A letter to Andrew’s son:

Dear Jay,

Yesterday was one of the hardest and worst days of my life. It was the unveiling of your father’s headstone.

Although I thought I was prepared for it, for it was just a piece of granite, I really was not. When I saw his name, Andrew J. Grosser, etched permanently in the stone, it really struck me hard. I was thinking that it was just a small religious rite that we all must endure some time in our lives, but usually for a parent or grandparent. But it was so much more than that.

The Rabbi talked about the ceremony of the unveiling of the stone, the meaning of the stone, the ceremony itself, and the Jewish prayers. But it was the personal side of the ceremony that I really heard and that touched me. He said the stone is not just a marker, not just a place to visit.  It is really a monument to Andrew, what he lived for, the fact that he was here on this earth and that he touched so many lives. It will forever bare his name and be a monument to his time with us. There were fifty or so people there which is a lot for an unveiling. That was a testament to who he was, the lives he touched, and that his light will shine on for a long, long time.

The Rabbi did something that was also very interesting. He asked people to go around the gathering and say one or two words about your dad. Just something that they felt when thinking about him, how he touched their lives, something that they think about when they recall Andrew. The things that came out were very touching.

Always smiling
Compassionate
Always gave me a hug
A true friend
Family
Funny
No Bullshit
Loving
Caring
Sensitive
Great love of animals

So we gathered there not to just unveil his headstone, but to pay tribute to him, to say we will always remember him, to make this a monument to who he was to us, versus just a stone with a name and the dates he was physically with us. It will be a place of peace and recollection for many to visit. Many of us walked to the stream behind the plot and looked into the water and listened to the peaceful flowing of the stream. It reminds me of the peace and tranquility of Boulder. I also know that is what your dad hears everyday – the gentle peaceful flowing sound of water.

At the bottom of the stone, the last line, the epitaph. One line, that’s it. One simple line to sum up a persons entire life. What can you say in one line that will be there forever, that everyone who passes by the stone will read and understand and appreciate. Andrew’s mom and I went through so many choices – too many to list here. Some were about Andrew’s love, some about how we will miss him for the rest of our lives, others about his short time on earth and all that he accomplished and experienced.  But all that became moot when Nicole said she liked this:

“Your light will shine forever”

That sums it up for us. Your dad’s light will shine forever. Through his compassion, his love for others, the way he touched other people’s lives, through that light, he will always shine.

Andrew had a little blue bag of small stones he had bought during one of our recent trips to Yankee Candle. He picked each and every one out of a large box of stones. Each stone was carefully selected to be in his collection – he didn’t just fill the bag – he selected the stones one by one. He kept the bag in his night table. I talked to him about them some times. He said that he knows I collected and appreciate the polished stones and minerals and that he was going to give them to me one day, or use them to start his own collection. But that he did dump them on his bed some times at night and would look at them and appreciate them. Then put them away until the next time. But there is no next time.

I had that bag in my office since last August. And while I liked having it here to look at, to look through the stones, to know that each of them touched him, I decided it was time to share them with the world – much like his mother and I shared Andrew with this world, it was time to share his collection. At the funeral the Rabbi talked about the bag of stones, as I dumped them for the very last time, from the blue bag Andrew had them in into a large clear bag. I told the Rabbi I was going to pass the bag around the gathered group, and that everyone there should look into the bag and find a stone that touched them, much like each stone touched Andrew.  And that they should take that stone out of the bag and make it their own. Keep it as a piece of Andrew, forever. Keep it in their hockey bag, or their pocketbook, keep it in their car, or on their desk. Somewhere special. Somewhere where they will see it or feel it once in a while and be reminded of why they have it. There are a few stones left. I am packing them back up back in the blue bag and will send the bag to you to have. Now, when you get older and look at it, you know about the bag of stones, where it came from, and the meaning behind it.

After the unveiling, our friends and family came back to our home. We spent the whole day and into the night talking about Andrew. What started out as one of the hardest and one of the saddest days of our lives ended very nicely surrounded by those who mean so much to us and those who have helped us survive this past year. We are so grateful to each and every one of them.

Let’s talk about Andrew, please.  Don’t be shy, don’t be reserved, don’t worry about hurting our feelings or making us sad. Please talk about Andrew. We know he is gone, we know that we have lost our son. We know what G-d has taken our child. Talking about him will not remind us of this, we have not forgotten about it, we never will. It is in the forefront of our minds and the most dominant thought we have every day. It is the first thing we think about when we rise in the morning, and it is what we cry about as we fall asleep every night.

Andrew putting Nicole’s Halloween make up on, this was a great story of how they loved each other.

So let’s hear your stories about Andrew. Share with us your memories. Show us you remember him, you cared about him, you knew him. Let us know he is not forgotten. Talk to us like he is still with us, for he is with us, still. Share with us a story we never heard, share with us memories of when he was at your home and did something funny, or when he was with your son and they did something special. I am sure there is a lot about him we have never heard yet.

