And so when I said goodbye to my father-in-law, Dennis, my old friend grief welcomed me back into its embrace with open arms. 

Two weeks ago, in a state of confusion, fear and desperation, Sean and I packed the kids and the worst packed luggage that ever was in the car, picked his brother up in Brooklyn and headed south after getting a call that his dad had taken a turn and was not doing well at all.  He was headed for hospice.  

Now for a bit of background, Dennis had Mesothelioma and was diagnosed about fourteen years ago.  His prognosis then was about six months but with the help of Sean’s mother, his ex-wife, was able to find an amazing doctor to do a pretty radical, experimental surgery, and had results nothing short of miraculous.  Dennis was a fighter, he was strong, and clearly knew he had so much more life to be part of.  He married his wonderful wife, Pattie, saw Sean and I get married ourselves, was there before anyone else when I went into labor with Kennedy, drove up from North Carolina after only having been there a week to be with us when Jack died, and was right here again for Carter.  He has grandchildren through his stepchildren as well that loved him like their own. All of this extra time allowed us to have him for so many of life’s most beautiful and some of life’s most difficult moments.  But the thing about extra time is, is that you don’t realize it is “extra” until it’s over; and that’s the hardest part.  

When we arrived at Duke, where he was being treated, Sean and his brother immediately went to the hospital to see the situation and be with him.  When Sean called to tell me that they were moving him to a hospice closer to home as quickly as they could, I instantly heard the panic in his voice. When we were on our way further south he said to me, “I know it’s bad, the doctors said they had to get him out of the hospital before they no longer could.”  I could see the fear in his eyes that, every time he mentioned his dad, looked like it was going to spill out.  All I could manage to offer was, “We are here now.  You were able to see him and be with him.  And you will stay here as long as you have to.” And mentally I was preparing myself for that to be a few weeks.  

The day before Dennis had apologized on the phone to Sean for ruining his Sunday and told him he was going to try and make it through Christmas.  That day he apologized for maybe going to ruin Kennedy’s Christmas. Even in the worst of it this man was thinking of his sons and his grandchildren, and really that sums up who he was as a man.  

From the moment I met him, fifteen years ago, I was struck by how two people could be so alike. Sean and his dad are more similar than I could possibly find words for; in looks, in mannerisms, in sense of humor, in disposition.  They are cut from the same cloth.  I could look at Dennis and feel quite confident that I was looking at Sean thirty years later. 

He instantly welcomed me into the family, always making sure I had someone to talk to.  Though I come from a big, loud family of my own, at family functions when I needed a breather he was the quiet I could seek out.   When he talked to me, he really listened and would ask about things I’d said later on.  He sat with me at Sean’s baseball games and made me laugh through the sport I clearly didn’t follow.  When we got married, he was the only one that didn’t offer his opinions-just his support. He checked in on me every single day while I was pregnant with Kennedy and, my god did he fall in love with that little girl when she’d arrived.  It didn’t matter that Papa didn’t live nearby, he and Kennedy were inseparable when they were together; one of the few people she would willingly go with without a fuss.  She could sense his easygoing nature from the beginning and loved to play with him.  

When they moved away I know it was hard for Sean, especially since we had just lost Jack.  Though it was not something he talked about, he offered his support in the ways he knew how, lending us money for funeral expenses, offering to fly us down for a visit to the warmth and away from the sadness we couldn’t escape at home.  His and Pattie’s new home in Calabash quickly became our favorite place.  There was nothing Sean loved more than playing golf with his dad; forever competing with each other and Sean often on the losing end. Papa was always willing to brave the cold ocean (and Glamma too-I can’t leave her out!) and Kennedy knew it, begging to go in the second our toes hit the sand.  We have so many memories, beautiful, beautiful memories of our weeks spent in the sun with Dennis that we do not have to look far in our hearts to remember them.  

Things happened very quickly once he arrived at the hospice, a lovely place- for what it was.  We spent the first evening there with him, he was tired and uncomfortable though participating in some conversation.   We said goodnight, as we were all pretty exhausted working off of about 4 hours of sleep.  We headed back to his house for the night before we could check into the condo we rented the next day and got some rest.  His siblings and cousin/best friend were due in the following afternoon. We woke the next day, Sean’s brother gathering Christmas decorations to take over and make it more homey and festive, and Sean and I trying to help get the house in order that has been left in a hurry the days before.  We let the kids catch up on rest with naps and couch time when we got a call from his brother saying we needed to get there in a hurry.  By the time we made the 15 minute drive over it was a much different picture.  This man that we loved so dearly was struggling.  It was made clear that things were progressing much more quickly than we’d expected.  Our beloved, dad, Papa and Dennis had days rather than weeks.  

