Can you love someone who is gone? Really. Can you?

I think the vast majority of people are saying, “Yes, of course you can.” Just because your loved one is no longer here, you can still love them. You loved them when they were alive, you cared about them, you hugged them; you nurtured them. But now they are gone.

But can you still love them the same way?

When it comes to parents, I think that is a different question. We expect them to pass before us. They were here our entire lives, they raised us, they actually taught us how to love someone. They gave us life and taught us our values and our morals, and we love them for that. Now that they are gone, we still visit them, we talk to our kids about them, and we still love them. We honor them at events, we have pictures of them, and they are our children’s namesakes. But I think it gets harder as time goes on. As many of you know, I lost my father when I was a young boy, just fifteen years old – it was over thirty five years ago. I still love my dad. There are pictures of him in my office, I talk to him once in a while, I post pictures of him for Veterans Day. I talk about him to my few friends who knew him, his words and teachings are still a big influence in my life, and I named my beloved son after my father. I still love him.

My father, with Laurie and I, in Brooklyn.

But, how do we define love though? unfortunately, the memories of my dad are fading. I was young when he passed, and it was so long ago. I have thirty five years of new memories that have been replacing those older ones. Like all memories, those that I have with my father fade – and it kills me that I have a limited number of them. I look at pictures of trips we took, places we visited, family pictures, and I recall memories from them, but still, they are limited. So what do I love? Do I love the person who I only knew for a brief fifteen years, and who was taken from me so long ago? Or do I love the concept of the person who was my dad, and do I love the person who was in those memories, who happens to have been my dad? I am not really sure. I go to his grave, and sometimes I cry, sometimes I do not. I cry because he never got to meet my family, never got to become a grandfather, and he never got to live the life he wanted. Do I cry because I miss him, or because I miss someone who I loved so long ago? Do I still love him the way I loved my father when he was here? I really don’t know.

Andrew and Dorothy were always smiling when they were together. Andrew never fought or argued with his mom – ever.

Now for the hard part.  My son. The relationship between a father and son is special. I loved my son so much for the twenty one years I had him. I never knew I could love someone that much, or care about someone that much, and be so concerned and worried when he was out, or when he did not call home enough. Now he is gone; there is no more physical relationship, there is no more hugging or worrying, or caring – of him physically. But do I still love him? I think anyone can answer that question – of course I do. I love him as much now as I did before, and probably even more. Dorothy says it all the time – she loved Andrew when he was here, he was her life, he was what every mother wants and loves. She says that she has grown to love him even more in the past two years. Her love for her son has grown deeper, and more profound than she could have ever imagined. Pam also says that she loves her Doug even more, now that he is gone. During his life, she loved him because he was in her arms, because he was her son, because he was hers. But now, she loves him even more because he is in her heart, he is a part of her soul, part of her forever – and she loves him more now than ever, and that love keeps growing each day.

Will that love fade over time, as the memories might? Or will it change over time and become something else? Who knows, but I doubt it. I know parents who are ten or twenty years out, and they still talk about their children as if they lost them yesterday. They still think about them every single day, and love them as much as the day they were born, and every day they lived. They are still their children, and will be forever; as they will still be loved forever.

So, to Marge, can we still love our lost children? Of course we can. We have to. They are still as much a part of us now as they were when they were alive. You can argue that they are more a part of us now, they are in our hearts and souls forever. And If we don’t love them forever, who will?

This is such a touching version of Hallelujah. Listen to the words. They mean so much and are so well sung, they really touch the soul. Songs like this express the pain and words that I can not. You can see the pain in his face that we feel in our hearts.

Please Click on the Image below to see the video.

What do you see in the flames?

Signs. We talk about them quite often in our bereavement groups. We see them, you see them, but really? Are they signs? Or what are they?

Stephanie talks about one fall day when she went to see her son at the cemetery. After she spends her time at the graveside, she walks back to her car. Arriving near the car, she sees a beautiful butterfly fly in the open passenger side window. He lands gracefully on the steering wheel for what seem quite a long time, then flutters out the other side and flies away slowly. She smiles and knows her son is there – in that butterfly. It seems pretty normal to most people, but she interprets it as a sign from her son – she knows it was him. What is interesting is that this happened in late fall – way after all the butterflies have disappeared.