And not just for us. If you have a friend who has lost a child, a sibling, a parent, a friend – talk about them. Don’t shut down. Don’t change the subject. Don’t think other things are more important. There is nothing more important to a grieving person than to know you care. There is nothing better to a grieving person than to hear memories of their lost one. Grieving is not forgetting or holding it in, grieving is sharing and caring.

I am sure there is a story behind this picture – I would love to hear it one day.

I know it might be hard for you to do this, but any harder than me living without my son? Than a young man who just lost his dad? Than a  child losing their sibling? The comfort of you taking the time and thought to talk about our lost one’s means so much to us that you will never know. But you one day will know, unfortunately. Show the courage, true courage, that a friend or family member needs. Step up and join us in talking about our lost ones. Even make the first step, tell us a short story about our lost loved one, or even just tell us you miss them too. You will make us happier beyond words and beyond tears.

And yes, we will cry. Yes, you made us cry. But they are tears of happiness, tears of remembrance. These are the tears we need, and we will cry whether you tell us stories or not. But knowing that you are thinking about us, and helping us deal with our grief means so much to us. So fight through your own feelings of being safe, fight back the thoughts of holding a ‘safe’ conversation.  That is not what we want, and more important, that is not what we need.

We don’t need to talk about the weather, or the latest Hollywood gossip, or the latest celebrity death. We don’t care. We really don’t. Nobody really cares.

We want to talk about our lost ones. If you are our true friends, our loved ones, you will see through the tears, fight though your fear of hurting us or making us cry. And please, let’s talk about Andrew.

This is the story of Andrew’s life – put into a quilt for Todd. Snowboarding, Skateboarding, Hockey, Scuba Diving, and his Bar Mitvah. This was Andrew, forever with Todd.

Take care, see you later, miss you…

We’ve all said them, we’ve all heard them. But what do they really mean? Are they merely words? Do we really mean them when we say them, or are they a courtesy when we talk to one another? Some expressions are just that – expressions. Just the end of a meeting. just the end of a visit, just words at the end of a letter. Take care. See you later. pretty simple, not much meaning behind them, and not much thought.

A beautiful tattoo in memory and in honor of Andrew

But. Miss you. That’s all the difference. When you talk to someone you have not talked to in a while, you say it. When you see someone again, you say it. When you write someone an e-mail or a text, you use it all the time. But do you really “miss” them that much? Or at all. You know you are going to see them again. Maybe a day, maybe a week, maybe next vacation, but they will be there, and you’ll see them again.

But when someone is no longer there, or no longer here, then you learn what the words missing someone really means. Dorothy told me a while ago, through her tears, that she really, really misses Andrew. I thought about it, and so do I. She said that she really learned what the word means now that he is gone, and that missing feeling will go on forever. I guess that is the difference. You can miss someone, but you know they are around. You know you will see them again, you know you can always reach out and touch them.

We can’t. Any grieving parent can’t. Any child who lost a parent that they were close to – can’t. That is really what missing is. That, to us, defines missing someone. That type of missing hurts, it goes down to the soul, it effects you profoundly. Some days that missing consumes us, and we have a hard time getting around it, we have a hard time functioning. Other days we feel it, but we cherish the time before and we smile.

You know you can no longer hug your parent, or your friend. You can’t call your brother or sister to tell them something funny happened to you. You can’t say something to them that  you always wanted to tell them. You can’t reach out to them for advice, as you always did before. That is missing someone. That redefines what it means to miss someone. I had a conversation with a close friend of mine about this. His father passed away a few months ago, and for the first time in his life, he misses someone, truly misses someone. It does not matter how close you were to a person who is gone, just knowing that they are gone, forever, makes missing them all too real. It is no longer just a word.

My father. I miss him every day of my life.

I miss my father deeply. It has been thirty five years, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I have his pictures in my office and on my desk, I look at them every single day – as I am sure most people who have lost a parent do. What would he have been like when he got older? I wonder about his relationship with my children, would he have spoiled them? I wonder how different I would have turned out had I had a father to ask advice to, and to look up to for the past two thirds of my life. I missed him at my high school graduation. I missed telling him when I got my first job, and my first promotion, or started my own business. And most of all, I missed him at my wedding, and the birth of my children – he should have been there. I miss him. I have learned to live with missing my father. It took most of my life to adjust, but I have. I know that fathers pass before their children, and I look around and see my friend’s fathers passing, and I feel so sorry for them, for they will unfortunately learn what missing someone means. And many of them I will miss as well.

I talk to my friends and acquaintances who’s parents are passing, for they know that I have lived through it and survived. I can talk to them from experience, and tell them what has gotten me through my life. And hopefully they can find some solace from what I say.