Kennedy, my sweet old soul, was aware of what was coming.  It is impossible for her to not read mine and Sean’s faces and emotions. She entered the room and gave her Papa a big hug and showed him the ornaments she had made and brought for his tree.  She talked to him and brought him drinks and cookies.  She decorated his tree and room, desperate to make him smile.  And he did, for her; it is something I will be thankful for in my heart forever.  She desperately needed to feel like she was making him happy.  Carter, happily oblivious to anything out the ordinary, toddled around the room, smiling at everyone, giving Papa ornaments to hold and his finger-his affectionate, hysterical alternative to a high-five. Though Kennedy smiled for him, and he for her, I could see she was nervous and he was tired and not feeling well. We took lots of breaks and walks. More family arrived and emotions were high and was all becoming too much; for the kids, for me, for Sean and most importantly for Dennis.  I knew it was time for me to go with the kids.  I knew it was time to say goodbye.

As we made our way over to his bed, Kennedy walked right up to him and wrapped her arms around him and said, “Bye. Love you, Papa!” It was in the next moment that I knew we were saying our last goodbyes and this was an all too familiar feeling for me and I could barely breathe.  Dennis closed his eyes and said in the strongest voice he could muster, “Oh Kennedy, I love you so much.”  Then he kissed and hugged Carter and smiled big up at him.  When it was my turn I could barely talk; it was taking everything out of me not to get hysterical.  I hugged him so tight and kissed his cheek.  I told him I loved him and he said, “Oh Trish I love you too.”  The last thing I said to him was, “I promise to take care of your baby boy.  Can you go and take care of ours for us?” and without a moment’s hesitation he said, “Promise.”  I left that night knowing we would not go back day if the next day came.  I had to leave it at that for Kennedy.  I had to have her last moments with him be of him telling her how much he loved her; she would need that to hold onto soon.

The next day came for him and Sean was there with him, along with his brother and everyone else, but soon he was sleeping and did not wake again.  Once again the timeline changed; we were told hours not days. Then the waiting came-for everyone.  I was back at the condo with the kids and no car.  Desperate to entertain them and stay busy while fending off the building anxiety that was pushing against me and so they played in the shower for an insane amount of time, I received a makeover with all of my expensive make-up (when a grieving six year old requests to give you a makeover, you oblige and you like it), walks, more screen time then I'd care to admit, and enough pasta, butter and parmesan cheese to send you into a food coma.  And then when the baby was down and Kennedy was almost asleep, I got the call. ‘He’s gone.”   And the heartbreak was enormous.  For Pattie, losing the man she loved fiercely, for Sean, losing his best friend and father, for Kennedy, losing her beloved Papa. The loss felt suffocating.  

And then the fear set in for me.  Could we recover from this?  We had finally made our way back to a good place; could we do it again?  But as Sean came through the door a few hours later and hugged me and cried and asked, “What am I going to do?” I was heartbroken for him but knew we would be okay.  We learned from Jack how to grieve and survive it.  We will do it again.  

The next days were filled with what they should be: family, hugs, tears, laughter, and wonderful memories. But they were exhausting.  And as everyone eventually headed back home, things set in that opened the wounds.  This would be the last time we came down here when Dennis was alive.  Sean was not able to call him along our travels and tell him about the traffic and stops we’d made.  We would have to return to school and work.  Life had to go on and as I have also learned, sometimes that’s the hardest part in all of this. 

As with all sad stories, there was incredible love that came before the sad part.  In his sixty-four years John Dennis Doyle inspired a love that I can only hope to have and be surrounded by when the end of my story has come.  And as I have learned all too well not so long ago, with great love comes great grief, it is the price we pay. 

To my friend, Grief; you can visit for a while but you cannot stay.  I respect that you are needed here for a time but you will not be allowed to overshadow the beautiful life of Dennis; that cannot get lost in all of this. 

And to the man that taught the love of my life to be a man:  We will love you forever.  We will miss you forever.  We will see you again.