Several people asked me how I found the strength to speak at Amy’s memorial service. The truth is, I couldn’t imagine not speaking. Yes, I was devastated with grief; and yes, I was barely holding it together as I worked with my kids and family and friends and the synagogue staff on preparing for the day, our one chance to do it right. I just knew that I wanted everyone in that room to hear from me that Amy’s impact on all our lives was every bit as incredible as she explained to the world in every word she wrote, everything she did, and every moment she lived.
I could never hope to be the wordsmith she was, but I did my best. I won’t include the entire eulogy here, but I would like to offer one memory I shared with the audience that day:
Amy and I love live music. I would like to share a story with you that summarizes how playful and committed we were to our music. We were at a wedding downtown. But we had a serious conflict. One of our favorite bands was playing at Lollapalooza, which we had tickets for that weekend. Solution? We decided to do both. Amy brought her comfy shoes. During a break after the ceremony, we dipped out. Amy stashed her dress shoes in a planter outside and changed into her gym shoes. There we were. Running down Michigan Avenue. Formally dressed for a wedding. I threw my tie around my head, wearing it like a headband. We made the show! Soon we found ourselves dashing back down the street, up the stairs to the wedding and directly to the dance floor, as if we’d been there the entire time. The bride danced over by us soon thereafter and, smiling, said to Amy, “Oh, I am so glad someone else is sweating too, isn’t this great?” I think this encapsulates our joy for life together and how we lived as a couple.
I knew I had to share remarks about Amy that day. I could not let the chance to share a bit about our epic love story, include a bit about the impact of cancer and ask for a commitment to keep that disease in people’s minds and emphasize Amy’s impact on me and my life. Not long after, a friend sent a note about the service that read, “I’ll remember it forever, and live my life differently because of it.”
That’s what Amy did for people, the imprint she left on their lives. When Amy entered your orbit, things forever changed. I know that better than anyone, because most of all, she did that for me.
Part III
Filling a Blank Space
11
Empty, Not Nest
Without clouds, there will be no rain;
without rain, trees cannot grow;
and without trees, we cannot make paper.
—Thich Nhat Hanh
You hear about it. You read about it. You see movies about it. You anticipate it over and over and over again, trying to brace yourself. But it turns out that nothing you do prepares you for the intensity of the emotional implosion that slams into you when your loved one takes her final breath.
It was more complicated than I’d expected. I knew I’d be decimated. I knew I’d be lonely, vulnerable, empty, and grief-stricken. I knew I’d be indescribably sad. Turns out that is pretty much accurate. And then some.
What I didn’t know was how strongly I’d still feel Amy’s presence at every turn and be brought to my knees by a song, a scent, a taste, walking past one of our favorite restaurants or just spotting a yellow . . . anything.
What I didn’t know was how empty I would feel after two years of being singularly focused on her getting well; on being tuned in to her every minute of every day to make sure she was comfortable and in as little pain as possible; on thinking of every creative way I could come up with to remind her how loved she was—and now what? All that intense focus was suddenly gone, leaving no relief in its wake, just a hollow, gaping void and nothing to fill it with.
Most of all, though, what I didn’t know, what I could only learn with time, and later in hindsight, was how much Amy’s essay would become the backdrop for so much of my life following her death—both in those early days and long after. Suddenly I had the time to fully weigh the words that I’d struggled to process in the moment when the piece first came out. Of course, her writing had moved me and stirred up every emotion I’d had. But I hadn’t dwelled on it because I was so focused on her and what we were going through together. I hadn’t really thought of the implications of what she wanted for me. Of how she wanted me to use her death as an opportunity to continue to live my life. Of how this piece, written for all to see, was also a singular message to me.
Now that I had nothing but time to pore over her words, I found myself grasping the significance of what she wanted for me, of what she was trying to do. Reading her words, not just those from the essay but all the others that she had written in her career, left me with little pieces of her everywhere around me, each a clear reminder of how Amy had lived. Even though in the immediate aftermath, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and stay there, I knew that was exactly what Amy wouldn’t let me do.
More than anything, her words left me with the realization that whatever I chose to do with my blank space, I needed to make sure it was something I wanted. Amy had wanted me to make a plan. She’d wanted me to fill my blank space, to live my best life and make someone else happy. In theory I understood all that; in practice, I had no idea what any of it meant. After all, she knew me better than any person on the planet, so she knew I would struggle with how to go about filling that blank space she so publicly gave me. It almost seems like her list-making skills were put to the ultimate test as she left me pretty specific clues as to how to proceed forward.
Pick a moment in those first few months—honestly, they were all the same. There was no sunlight, only a few smiles, and certainly no laughter.
The early days were hazy at best—a collage of painful impressions with only a few specific events and faces. At worst they’re just gone, days I don’t remember that I never want back. At the beginning of April, just a few weeks after Amy’s death, I decided to attend a previously scheduled work conference in DC. Not only are the entire two days lost to me now, but I felt that way immediately after I left the conference, as though all on its own my body had drifted there, occupied thinly cushioned chairs, been fed details about statutes and medical charts, and guided itself back to Chicago.
What does stand out for me about that time now is not so much a single person or event, but more the overwhelming feeling of love and support I experienced wherever I turned. The way in which people who mattered went out of their way to tell me what I meant to them—and how crucial that was to my beginning to feel like I could do this. My heart breaks for people who have to face similar trauma on their own. I don’t know how I would have made it if that had been true for me.
Not surprisingly, it all started with family. The kids and I were surrounded and loved by our world-class family, and it still takes my breath away how they were, are, and always will be there for us, even when they were grieving the loss of their daughter, sister, daughter-in-law, and sister-in-law and dealing with challenges of their own.
During that awful time, my mom supported me in ways I never could have imagined. While she’d been there for me unconditionally all my life, she showed up without my even having to ask. She and Amy were so connected and shared so much together. Mom took Amy’s death hard, but it never stopped her, not once, from being right there for me and her grandchildren whenever we needed her. She’s youthful, fit, and still working. She lives near me in Chicago, so we’re still physically connected as well and easily able to spend time together; and there’s nothing we can’t talk about, from finances to end-of-life issues to the grandchildren she adores. I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating—I credit my mother with making me the man I am today. All this care and support from Mom, mind you, while her husband, my stepfather, fell ill, lost his short-term memory, and had to be placed in a memory care facility, where he is to this day. My sister, Michel, was a supporting figure for me during this very dark time. A simple text, an offer of food, or a generous gesture like taking care of Cougar made it clear how much she cared.