Then there is a different kind of missing. That of a parent missing a child. That is entirely different.

We miss Andrew deeply, down to our souls. The pain of missing him hurts us, not just emotionally, but physically – like a hole in our hearts. But that is a different miss. We miss hugging him every day, and seeing him for breakfast. We miss him being our son, calling us for advice, calling us to say hello, just being here. And it won’t get better, ever. We missed him this past spring when he should have graduated college. We will miss him on every trip we take, and know he should have been there. We will miss him when someone gets married in the family, or when someone passes, he should have been there. We went to Dorothy’s cousins engagement party last month, and although we had a very nice time, it hurt knowing Andrew should have been there. He would have enjoyed the food, spending time with Grandma, and listening to the flowing water – he was missed by many. When we grow old we will miss him. Whatever we do, we miss him.

My great-aunt never let us say ‘goodbye’. She would always correct us to say ‘see you later’.
I miss her a lot. I wonder what she thinks of the expression ‘miss you’.

This journal is dedicated to all those I miss.

This is what being on a team feels like

Hockey, Soccer, baseball, softball, lacrosse.  Our kids played some or all of these sports growing up. We think back on all of the good times we had during those seasons. They made great friends, learned amazing life lessons, learned to be a team player. They benefited in so many ways  – not just making them a good teammate, but a better person, a more compassionate person, and a better human being. They made friends that will last them through school and beyond. The memories, the jerseys, the trophies all become part of their lives and who they are. No matter how the teams did, they learned, they enjoyed, they grew.

Aren’t we all proud of the fact that we were able to afford these sports for our kids. Some were less expensive than others, some were too much, but we knew the value of being on a team and we stretched our dollars. We woke up early to take them, stayed out late for practices, and took off Fridays to go to tournaments. Their teams became our lives for years and we were very happy that way. The other team parents where our closest friends for the season and beyond. We wore their team colors, had team blankets, and cheered and took pictures that we shared proudly with our families.

Look at the faces of these kids. Every one is smiling and happy to be part of the team.

And then there are the others. Let’s talk about them. Those kids that cannot afford to play travel sports. Those kids that because of family circumstances cannot enjoy the benefits of being a team player. Of course they can still have success in life, and they do just fine, but they miss out on a huge part of growing up. Thankfully, almost every organization has a scholarship program that enable these kids can play. They can benefit from being on a team. The organizations realize that those who can afford to play have to support those who cannot afford it – and this is a good thing. I have seen several players who were scholarshiped become such an integral part of the team and learn so much. Andrew also saw this, and it meant a lot to him.

So there is money and spots for those who cannot afford. What is missing though, is a big part. And Andrew realized this. Let me tell  you a story.

One of Andrew’s hockey teammates would tie a pair of hockey socks around his shoulders to give the appearance that he wore shoulder pads. Without them he could not play, but he could not afford to buy real shoulder pad. His family just did not have the extra money to spend. Andrew talked to me about this and he did something about it. We went to some Manhattanville Men’s Hockey players we knew and told them about this player, and they were more than glad to donate a pair of pads for him. They knew the value of being on a team and wanted to help. Another player had holes in her gloves and we arranged for new gloves from the Woman’s team. And yet another player had such large feet that most hockey stores did not stock his size, but someone on Manhattanville was glad to donate his used, but very large, skates. Andrew was touched by this and really worked to get used equipment to players in need.

The point of the story is this. While most organizations have scholarship money for spots on a team, and most school teams don’t charge for playing or can subsidize players, there is nothing for those players in need of equipment. Organization won’t buy a player who wore or outgrew skates new skates. If a players stick breaks, there is no replacement that someone is going to give her. If a kid is using an expired helmet (yes, they do expire these days), no one is there to purchase him a new helmet so he can continue to be part of that team.

This is where we want to come in. The friends, team mates, and family who loved Andrew. The clients, peers, friends and co-workers of his parents.

In Andrew’s memory, and in his honor, we are stepping in and helping these kids who need equipment, but due to circumstances cannot afford what they need. We will be  there to buy them a new helmet, a new stick, shoulder pads, or even socks. We are going to make them whole again so that they can continue to pursue their dreams. This  is going to be a gift, not a loaner, not a rental, but a gift that they get to keep as their own. We are not going to make a public statement about it – we are not going to list who got what, privacy is so important in situations like this. But at the end of the season, or once a year, we will publish a list of what was given out, what items we gifted to needy individuals.

Each and every one of Andrew’s coaches had a positive influence in his life. They were all part of his hockey family.

The goal is to make a difference in these kid’s lives. We are going to start with ice hockey because that was Andrew’s passion. And we want to start out small and learn how to do this correctly. Then our hopes and plans are to expand to other sports as time and finances allows us to.