Lea’s daughter’s favorite thing was ladybugs. She had ladybug trinkets, ladybug pictures, she drew ladybugs, and loved to see them around her. After her passing, Lea even got a ladybug tattoo to memorialize her daughter. Now she sees ladybugs every time she is sad or is having a particularly bad day. She knows it is her daughter saying hello and telling her that she is still here. Ordinary ladybugs now mean so much to Lea – that is her daughter’s sign.

The rainbow was there just long enough for me to take a picture.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at my desk, home alone, working, and having a particularly hard day. Missing Andrew. The wind blows a little, then again. A picture of Andrew blows off the shelf next to my desk where I have his pictures and lands face up onto my desk. Then the wind stops. The picture is sitting there next to me; Andrew is looking up at me with a smile on his face. It has happened more than once. I say thank you and go back to work.

This is just a few instances of what I hear bereaved parents see during their normal days. is it signs from our lost children, or just a lot of coincidences? Do we think these things up in our heads and create them, or are they truly our children communicating with us the only way they know how? I also hear signs that come from parents, or spouses, or friends. But not as much.

When we lose a parent, or a spouse, we miss them just as much. We loved them equally as we love our children. But we know they will pass, maybe unexpectedly, maybe suddenly, but their passing is not devastating – as that of a child. I am not minimizing or comparing losing a parent or spouse at all – just saying that the loss is very different from that of losing a child. When we lose a parent, our minds can deal with it much better. We can still live and go forward. It is not unconscionable to lose a parent – like it is to lose a child. Do our parents send us signs? Are we as open to them or in need of them? My sister sees signs from my father all the time. When she makes jokes and the lights in an ordinarily flicker free room start to flicker – she knows it is my dad laughing with her, telling her he is still with us. It is nice to see signs from our parents. It gives us some comfort that they are still around and looking over us.

But the words “nice”, and “comfort” are not what the parent of a lost child is looking for – no matter how old that child was when we lost him or her. We are more in need of seeing a sign. We desperately need to know our child is alright – wherever they may be. We lost the most precious thing in our life. We lost the thing that gave us meaning, the purpose of our existence, something we gave life to and nurtured. We cannot just move on without knowing. We want to know they are somewhere – in a better place, in a different place, whatever, we need to see something. We need a sign from them.

Some people believe in signs, others do not. Some of us are more open to them than others, or just more accepting of them. Some people seek them out and everything becomes a sign. Every time a bird chirps, or a raindrop appears it becomes a miracle. But they find peace in that and it helps them get through this terrible journey we are on. It is hard to say if something is a sign, or just a coincidence. Why did that happen on the way to a special place? Why do we see something so much more now than before? We never really know. But in our minds it is a sign. It is something that gives us some peace, that we find solace in. We are looking for a reason why our children were taken from us – which we will never find. But a sign is something that we can find, and we can find hope in that sign.

Double Rainbow I shot many years ago. I wonder if someone looked up at the same rainbow and thanked their son or daughter for it….

Butterflies appear when and where we least expect them, and where we have never seen them before. Ladybugs land on our arms and just stay there. A rainbow appears in the sky on the way to visit them. For me, I find quarters. Not just regular quarters, but Colorado quarters or Vermont quarters, never a Nevada one or a Florida quarter – but the quarters from where Andrew loved to ski. A light flickers when you talk about them. Someone walks past you and says something your son would say. There are so many signs. You just have to be open to them.

A few days ago I was sitting at my desk having a harder than normal day, upset. This is the week that our family, all four of us, used to go on vacation. We went to the same place for many years  – East Hill Farm in New Hampshire. Andrew and Nicole loved the farm, and Todd joined us on vacation there many times as well. They made many special friends at the farm who we still keep in touch with. I have posted many pictures of the kids smiling, laughing, playing Bocce Ball, making friendship bracelets, and having a very special week. Andrew was also at peace on the farm. No anxiety, no school issues, just smiling for an entire week. It is truly a special place. So on this particularly crappy day, I am sitting at my desk looking at pictures and the scrapbook from the farm, trying to work.  All of a sudden a small straight line rainbow shows up on my file cabinet next to me. Never before has it been there. Probably never will again. But I know it was Andrew saying he misses the farm as well, and that he was enjoying looking at the pictures with me. It was a sign, the sign, I needed to get on with my day. Thank you Andrew.

