The fact that this happened after my father’s death, after I’d felt that profound sense of Amy’s absence all over again, was not lost on me. My father’s death had been a step back for me, and having a new support in place made a huge difference. There were times when I felt so sad and vulnerable to my darkest possible emotions, and then Miles would be there. Likewise, there were other times when I saw Miles and felt so incredibly grateful that I could still look forward to being a father to three outstanding human beings. Just being near him helped renew my sense of purpose; for the first time in months, I found myself living not just day to day but with intention.
Whatever I did with my blank space, whatever my plan would be, my kids would be my bedrock. The combination of Arnie’s death and living with Miles helped me realize just how much of my future needed to be spent appreciating what I had, not dwelling on what I’d lost. My father had given up so much by not being a more active part of my life. And now, unlike my dad, I’d had the privilege of being with my wife, raising our three amazing kids together, knowing them inside and out, watching them grow into extraordinary young adults, sharing everything from adventures all over the world to boring chores and homework. I wonder if Arnie ever thought about those lost moments with Michel and me.
In a leap of courage, I asked Miles to step in here for a moment and write whatever he wanted to say about the impact of this past couple of years on him. I didn’t have to tell him to be honest. I knew he would. But I wasn’t prepared for this:
There are too many important memories to capture in a single spouting of memories, too many defining moments that are embedded and tethered together in my family’s collective consciousness. In the midst of the most defining, tragic period of our lives, joy found its subtle way to emerge. In late February of 2017, my family and I were tending to my mother as she lived out her final hospice days in the comfort of our home, my childhood nest. The seclusion we had was important, away from the semi-publicity and chaos of a hospital, we were confined to our space of preeminent choice in any circumstance; we were close to each other and to our matriarch, the one who was somehow chosen to deal with the most acute and painful of burdens, the emperor of all maladies. During this time, I was working to finish my spring and final semester of college. This also entailed searching for a postgraduation job for the period after this terrible personal event would be reduced to memories.
Within the last few weeks of my mom’s life, I received an acceptance call from what would be my future employer—this onerous task was over. What was worth some mild celebration was that the job would be in Chicago, and that unequivocally meant moving back in to live and be with my dad. My mom was too sick to feel excited, but I was elated to tell Dad. Strangely and obviously, I remember the joy I felt during that afternoon when sharing the news; it was enough to temporarily drown out, or really dampen, the pain and terror of the imminence of my mom’s death. Shortly after this episode, we reached the apotheosis of the dark of the night, and my mother would finally leave this world, and us. There was no way back. However much gloom and fog made it difficult to see, there was a way forward. For me, 80% of that was called Dad.
At work, it was clear early on that I would have to put double the effort in in order to release myself of the pull towards, and being consumed by, thoughts of my mom, while also learning the plethora of new things that a first job requires. There was a considerable amount of time throughout the hospice stage where I thought that when it all became the past, it would be far more manageable than living with only the memories. I would come to no longer believe in the truth of this ideal; the density of it all was just too great. What offered some incredible recompense, however, was merely being in my dad’s presence and even more so the graciousness and generosity he showed and gave me without ever asking for anything in return. Upon walking through the revolving door of my office building and into the evening, hearing the cacophony of downtown Chicago noises, I most looked forward to getting off the “L” and re-entering my old home where my dad would often be waiting for me. If I was particularly lucky, I’d open that mighty wooden front-door and step into a house filled with the intoxicating scents of garlic, butter, and rosemary as he concocted a small masterpiece. While I was in my childhood home, it was also blatantly obvious how different everything truly was. At our home, there was always something close enough to bite and remind me of the presence that was there but wasn’t.
My dad spent a lot of time focused on learning about the ways that individuals and cultures respond to grief, consuming books on the subject from as wide an array of authors as possible; they would pile high in the corner of his room, on his nightstand, and on the dining room table he gradually transformed into a second office. In recent years, my dad has provided the world the opportunity to hear his words and consume this knowledge and the profundity of both his ideas and messages, and the responses they have been strong—people are moved, and they are thankful. Nothing about my dad has fundamentally changed since my mom’s death and throughout our 700-or-so days of cohabitation. He is still gentle and kind, strong of mind and body, generous and shrewd, creative, pensive and composed, and mostly, for me and my siblings, the embodiment of a father in its best sense. Many seek to learn from him, and many will continue to.
I have been lucky enough to be in such close proximity to him as to witness and receive the enactment of the aforementioned qualities, and I will always remember it as a time filled with immense love and appreciation. I could have chosen to break from my family, my city and my home in order to create a new life away from the terrors of the past, but it was only through returning home and living alongside that great man that I was able to feel connected to and nurtured by the part of him that I came to understand truly embodied my parents and my mother. I have found nothing in my brief sojourn on Earth that imbues me with as much a sense of completeness as being with my father. I owe him more than I could ever hope to repay, but it’s a testament to the man he is that he may very well say the same exact thing about me.
Of all the profound lessons that living with Miles afforded me, perhaps the most powerful was that it lessened the fears that had been plaguing me since even before Amy’s death about my ability to parent my kids on my own. Yes, a mother/child relationship is unique and irreplaceable. But so is a father/child relationship, if you give it the best you’ve got and don’t leave the “emotional intimacy” part to the mom because you assume women are better at it.
Living with Miles in such proximity reinforced something that I’d known theoretically but hadn’t been able to truly experience since Amy’s death: parenting on my own was indeed different, but I was up for the challenge. Miles and I became closer than ever, and the best part was that it wasn’t just me watching him grow anymore. He started to watch me grow as well. As we wandered through the grief of losing Amy together, we held each other up every step of the way as no one else could have, giving each other plenty of support and freedom to process the new lives stretching out ahead of us, one blank space at a time.
14
The Heal Jason Tour
God has given us music so that above all it can lead us upwards. Music unites all qualities: it can exalt us, divert us, cheer us up, or break the hardest of hearts with the softest of its melancholy tones. But its principal task is to lead our thoughts to higher things, to elevate, even to make us tremble. . . . The musical art often speaks in sounds more penetrating than the words of poetry, and takes hold of the most hidden crevices of the heart. . . . Song elevates our being and leads us to the good and the true.