Just think about how your kids, nephews, nieces, or your neighbors benefited from sports. Think of the fun, life experiences and other benefits that they were afforded being on a team – and being well equipped.  Look at any ice rink or ball park and you can see the fun these kids are having and the lessons they are learning in life. Please help us in helping the small percentage of kids who need our help. Let’s not lock them out because they could not buy a new stick or new skates. Let our compassion help these kids grow into fine human beings. It’s only a small part of their lives, but isn’t it worth it?

We do not have a name for the foundation yet, and hoping some creative friend will come up with a great name for us to use. Something that includes his name, but also the idea of what we are trying to accomplish here.

We are not soliciting donations now, but will within a few weeks. When we do, we really hope that we have can have a response that would make Andrew proud of what he started.

They said to send over a suit and shoes to dress Andrew for the final time. We pulled them out and laid them on his bed and just looked at it. He had a brand new suit we just bought, only a few months old. We looked at the suit a good long time. That was not Andrew, that was not the person we raised for twenty-one years. That is not what he was comfortable in. We decided there would be no suit.

Hockey was what Andrew loved. It did not define him, but it was his passion. He felt free when he had his jersey on and played on the cold ice. He had no worries, no fears, and felt so great to be part of a team. So why would we put him in a suit? Nicole came upstairs with Andrew’s Mariners jersey, number 17, and that was it. He would wear his hockey jersey one last time, forever. He would be more comfortable and free in that than anything else.

And shoes? Andrew rarely wore shoes. He hated them. So why put them on him now. He and Wally would spend days without shoes, probably the whole summer if we let him. They went to get pizza one day and they were told that they needed shoes, but since they did not have them the owner of the shop gave them four small pizza boxes to tape to their feet so they would not be barefoot. And they had their pizza and were happy. Unfortunately no one took a picture of that – I would have loved to see that. So how could we put him in shoes now, or even socks.

So Andrew is dressed in his Mariners jersey and a pair of Khaki pants. No suit, no shoes. That is the way he would like to be.

Andrew also wore a ring. He wore it like a wedding band on his right ring finger. As far as Andrew and Jovi were concerned, they were, for lack of a better word, married. They were deeply and passionately in love. They lived together for a long time, sharing a small single bed. They had a child together, they ate most of their meals together, and bought each other these cute little token gifts. They were so much in love. The ring came home to us in a small bag along with Andrew’s other belongings. How could we leave it in the bag, or in the house? How could we not put it back on his finger for him to wear forever, as I am sure his love for Jovi, and their child, will last for eternity.

We also needed a talis for him to wear. The plan was for me to be buried in my Bar Mitzvah talis, and Andrew to keep his. My father’s talis from Israel, which is the one I wear to temple since my father passed, would stay in the family and be passed down. But that has changed now. I wanted to keep my son’s talis. I did not want to part with it. I want someone else to wear it one day. I did not want it gone for good. So Andrew now wears the talis I was Bar Mitzvahed in.  And his talis sits in the draw in my bedroom, still in the talis bag that he designed and I made, and will one day be given to someone to wear at their bar mitvah.

But what else? What else is there we could do?

This past spring I bought a small Corgi replica car of Andrew’s car – a Mazda RX8, black all around. I purchased it so that he could take it back to school and look at it once in a while. My wish was that he would look at it and remember the feeling of freedom, the sense of pride, the feeling of the wind in his air when he drove the car. I wanted him to remember this and maybe it would take a little stress out of his day and bring him some pleasure and relaxation to remember this feeling. He was so happy to have that little toy model, even here in NY. he left it on his night table and was so happy when he looked at it. So that little toy, that little black model, that brought relaxing memories and brought the memory of peaceful driving was there resting next to him forever.

And there was one more thing. Andrew’s beloved Daisy.

Daisy was with us for almost fourteen years. She traveled with us, loved us, and we loved her back. Each and every morning when he was home, Andrew would lay down and hug Daisy and kiss her and talk to her. It was their special time every day. The same was true when he came home from college – he had to spend time with her right away, hugging her, laughing with her, and she would lick his face until he could not take it any longer. Daisy passed away, very quietly and peacefully, a few months before Andrew left us. We had her body cremated and the ashes put in a beautiful flower tin. Over the summer we talked about what to do with her ashes. Should we sprinkle them in the lake that she loved to swim in so much? Should we release them into the air from the car that she loved to drive in? We spent weeks over the summer, but we never settled on what to do with her.

A day or so after Andrew passed i was in my office and i saw the tin can with what remained of our beloved Daisy. How could I leave her on the shelf in my office, alone. How could I let my Andrew be alone forever. So the last thing I did was to place the Daisy in Andrew’s arms. They would be together forever. Daisy would be right there with Andrew forever. Along side him when they entered their eternal peace. I am sure they are together today, and will be forever, bringing a smile to Andrew’s face, and a wag to Daisy’s tail.

