Perhaps most affecting and important, the kids and I went on a wonderful excursion a few months later, in December. Planning this trip for the four of us came with mixed emotions. The last big adventure I’d planned for our family, for the five of us, had to be canceled due to Amy’s inability to travel. But we had a rich history of annual family trips that always included some time to be just us Rosies, and I sensed that we needed a return to this comfort, to peel away from the everyday, from the rest of the world, no one else, only us.
This was our first trip without Amy, and I was not sure how things would shake out. I was confident that all of the kids wanted to do this, to be together. I was aware that they were all incredible travelers, adventurous because we’d exposed them to travel from an early age. This was new territory, however, for all of us.
Many of the experiences we shared on this wonderful trip felt natural, like we were meant to be there together. We had fun, we did things we could not do at home (a camel ride, walking the tightly woven streets, visiting old synagogues), and we made new memories.
We were good at talking about Amy by now, but this time of reflection allowed us to check in with one another and see how we were all doing, individually and as a group. We freely and easily talked about their mom, and we laughed a lot, but there were tears as well, of course. I was the only one who got really ill on this trip. But I pressed through, realizing the beauty of enjoying these delicious children, now adults, reminiscing over a bottle of red wine and appreciating the planning their dad did to bring this trip together.
Justin has become a natural traveler. It is in his DNA now. Regardless of his physical health—okay, he did get sick while we were literally in line to check in for our flight one year—he is an enthusiastic travel companion. A pair of headphones, a good movie, and a hoodie to keep him comfortable, and he is good to go. His needs are few as well. Have you seen his suitcase? Perhaps one pair of pants and a couple of shirts is about all he needs. He has a thirst for different cultures and a yearning to immerse himself in the people and the music. The amazing thing about Justin also is that no matter where we are in the world, from Atlanta to Zagred (okay neither of us have been to Zagred, but you get the point), Justin can pick up his phone and message or Whatsapp someone and have a plan for the evening.
His passion for life stems from the experiences he shared with each of his parents one on one. Amy took Justin on a trip to Thailand at the ripe age of eleven. The exposure to this unique country cemented his goal to travel the world. He has since lived in many places, including Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. When Justin was young, I spearheaded his first foray into music, a deep passion for which he has since cultivated and made uniquely his own. On our trips to basketball practice when he was a very young boy, my car would blast tunes ranging from The Who, Live at Leeds; Rage Against the Machine, The Battle of Los Angeles; or anything by Tupac. Is the statute of limitations up for DCFS to come after me? I know. Not the best lyrics to introduce then, but the emotion and the vibe was what mattered. We had a blast jamming to that music.
Justin’s commitment to his mom at the end of her life and to me now fuel my pledge to parenting this amazing child/man/human without Amy, a job that will never have an expiration date.
Music, of course, had been one of the bedrocks of my marriage to Amy, as well as a big part of my life in high school and as a young man. I have seen some of the greatest bands in the world with my sister, Michel. Music always brought me to a specific moment in time, a memory, an experience that became a significant part of my life.
After Amy’s death, listening to music took on new meaning. It brought me toward emotions that were the essential elements in the grieving process. I listened to plenty, and I cried a lot in my car alone. Luke Sital-Singh and Manchester Orchestra were crucial to helping me during some really dark times in those early months.
But listening to music and really engaging with it are two very different things, and the trip to Red Rocks helped me to understand that in a way I hadn’t. In my grief, music had come to represent a coping mechanism, a way to help me with sadness. To my ears it lacked the joy, the release, that it had always possessed. After Red Rocks, all that changed. Music became something I pursued with a hunger and a passion that I hadn’t possessed in years.
I sought out shows and regularly scanned venue schedules to see what new bands were being added, as I always had before Amy’s diagnosis. The Chicago music scene quickly became a part of my routine again. While it was a helpful way to get me out the door, it was clear that this was about something more. As at Red Rocks, when I was out at a show I was able to uncover a part of myself that had been hiding, let loose just a bit, dance just a bit, laugh just a bit.
Experiencing music had been so important to my life with Amy, but rather than feel sadness when I was at shows without her, it felt like I was reconnecting with her, like perhaps I was starting to understand my blank space for the first time, to understand what she’d wanted for me, and what living my best life might actually look like.
Additionally, I made new memories for myself, and rediscovered the joy of seeing the kind of live music I really loved. Live music had always been something I felt deep passion for. Seeing a good band perform live made my soul feel deeply, made my body move to the beat, and allowed me to get lost and separate from the depths of grief, except when I trended toward those feelings, to deeply emote in a way only live music allows you to do.
After losing Amy, I went to shows by myself as well as with friends. Being alone allowed me to appreciate the music and the performance. I was also able to stand wherever I wanted to, unlike Amy, who was vertically challenged and always had to stand on the side of the stage to have any chance at a view.
I was also free to combine my passions for music and travel. If there was a good show in New York, I was all in. I went to Madison Square Garden for the first time ever to see Radiohead, and then Eric Clapton. I was in Brooklyn with my brother and best friend to watch the Class of 2017 be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I hit all of the local venues in Chicago to see bands as varied as LP, Rhye, Bruce Hornsby, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Amber Mark, LL Cool J, and many Manchester Orchestra shows. As you can see from the variety of artists, some were shows I could be found dancing at and others just jamming. Both of these feelings were emotional connections I could find only with live music. (I kept a list of all the shows I saw in one year.)
Obviously, it was a lot of music and a lot of travel, in between a whole lot of loss—either because of those losses or in spite of them, maybe some combination of both. There was excitement and joy in it. It made me feel alive. It saved me from spending too much time in my head, where it was too easy to get lost in all that darkness.
Besides, I had a blank page to fill.
15
Transitions
There’s nothing like a blank page
You get to start from scratch
It could be anything, man, there’s no catch
It’s a good place for a dreamer
A good place for a dreamer to dream away
A blank page.
—Scott Mulvahill
I was making my way through my grief, albeit slowly. That blank space had some outlines on it, sketches of ideas. One thing I’d come to know for certain was that I didn’t want to look back on this time in my life someday and find that I wasn’t appreciating each day I had.