I still do stand there next to you, you just can not see me anymore, but I am still there.

Hi Dad,

I have been thinking a long time of what i would write to you for father’s day; what I want to tell you, as well as what you need to hear.  And for father’s day, a day that you have never embraced since the loss of your father so long ago, He has finally let me write you this letter. Of course it is your fingers doing the typing – but by all means, these are my words and thoughts – to you.

First of all, I know you miss me terribly, and we know you will never get over that. I miss you and Mommy and Nicole just as much. Just because we are separated, and I am here far away, I still miss being with my family – the family that I truly loved so much. But please take solace that one day, we will all be together again, I know that. Hopefully not for a long, long time, but it will happen. That is the faith that you must have, that is what is going to keep you going. It will help you get out of bed every morning, and let you lie your head down on the pillow in peace at night. it will let you love Nicole and show her the great loving life she deserves, and enable  you to travel and vacation and see places around the world that you want to see.

I miss the security and peace I found when I held you. There is nothing to ever replace that.

As for where we will see each other again – that is a harder question. I know you have been told by some that I am in a “better” place – that is not entirely wrong, but it is not right either. I am in a “different” place. There is no real “better” place for me to be than by your side, with my family. But that said, I am at peace here. I have no stress, no anxiety, no pain. I feel that I am with many other people who came before me in our family, some I knew, some I have just met for the first time. The place I am in can’t really be described – it justs exists.

We were always smiling and laughing when we were together. Please learn to smile again…

The peace they talk about is just that – peace. I do not have the joy of skating with my team, or snowboarding down a white snowy surface of a Colorado mountain. I can not watch Nicole play hockey and cheer her on with the pride only an older brother can appreciate when his sister follows in his footsteps – even if those footsteps are empty now. I yearn to complete my life on earth, and not have had it taken from me.

I was sad, very sad, when you sold my car. That was my happy place, my comfort zone, and I loved that car. I know you had to sell it, it was the right thing to do, but it still hurt. I am happy thought that it is now with someone who appreciates it as much as I did, and who is caring for it and loves to drive it as much as I did – but it is not me – it should be me. Peace does not replace that.

So on this day when I should be taking care of you, cooking you dinner, and thanking you for being the best father in the world, please know that I am at least thinking about you. Thinking about the great life you and mom gave me and appreciating the time we did have together.

Now please, smile a little more, hug Nicole a little tighter, and enjoy father’s day the best you can.

Your loving son, always,
Andrew

Sometimes it hurts to look at pictures, to remember how happy we once were.

Andrew and I used to talk to each other often. Whether it be over the phone, via e-mail, texts, or whatever, we communicated a lot. I loved those father/son communications. They made me feel part of his life, made me feel that I was needed, and that my advice was sought after by my son – something any father can appreciate.

That has all changed. The communication is now one way, and I am not sure if it is actually communication anymore. I talk to him, but does he listen? Does he know what I am saying? People are going to tell me he listens and he knows what I am saying, of course, but who really knows? I still have the need to talk to him, I still need to tell him what is going on in our lives and, most important, what I am feeling.

Where do I talk to him? Where do I go visit him? There are a few places.

One is in temple. That is probably the hardest place. It is in the sanctuary that I last gazed upon my son’s beautiful face. It is where we had his funeral, where I last talked to him face to face. It is also where we had happy events: his pidyon haben when he was born and welcomed into the Jewish religion, his Bar Mitzvah when he became a man, and his Hebrew school graduation. It is where we went for his friends’ Bar Mitzvahs, and for the High Holidays. We spent a good amount of time in that sanctuary – all of it happy until the very end.

I stop by the temple once in a while to sit there alone, in the dark, and gaze at the front of the room where his casket once sat. I talk to him. I tell him how I miss him, how we are doing as a family, and ask him how he is. Dorothy and I go together to temple Friday nights, but there are others there, and the mood is much different. I look over at Dorothy once in a while and see a tear in her eye, and I know what she is seeing and what she is thinking…without saying a word. I enjoy going there; I recall things there that I cannot recall anywhere else.