There we stood, looking at our son for the very last time. We would never see his beautiful, smiling face again. This was it. But in that moment when we looked at him, he was in peace. There was no stress or anxiety in his face. There was nothing hurting him or bothering him, there was no pain. And we said that to each other. We found some peace in that, Andrew was at peace.

There he was in his Mariners jersey, with Daisy in his arms, his car neatly parked next to him, wearing the ring that tied him to the woman and child he loved so much, wearing my Bar Mitzah tallis – and he was in peace.

Then I had to do the hardest thing I will ever have to do. We motioned for the director to close his eternal resting place. And I watched as I gazed upon my son’s beautiful face for the last time. We never turned away, we just backed up and sat there in the first row as people came to greet us and pay their respects. And we were numb.

I talk a lot about my feelings, about our loss, about what people say – and don’t say – or how they say it.  I talk about what is in my head at any given time, but try to make my posts relevant and interesting, not just to those of us who are suffering, but to those whose friends are in situations where what I am writing hopefully helps.

I am off that track today. I fell I need to talk about Andrew.  To tell people who did not know him that well, or at all, about him.

Andrew loved to make people smile and laugh

Andrew was always around.  But he was also that person who was quiet, in the background, never wanting the spotlight.  He was always invited out with his friends and teammates, and he went out with them often, but did so while staying almost anonymous in a big group.  He was also a funny kid, as anyone who knows him will attest to.  He would be quiet in a crowd, then all of a sudden blurt out some funny comment and break everyone up, whether in a locker room or at a party.  We heard some of the comments he made in his varsity hockey locker room, all told by teammates with a smile on their face.  He did not look for attention, and was very happy just being there, just being part of a group, part of the crowd, part of a team.

He was pretty popular, and everyone knew and loved him.  For his memorial hockey game last December we had an amazing turnout, and we all laughed and cried.  People told us stories about Andrew, from school times to hockey to going out at night. It was truly a night to remember for Dorothy, Nicole and I. Thank you to those who participated. Hopefully this year’s game will grow some, and we will keep this one-game-a-year alive for Andrew.

He never wanted to have birthday parties, or even a graduation party, but he was always invited and was always going to someone else’s party.  He never wanted to be the center of attention, but whomever he was talking to – he made them feel like they were the most important person on the earth at that moment.  He never interrupted you, and gave you his undivided attention, and you felt and knew that. We have heard that so many times.

Nicole in Nicole’s dress, and later that day Andrew in Nicole’s dress, just so people could smile.

Andrew was close with a lot of his friends.  After he was gone many of his friends told us that they would talk to him for hours, just the two of them.  They would tell Andrew so much more than they told others, the words therapist and shrink came up many times when others talked about him.  He would sit and listen to them and they felt comfort in talking to him. He was such a compassionate, caring and gentle person that no one ever felt threatened by him or by telling him their deepest secrets, their fears, or what was on their mind. And he would listen and nod his head and make eye contact. And then when they were done, Andrew would respond with some pearl of wisdom that made them feel better.  I never heard any of these conversations, he never talked to me about this part of his life, but I heard about it from at least a dozen of his friends afterward.  They all had tears in their eyes when they told me about these conversations, and said that they learned so much by having Andrew just listen to them.

Andrew wanted to be a therapist, a healer, a confidante.  Even before he graduated college, or learned his calling, he was doing this, he was helping others. Very rarely does someone find their calling in life so early, Andrew did. He knew he could heal people not just by talking to them, but by making them laugh. Even as a little boy, he would make funny faces for the camera, or do funny things to make others laugh – he loved to make others laugh.

One thing that Andrew did was to collect tickets. He liked to look at them and remember the places he had been, the games he had been to, the concerts he laughed at, the mountains he ski’ed. He had collected hundreds of tickets from Ranger games, Mets and Yankee games. He saw Meatloaf, The Who (two times), Dane Cook, and Berlin in concert (sitting atop the right sides stage speakers, he couldn’t hear for a few days after that). He had tickets from the Circle Line, Westminster Dog Show Exhibitor, along with NBA Championship games, World Series tickets, and backstage passes.  He kept them all in a small wooden box in his room next to his bed.

Several years ago I had heart stent surgery and was unable to do anything for a few weeks. I had an idea that took the better part of that time. I had a board cut five feet tall by two and a half feet wide. I hijacked his ticket box, went downstairs and  meticulously sorted the tickets on the floor. Some were sets of two, others were three, and some were fours. I then applied them to the board. No real order, no real pattern, just his memories all laid out on  twelve-plus square feet. After I was done, I called him downstairs one evening to show him what I had made for my son. He was amazed, overwhelmed, and truly appreciative for this gift. We had it framed and it has been in his room ever since.

Those who have been to our home have seen the board, he shows it to everyone and hangs in his room. It is his memories of his life. It is now our memories of our son. We remember the games now, we remember the concerts we took him to, we remember riding the circle line as a family. It is still Andrew’s ticket board, but it is now our memories. I often go into his room just to look at it. The box is still there and has so much more in it, maybe one day I will make another board.

We gave Andrew to the world, and we hope the world is a better place for the time he spent here. We hope that those he met, those he befriended are better people for the time they spent with our son.

It was hard to say three. The cashier asked us how many tickets do we need, and we choked on the word three. Not because we had never asked for three tickets before, but this was different. This was permanent, this was for the rest of our lives. Our family is now three people, not four.

We finally got the words out, purchased the tickets, and Dorothy, Nicole and I went into the Atlanta Zoo and had a very nice day. We walked all around and stayed close, the three of us.  We gazed at the animals, pet them in the petting zoo, watched the birds and the gorillas and the lions. We talked about the bears, and the three of us watched the pandas eat bamboo, we were all freaked out by the snakes and the lizards, and we stared at the gorillas that stared back at us.  It was so nice just to be there. Dorothy and I were happy that Nicole was enjoying the zoo, as she always has. But it was also so hard for us. Andrew always loved the animals and loved the zoo, he should have been there with us. He probably would have been the first to want to leave, his patience doesn’t last all day, but he should have at least had the opportunity to ask us when are we leaving. But, we did had a very fun day with Nicole.  We needed the few hours to just let go and be happy.

Later that day we went to the the Coke Experience. Again, three tickets. And the next day was breakfast for three, and three tickets to the Atlanta Braves game. Just saying three makes me sad. That is our new reality. We are no longer four, we are three. There is the same amount of love between us, just shared three ways now, not four, anymore.

I have to look back. I have to look back and smile. We were four. We had so many experiences and memories as four. We did so much, experienced so much, traveled so much – as four. I have to be so grateful that we were able to do all that with Andrew. I have to be thankful that we were four for so long, or just a short twenty one years. But it was a wonderful time, twenty one years that I will never forget. Twenty one years of great memories. I just hope that I can remember those twenty one years for the rest of my life, and that Nicole will remember her years with Andrew for the rest of her life.

I have to look at the pictures of the four of us and remember how wonderful life was. I know that the four of us were so close. Each of us having a different relationship with the others. My relationship with Andrew was far different than was Dorothy’s. Her love for Andrew was a pure mother’s love, he could do no wrong, they never argued, he never fought with his mom. When he was frustrated or upset, he loved his mom too much to argue or fight with her, and he would just walk away and say nothing was wrong. We talk about it, and we really can not remember a time he talked back to her, fought with her, or hurt her feelings. He was a wonderful son to her.

When he wanted to go somewhere and needed company, or wanted to take a ride, there was always Nicole. They went out to dinner together, or even lunch when they were both home. And anytime there was something missing or short in the fridge, they would both eagerly go shopping for one or two items, and return home with three or four bags of stuff we absolutely needed.  Stuff like Oreo cookies, Miso soup mix, along with plenty of fruit and vegetables.  They would even call grandma and ask her if she needed anything from the store. And of course they would deliver it to her, usually just in time for lunch or dinner – they planned that rather well usually. Although they lived apart much of the year, they were so close emotionally to each other.

Then there was our relationship. It was probably more complex than others. The frustration and anxiety he did not let his mom feel or hear, he let me have. We very rarely argued much, or fought, but he knew that I could take more than mom, so he did let it out on me more than anyone else. But it didn’t bother me, because I knew where it came from and  knew it might have been something someone else caused, but he knew I could take the hit. We were also closer than the rest. We spent more time together, we traveled more together, and we talked so much during the time Jovi was pregnant and I learned so much about his thoughts and feelings, it really changed our relationship for the better. We also spent hours out in the backyard his last summer talking over the new fire pit. I learned so much about my son in the past few years. He had grown up so much being away at college, I looked forward to watching him become a man, to watching him grow into the person he was becoming. To watch him become a husband and a father, and see if what I taught him really sunk in. To see if my values and morals, at least the good ones, would be passed on to him. I will think about that, and what might have been, for the rest of my life. A relationship between a father and son is like no other.

But now we are three, and I long to see how Nicole will turn out. How will she find happiness in life. I know that she is a strong person, she is strong willed, and goes after what she wants. She does not sit back and wait for anything. She is much more independent than Andrew was, she asks for help much less and is determined to do it right – no matter what it is.

Yes, we are three now, but we will always really be four.

A client was over a few days ago and we were talking about Andrew and hockey and such. He asked some other questions about Andrew, so I showed him Andrew’s trophies in his bedroom, amongst all of his other treasured belongings. Afterwards, client said “it must hurt” to go into his room.  It made me think.