I also visit him where his body now lies. He is not there spiritually, but his body is at peace at the cemetery. It is where I can see his name inscribed in granite: “Beloved Son, Brother, Grandson, Father.” I am reminded of the cold truth that he will not see his son grow up, of how much his grandma and bubby miss him, and how much his sister’s life has changed since he is gone. I also know that he is at peace there, alone but for a few other graves nearby, listening to the stream just a few feet from him, and that Daphne, sitting next to me, knows that something is special about that spot that we visit. I think it is only his body there, not his spirit, not who he was, but it is still nice to visit that small plot of grass that is forever his.

Andrew’s Garden

Where is he that I can talk to him? I think I connect to him most in our backyard;  what is now called Andrew’s garden. Andrew and I sat out there many nights during his last summer home, built a small fire, and talked. There is nothing out there that was his, nothing with his name on it, nothing that he played with or held dear. But what is there is the memory of how close he and I were. He told me all about his life, about how he learned so much from the therapist he was seeing in NY to cope with his anxiety. He told me how much he looked forward to his senior year in Boulder, and how he was thrilled to be a psychology major now. We talked about everything, including what I do for a living, how much I enjoy my work, and what he wants to do for a living, and hoped that he enjoys his life’s decisions as much as I do. He so much wanted to help others and knew that one day he would. He asked me about the cars I drove growing up, and how he loved to drive his stick shift. There was no topic that was off the table. It was truly a special summer talking to him by the fire for hours.

The last place I talk to him is in his bedroom, which is right next to my office, and pretty much the way he left it. Of course we have cleaned it up a bit, and we have gifted or donated some of his possessions to people who mean something to us, but it is still the way he left it. We gave Andrew’s desk and his suits that he only wore once to Guillermo, who told me whenever his grandson wears them he thinks of Andrew and says a prayer. We gave Todd his snowboard, so we know it is being used by someone who was Andrew’s closest confidant. We gave away little things here and there so that the memory of Andrew lives on in other places, and with other people. But there is so much more of him in the room.

Andrew’s guitar. He taught himself to play because he loved to create music.

I go in the room and sit on his bed. I smell his pillow, and I run my hand over his guitar. I look at the pictures of him, and at the things that he held close. I see his glasses that he loved to wear, his Rubiks cubes he loved to solve, his hockey trophies, his team jackets, and his other toys. I sit there and I ask him how he is, where he is, and let him know how much we all miss him. I ask him why he is not here anymore, and that he really should be here. It kills me that he is gone, that my son is not with me anymore, that he will not grow up any more – and I tell him that. But my pain falls on deaf ears.

But as I said before, the conversation is one-sided. I talk; that’s it. Sometimes I look up when I talk and ask questions in the hopes that he sees my face from above…and remembers me, and sees my love for him. Other times I hold my face in my hands to hide my streaming tears. It is different every time.

But I still talk to him, I still talk to my son, every single day.

My son Did exist.

I have been noticing recently that assorted people do not talk about Andrew – I don’t know if this is a recent thing, or just something I am becoming more away of. I notice this at some dinners we have been at, or even over lunches. It is not at every meal that I expect him to be brought up in stories, I understand that. It is nice to talk about him, or have others talk about him.

Many times we are out with our closest friends or family and they will tell a story of my son. They will talk about him like he is still with us, recalling him fondly, recalling him with love. At times they tell us stories that we have heard a hundred times before, but it still brings a smile to our faces. The time Andrew cooked fish with Uncle Roy and had to shake them first as part of the ritual. Or when he would ask teachers questions that were impossible to answer. Or when Todd, Greg, Nicole, Andrew and I went on our annual summer water park trips and how we managed to cut every single line – Andrew was not one for waiting on lines. I have heard these stories so many times, but I still love to hear them.

Andrew and Anastasia at Playland – always a fun place.

Once in a while we will also hear a new story, one that we never heard before, one that makes us laugh and teaches us a little bit more about Andrew. Matt tells us stories from the hockey locker room – some that we really can’t share. Wally tells us about Andrew in school, or just hanging around town. The time they wore pizza boxes on their feet because they could not go into the restaurant without shoes. We are so happy to hear them – but what brings us joy is the fact that people are talking about Andrew with us, they are not forgetting him.

But all too often we do not hear about Andrew. We are with other couples or friends and they talk about their kids, what they are up to and about their college or sports. They talk about Nicole and hockey and Salve. But they do not touch on Andrew.  I am sorry to say, it feels to us like he never existed. It feels like he is forgotten and people have moved on.