Yes, it does hurt to go into his bedroom, to see all of his precious belongings – to see his childhood toys, his guitar that he learned to play on collecting dust, his skateboard that does not bring anyone anywhere anymore.  It hurts to see the paintball gun that he loved to use just sitting there, to see his rubiks cubes, some solved, others that will never be solved because he is not here anymore. His New York Rangers sticker peeling off the window because no one is there to fix it, right next to his Harrison Huskies sticker and his Rye Mariners sticker – all parts of his life.

To see the things I gave him that I knew he would like to play with or just to have, like his collection of foreign coins he’d been since he was five. There is also the light cube that one of my dearest clients gave me because he knew Andrew would appreciate it (see it here).  Andrew never got to see it because it arrived the day before we lost him – that really hurts because I know he would have stared at it for hours in amazement.

But I also find comfort in his room.

I look at his paintball gun and recall all the good times he had with it. I used to watch him take it apart and meticulously clean it.  He used to exchange parts with his friends and use different triggers, and different tanks – he loved to just experiment and try different combinations.  I look at the rubiks cubes and recall a story Todd tells. – Todd handed Andrew the cube in front of some of his friends, and in the time it took for Todd asked his friends how long do they think it would take Andrew to solve it, and their answers that he would not be able to – Andrew handed the solved cube back to Todd.  Everyone was amazed.

I look at his top shelf full of trophies. Not just hockey, but chess trophies and soccer trophies as well.  Lasting reminders of the triumphs Andrew and his teams earned over the years. I remember each and every one of them. I remember the games, I remember the teams, I remember the embraces afterward. I was fortunate enough to have coached Andrew’s teams for nine years, as well as spring leagues and tournament teams. It brings joy to my heart when I think how proud he was to be part of each and every team he was on. He was never the star of the team, but he loved being part of it. We have received so many messages from his teammates telling us how Andrew was such an integral part of their teams, and they usually mention how he made them all smile and laugh – no matter what. Looking at his wall of pucks that he collected over the years. There are so many that we never got to put up.

His electric guitar is also still in his room. I look at it and wonder how it sounded when he played it. He used to not want to bother us so he plugged it into his amp and used his headphones, so we never really heard him play. But his friends said that he played for them, and we hear he was pretty good. He also had an acoustic guitar from Uncle Joe, that his cousin has now.  He is learning to play as well in Andrew’s honor – that makes me happy.

I also see Andrew’s black and white flannel shirts hanging up, and I hang them on his door knob so I see them every day when I walk down the hall. I see his t-shirts and his team jackets. Although he outgrew many of the clothes he had, he kept them as a reminder to himself of the good times he had when he wore them. There are shirts from the farm, from old hockey teams, from school – all too small for him, but memories attached to them. Some of those memories still live on with me, but some of them only known to him and  passed along with him. Some of the shirts we will keep forever, but others will be made into memory quilts for those who knew and loved Andrew.

What else is there? He has the license plates from his cars – he loved loved loved to drive and I love the fact that I can see his license plates and remember the smile that he had whenever he drove his Jetta or his RX8. There is an armrest that he took from his high school auditorium.  I asked him about that and he said he just thought it was cool to have. He also had some keys to the school, along with a pad of library passes and a pad of late passes – I don’t know where he got them or what they were for, but he thought is was too cool to pass them up. That was my son.

So does going into Andrew’s room hurt? Of course it does, it hurts like hell and brings tears to my face every time.  But his room is full of who Andrew was, what he was, what he loved, what he wanted to be.

It is full of his happy memories, as well as my happy memories of him, full of my joyous times with him and our entire family.

I would not give up my daily visits to my son’s room for anything.

Who’s afraid of ghosts? I remember just a short time ago, I used to not walk out in the pitch black.  I would look over my shoulder in the dark all too often.  When looking in a mirror I would not look to the far edges for fear as to what I would see there – what eyes would look back at me.  I didn’t want to sit alone on a chair in the dark backyard.  When I walked up the stairs from a dark basement I would walk just a tad faster toward the end in fear of that ever present fearsome ghost grabbing me.  Maybe these were normal fears, or maybe conjured up by the fear of the unknown.

But now that has all changed.

I embrace sitting alone for long stretches in the pitch black backyard.  When I look in a mirror, I look to the edges, I look to the farthest point of reflection I can see, I stare at the little shards of a shattered mirror.  I sit in the dark often, I stand on the deck at night alone looking at the chairs on the patio below me.  When I get home late at night I sit in my still car alone for just a few more moments than usual.  I walk slowly from the car to the front door.  I am no longer afraid.

And I am sure I am not alone.  I am sure every grieving parent knows why I do this.