Andrew was so proud of Nicole at her Bat Mitzvah

I talked about this to a couple of close friends and they thought of it in a different light. They thought of it as people not wanting to upset us. Or people just nervous to bring up Andrew around his grieving parents. They are not forgetting him, but in their eyes, they are protecting us from the pain. Trust me, the pain is there whether you talk about him or not. Being silent does not ease the pain; it does not lessen it, or make it go away. It only hurts more. We want to talk about our son. The son we will never see again, the son we will never hold again. We want to keep him in our lives, in our stories, in our hearts. Don’t be afraid to bring up something that you think we are trying to get over, or you are afraid to remind us that our Andrew is gone. We know this. Even through tears it brings us pleasure to talk about all our children, including Andrew. You do not need to walk on eggshells around us.

We know you want to tell us about your children, and we want to hear about them. Don’t be afraid to share your joys, your celebrations, your stories with us. We are here for that, and we want to listen. But in the same conversation, please let us all talk about Andrew, and let us share, too. Yes, we have no new stories; there is nothing new for us. We may have told you this story or that story before, but that is all we have right now.

And when we smile, as Pam expresses it so eloquently, it is not because we are over it, or that we are better, or that the old Perry is back.  It is because we are happy to be with our friends, and happy to be talking about our son.

Andrew, Nicole and Keisha. Keisha was with us for ten years loving and raising our kids.

This goes for anyone who has passed – whether it is a child, a parent, a sibling, or cousin. Talk about them. Share your thoughts and your joys and sorrows with their family. That is what they want. Not just today, tomorrow, this week, or next month – but from now on. Keep them in your hearts, in your minds and in your stories. That is what we want. More than hearing about your sympathy for us – we want to hear your joy when you talk about our lost ones.

Epilogue… By coincidence, Dorothy & I went out for a burger after temple Friday night to a place far enough away from home that we would most likely not run into friends. But as luck would have it, we did. We ran into a pair of hockey parents from Andrew’s Mariners days. Parents of someone he had as a teammate for several years, and who we spent countless hours at rinks with, at restaurants and hotels with, but drifted apart as our kids went their separate ways.

It was sort of awkward at first. We had not seen then for several years, long before we lost Andrew. They got up and hugged us, and told us how sorry they were about Andrew. They said he was a good kid and that they were shocked, as was everyone. We talked about hockey and about Nicole, and about their kids. It was very nice.

But more important, that is what we needed. Instead of ignoring us, or just waiving hello, they got up, hugged us, and talked to us about Andrew. Yes, we cried. But it was a good cry. Someone talked about Andrew with us. Someone who did not need to, or have to, but wanted to. Someone who knew him, and still has him in their hearts.

Because he did exist – my son did exist, and he still does.

The Elephant in the Room  (with liberties taken with the name)
By Terry Kettering

There’s an elephant in the room.
It is large and squatting,  so it is hard to get around it.

Yet we squeeze by with, “How are you?” and, “I’m fine,”
and a thousand other forms of trivial chatter.

We talk about the weather; we talk about work;
we talk about everything else — except the elephant in the room.

There’s an elephant in the room. We all know it is there.
We are thinking about the elephant as we talk together.

It is constantly on our minds. For, you see, it is a very big elephant.
It has hurt us all, but we do not talk about the elephant in the room.

Oh, please, say his name.
Oh, please, say “Andrew” again.
Oh, please, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.

For if we talk about his death, perhaps we can talk about his life.
Can I say, “Andrew” to you and not have you look away?
For if I cannot, then you are leaving me alone
in a room—with an elephant.

I can’t be the only one to notice this.  Or am i just the first person to write about it, or have the chutzpah to talk about it?

Every person I have talked to recently about someone who has passed makes that person out to be a saint, a mensch, a pillar of society. They were all wonderful people. They never said a bad word about anyone, everyone loved them, they always wanted to help others – they were one of my closest friends. They gave so much of themselves, they were always there for me, their family always came first, they were always there to help anyone in need. They volunteered, they coached, they mentored. They were so successful in business and gave so much back to the community and everyone around them.  Holy crap, they were amazing people.

Now I am not mean, or cruel, or un-sympathetic – but really? And the more tragic the death, the more amazing they were. I have never been to a funeral or a wake or visited a  house of shiva where they talked badly about the deceased. Yes, it is common courtesy not to bad mouth the dead, but why does it have to start at the funeral home or the cemetery – this is my point.

I hear people talk about other people. They talk about that they are cheap – they never pick up the check when we go out for lunch or dinner, they never put on a fair tip for the waitress, they never pay their fair share. But as soon as they are dead they were the most generous, giving person around.

They talk about how they pushed their children too hard, they shouted at soccer and hockey games, ever got thrown out of a few games. They berated the coaches and the refs as well as the opposing players. They criticized the teachers and the principal about how inept they were. But as soon as they die, they were the most supportive caring parents who were always there to support their children and their teams. They were always ready to run the carpool and support the school.

They talk about how they work late all the time, and work on the weekends. They didn’t spend enough time at home, they didn’t go to school plays or teacher meetings. They went on long business trips and spent too much time at the club with friends and not at home. But as soon as they die, their families meant everything to them and they could not give their spouse or children enough love, nor spend enough time with them, or take them on enough vacations.

For children – they talk about how they don’t listen to their parents, they have a tattoo or for goodness sake a piercing.  How wild they are, how poor athletes they are and how they should not be on the “A” team. They drink, they smoke, they cut classes and drive fast.  But when the unimaginable happens, and their young child passes, they become the most compassionate and loving child, they were so funny and understanding. Everyone loved them and they had so many friends. Their teachers and coaches loved them. They talked to us for hours and were so in tune to what they wanted in life.

I could go on, but you get my drift.

Now there is a certain compassion that we all have when someone passes away, and I don’t want to disparage anyone who has passed away. But my point it this – why does someone have to die for us to see the good that they are? Why do we first see the bad and the negative and dark side of people when they are alive, and then all of a sudden they are dead and they become saints? Do we have to talk about people like we are on Real Housewives all the time?

We are all guilty of it, I have just become so much more aware of it being in bereavement groups now. Every child or sibling we talk about is almost perfect. that is why I enjoy these groups to some degree. They are negative in terms of why we are there, but we mostly talk in positive terms of anyone. We very rarely, if ever, say something ill about our children, or about others. They were all wonderful, cheerful, amazingly smart and loved individuals. Now I know Andrew was all of these things and more. But he was also short tempered sometimes, he drove too fast and a little reckless occasionally, left the house without saying goodbye once in a while. He and I fought about some stupid things here and there, he hung up on me once in a while (never his mom though), and was not really good with time management or showing respect for some people who he felt did not deserve respect. You would already know these things if you really knew him, or talked to me about him before we lost him.

So once again, what’s my point? Now that we talk about our lost ones in my bereavement groups, and I talk to so many other bereaved parents, spouses and siblings, I have learned to talk positively about everyone. I don’t think about their dark sides, nor do I seek it out. I don’t talk about what was bad or negative, or what I perceive as a person’s faults. I try to find something nice to say, I ask about what they were like, I look for the light and the sunshine – not the darkness.

Everyone has faults and a dark side – but wouldn’t it be nice if we didn’t talk about that so much, and more about the positive and what that person contributed to our lives as well as others?

And let’s face it, how do we want others to talk about us?

Look how happy they both are in this picture. It makes me smile…

“I never knew how good life was.” I hear that from Dorothy every so often, as well as others. I never really knew what I had was so good – compared to not having it. I had my home, my two children, Dorothy had a great job she enjoys, and my business was growing every year. We went on vacations; I enjoyed listening to music and cooking for my family, and looked forward to speaking to my kids and hearing what they were up to every so often. Life was good. I looked forward to a future watching my son and my daughter growing up, maturing, falling in love, and having children. Retiring one day and sitting at home, looking back on my life and smiling, and looking forward to a house full of grandchildren for the holidays. I had a lot one day. Did I appreciate it? I probably did, but maybe not enough. I hugged my children and my wife whenever I could. I told them I loved them. I smiled when I looked at their pictures in my office, I was thankful my life path was in a good direction. I was happy.  All until I received that call late at night from Boulder. We get up in the morning, and there is food in our refrigerator, and clean clothes in our drawers. We go outside in the morning and start our car, and take that car to work or shopping or to go see someone. We take for granted all these things – our food, our clothes, our car. But the day when the car is not working we get upset and angry for not having it – without really appreciating the days that we do have it. When the television breaks or cable is out and we have no TV that night we are upset because we have nothing to watch, but again, do we appreciate the hundreds and hundreds of days when our TV did turn on with the push of a button?