I look at that chair and wait and wish to see Andrew there staring back at me and smiling.  I recall the hours him and I spent during his last summer, sitting in those chairs talking and listening by the fire.  I look in the mirror in hopes of seeing my son’s face looking back at me for just an instance.  I stand on the deck alone hoping that I will hear his voice saying “Daddy, I am okay”.  Just to hear his voice one more time.

I long to be one of those grieving parents who has a conversation with their child that was taken from them way to soon.  I want to sit up at night and see him sitting at the end of the bed and have a conversation with him until he says he has to go – but tells me he is happy, peaceful and he wishes for me and Mommy to be happy again.  I want to hear him say he will be there waiting for us when our times come.  I want to be one of those who sees their child’s beautiful face looking back at them in the mirror, or their image standing beside them in the reflection.  I want, or should I say I need to know my son is at peace, but I want to hear it from him, or from what he has become.

I long to see the ghost, that ghost that I no longer fear, but that I now embrace.

Perry

Dear Andrew,
I had an amazing day yesterday. I met your son for the first time. Mommy, Nicole and I took a ride to Long Island and we met our grandson, and Nicole met what will be her only nephew.

Your son is gorgeous. I want you to know that, but I am sure you already know that. He is playful, adventurous, funny, and so happy. He smiled the entire time we were with him. He reminds us of you when you were a little boy. He has beautiful red hair, just like you used to have. He has wide round eyes – just like Jovi’s. He has your walk and your quick feet, and he is small and petite like Jovi. He is the perfect mix of the two of you.

We brought him a few things, from all of us. First, we brought him a stuffed giraffe, just like you guys gave him last year and when he was born. He immediately took and played with it, and of course shoved it into his mouth. And after a few minutes threw it down and went onto the next toy. But he kept on going back to it, kept on picking it up and playing with it. Little does he know the link between that little stuffed animal and his parents. We will keep giving him a giraffe every year when we see him, as long as we can, and one day he will wonder why, and he will read the letters I am writing him and realize it was the first and only toy his mom and dad gave him when he was just a few days old. We also gave him a hockey stick. Not just any stick, but the one’s we gave out at your Bar Mitzvah. He grabbed the middle of it, but Nicole quickly corrected him and taught him to hold the right end of the stick – hopefully that will stick. There were also a couple of small foam pucks for him to hit around. He didn’t know what to do with them yet, but I am sure he will learn soon.

Nicole took to him so well. She picked him up and held him – and she smiled – and I cried inside. She took pictures of herself holding Tiger, and insisted that I take more of them as well with her phone. This way she will forever have them with her. People call him Tiger because of his gorgeous red hair, just like you, Jovi and the nurses called him Tiger in the hospital when he was born – it stuck.

I held him. I held him like I had held you so many years ago. I was proud of him, and loved him so much, although I have only known him a few minutes. He is part of me, he is part of you. He is the part of you that is still here on this planet, that will forever be here.

I looked around, and I did not see you. But I know that you were there. I know that you are always there with him. I know that you will forever watch over your son, protecting him, showering him with love from heaven, and being his guardian angel throughout his life. You will protect him and help him make tough decisions, just like your father did for you, for as long as I was allowed to.  He will one day want to know more about you, and hopefully in the letters that Mommy, Jovi and I are writing him he will know you as well as if you were still here holding his hand. That is our job now, to leave you legacy to your son so that he knows where he came from, and to hopefully guide him in some small way to where he might want to go.

Will he be a reader or a writer? An athlete, or as Nicole says, a N.A.R.P.? Will he want to know all about you and one day question us about everything you were, or will he just read the letters we write and be happy? Who knows. But no matter what – he is your son, and he will always be your son. His parents tell us he loves puzzles, and loves solving things. We immediately thought of your Rubic’s Cubes. He has so much of you in him.

We were with his parents, and the way their faces lit up when they held him was amazing. The words they used to describe their son just filled our hearts with warmth and love. The love they have for him is immeasurable, just like your love for your son when you met and held him. They are amazing parents you and Jovi chose – you guys did a great job.

I am home now. I am also at a different place in life than I was a few days ago. For the first time I held my grandson, i looked into his eyes, and knew he was loved, and when I looked into his eyes, I saw you looking back at me. I see you, and although you are not here with us, you left this world an amazing gift. This world, as well as Tiger’s home, is a better place for you having been here for your short number of  years. You gave life and happiness to a family that could not have it without your love and your baby. You and Jovi did something so incredibly generous and without any hesitation or regret, Heaven has a special place for you.

I hope that you can one day visit Tiger, and for him to know his father came to see him. It might be a dream, or a butterfly, or a found coin on the floor, but I know that he will love you as you love him and as we love you. I am sure you will see him graduate kindergarten one day, then high school an college, and you will be as proud of him as his parents are.

Love never dies, only people do.

By the way, a NARP is a Non Athletic Regular Person.