Such gorgeous and genuine smiles.

What I have learned through this is that I appreciate my daughter so much more now. I appreciate every second I spend with Nicole,  every meal we eat together, every phone call and every text I get from her. I smile when I look at the pictures of her on my desk, and browse through the pictures of her on my phone. I look at the pictures of her growing up – and I am glad that I was there for so much of what she did. I appreciate the fact that I was able to coach her for so many years, that I went to every concert and play she was in while at school, and that I went to every parent teacher conference and heard her teachers praising her (most of the time). I appreciate it so much more, just thinking about it makes my eyes tear up. I appreciate it when she is home and we sit on the couch and watch a Rangers game. We don’t have to talk, but just sitting there with her makes me happy and fulfilled. When she is home for the summer and watches baseball with Dorothy, it makes her so happy. I don’t particularly enjoy watching the games, but the time that I get to sit there with her, watching her, being proud of her, is time that I will never get back, and I don’t want to miss out on it.  When I go to her games and see he dressed in her college jersey, it makes me proud that she has worked so hard for so many years to reach that level of hockey – we must have done something right when we raised her. I have always appreciated these times, but the appreciation is so much deeper now and so much more emotional. I also have learned to appreciate what my father had given to me so many years ago. What he taught me, what he said to me, and the legacy that was my father. Although my time with my father was short, far too short for a young boy to appreciate, I have learned to cherish that time and really appreciate it. But I see others; others who do not appear to appreciate what they have. They take their lives for granted, they take their money for granted, and they treat what they have as if they can’t lose it. I look at them and say to myself, please appreciate it.  Please. Especially – please appreciate your kids – please appreciate your parents. One day you might receive that call that they are no longer with you. I do hope that you never receive the call that we did one night. I hope no one would ever receive such a devastating life-changing call. But I also hope that you appreciate what you have, whatever that is. Look at your children and smile. Take every breath and memory in, and realize that they are limited in number. Do you have another ten memories with those you love, or another ten thousand? Who knows? Will they say you appreciated life and lived it to its fullest, or will there be regrets and sorrow when you are gone? Will you think of all the things that you should have said to your children, or your parents, or your spouse, when they are no longer here? Or will you be at peace when the time comes. We all generally have good lives, some better than others. We smile, we play, we work, we travel, but do we really appreciate how good our lives are? I see friends who don’t have a relationship with their children, and I have players I have coached who don’t really talk to their parents, sometimes over minor or stupid things. Then they are gone one day and it is too late. I talked to one of Andrew’s teammates / friends after his game last year who had moved pretty far away. I asked him about his dad and he said he really doesn’t talk to him much, they don’t get along. We talked a little about it, and I told him what I would give to have a relationship with my son at this point in my life, and that fact that I will never be able to have that relationship again. A few months later I see he posted new pictures of him and his father on facebook, shaking hands and hugging. Now I don’t think my conversation with him precipitated this, but I smiled and was happy about it. I was happy that they were talking again. I was happy that they learned to appreciate each other – and leave the crap aside. Think about what you have now. Not just your material possessions, but also your family. Look at your spouse, your family, and your friends. Look at your home, your job, the things you collect and enjoy… Now close your eyes (after you finish reading this). Think about the unimaginable. Think about life without them, without any one thing. So appreciate what you have. And for your family and friends – let them know you appreciate them. As Dorothy says so often now – “I really never knew how good my life was before”   PS – I have a few close friends review and edit what I write prior to me posting the entries. They make sure the post makes sense, they look for spelling mistakes, and check grammar. After reading and editing this one, my editor, and one of my closest friends since second grade, sent me this note – I really do appreciate it. “I hope you realize this philosophy of yours was not a result of Andrew’s passing.  That you believed and lived this all along and that Andrew was the beneficiary of it.  I remember well and often recall when i was working my ass off and doing well financially, and you reminded me in pretty strong terms about what is important…..”