It’s early morning here as I sip my coffee. The leaves’ orange, red and yellow happy vibrant tones have started to lose the battle, and the dark browns and crunchy sounds are taking over. The sun even seems to have conceded defeat, with its grey, sad, tired sky hinting at the colder weather yet to come. It’s the cycle, the ending of a year so that renewal can take place, but there’s also the heaviness. Only it’s not just the seasons but in some ways… life.

Twenty-two days. Five years, Nine months and twenty-nine days. Two different measurements of time, both carrying the weight that crushes a heart.

A little over five years ago dad was dying from Covid-19 in a health care facility alone. Due to the highly contagious virus and so much the world didn’t know about it at the time, we couldn’t be with him. It was both heart breaking and devastating at the same time, even if we understood the reasons. He didn’t have family to hold his hand; to talk softly and tell him they loved him. No one was able to rub his cheek or lean in and kiss his forehead while telling the latest of the grandkid’s shenanigans. No voice reaching him through his isolated darkness. No slight movement of his lips or eyes to show recognition of the familiar voice speaking, the words being spoken in desperation, to get through. Just silence, confusion and his own thoughts.
Even then the mind holds on to hope, begging to please make everything alright, even knowing it won’t be.

Twenty-three days ago, I casually messaged a friend letting her know I would be up in her area and wondered if she would want to meet for lunch. The reply back simply said “Maybe you can stop in and see me?” As I look back at the messages leading up to that point, I see the tiny hints I missed. No big flag waving, saying, “hey something’s wrong.” The missing, “yes, where do you want to go eat?” was the warning. The next day when I saw her, I knew why.

Twenty-two days ago, I found out my best friend had cancer. For sixteen days before I found out, my friend had already begun fighting a battle. She had told no one except her closest family members. On my first visit, the toll of her battle was in her eyes, but the strength was in her heart. Immediately after I stepped inside, she was up and moving towards me. Her arms went around me and squeezed tight, just as she always had. Her hug was different this time, it carried more with it. Inside that hug was love, sadness, determination, exhaustion and… a hint of goodbye. She was adamant, she didn’t want anyone to know. We sat and talked and she told me everything she’d been going through, not alone, but with her three kids. She smiled and shared a more reserved laugh as she told me about her grandkids. She rested as we spoke, asking about my grandchildren and mom. At times she just sat quiet and I sat there in that stillness with her. Other moments we spent reminiscing about work, people, and life.

We talked about the time we went to the rally in the pouring rain, ending up soaking wet and having the best time. Oh, how she enjoyed that day. Walking up and down the sidewalk with her sign in the air encouraging the passing cars to honk in support of the post office. That was part of who she was, high energy and outgoing. The very opposite of me, as I stood back and watched. Then there was the time she had ordered a Long Island Iced Tea, asking if it was alright because I was having water. I told her she was a grown adult and could make her own decisions. She smiled with the glint in her eye and said in a softer tone as she leaned forward, “Don’t tell anyone”.

She was tiring now, but wouldn’t be alone, her son was there, just outside on the porch. Close enough if needed but distant enough so we could visit. I don’t know how long I stayed, but I know it will never have been long enough.

Chemo was supposed to start the next Monday, and she thought she would be home that same day. I sent her a couple of messages but there was no answer for a while. Then one from her daughter came. Things didn’t go as planned and my friend had decided to go home. She had chosen her own way down her path and wanted to be with her family. Then in the middle of all those words sat the one that told me everything, hospice.

So, I drove up there to see my friend after the weekend. Her three kids were there making sure she was comfortable and taking care of her. I sat there and talked to her about everything. I tattled and told about the Long Island Iced Tea and the details about the rally, including my friend in the conversation as if she were able to take part in it. Every once in awhile her eyes would open and one moment, she looked my way and said “Hi Dawn”. I wouldn’t hear her voice again. Two days later I visited again. This was my last visit with my friend. I touched her arm and talked to her as I always had, just as if we were on the phone. The conversation again was similar to the previous one, this time with her young grandson playing on the floor near her. I described the commotion as three dinosaurs rumbling around on the floor were making all kinds of noises.

I kept this visit shorter. Her family needed the time with her; that I didn’t get with my dad. Before I left, I said “I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a long time. You know, you matter, you have always mattered.” When I said those words, her lips quivered. Almost as if she were trying to say something, or maybe she wanted to cry. Only my friend knows the answer, but I know it was something she needed to hear. She had needed to hear it her whole life.

After battling for thirty-seven days, my friend passed away the next afternoon. Surrounded by her family, their voices slipping in through the darkness, their hands comforting her, the sounds of grandchildren and children nearby. She knew she was loved. She was not alone. She was at home and they were able to tell her goodbye. The love, dedication and care her kids gave her, humbles me. The strength, conviction and courage my friend showed by choosing her own way to leave, leaves me speechless.

What I hadn’t expected is the tremendous sorrow, grief and sometimes anger that I have had during this time.
It mirrors almost exactly what I went through when my dad died. The experiences during my dad’s passing have forever changed how death affects me. Since his death I have avoided it. There were funerals I would normally have attended but chose not to. I now know why.

The grief over dad will always be there, always just under the surface. It’s not something that needs to be fixed. It’s a part of who I am now, just as any other experience we live through is. That grief makes the love we have for those closest to us more… present. Always reminding us that life is fleeting and not to wait to let someone know how you feel.

My friend chose not to have a memorial service. I had expected as much, and I am grateful her kids allowed me the time to visit and say goodbye. For the second time in six years my heart is broken again.

Growing up with my only sibling Johnny was one of the greatest joys of my life. We shared many treasured memories especially of Halloween, one of our favorite holidays. I believe we grew up in the golden age of Halloween for kids. We were suburban babyboomers of Long Island who could go trick or treating in large mixed age groups without parents. We carried pillow cases for the loot and were allowed to eat only individually wrapped candies. Costumes were all home made. I often dressed up as a witch, cat, or ghost. Johnny was often a pirate, cowboy, or baseball player. We stayed in our neighborhood and at the end of the day we were often invited into neighbors’ homes for hot apple cider, cookies, games and more treats. At home we would carve pumpkins with our 4 cats and one dog around us and our parents helping us. I cherish these memories. I grew up with a brother who was always my best friend. I was blessed.

Donovan, my heart breaks every day when I wake up and realize you didn’t survive Covid. Yesterday was five years since you passed. “Since you passed” — I say that and just don’t believe it, and that sounds like I’m crazy but it’s the truth. Part of me believes you are still living but just too busy. I guess my mental health isn’t so great huh?

I am trying to be okay. I bleached my hair and died it pink, for you. I miss you so much and I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I believe you are around everyone that loved you. We see signs: dragonflies, storm clouds, shooting stars, songs that come on when I need to hear what you listened to–that makes me feel closer to you.

Sometimes I feel like I am not supporting your sister enough. I wish I could get better at that, it’s so hard. This life is exhausting, but I am grateful for being your mom forever. I am grateful for you being my son. Always.

I love you Donovan.
Mom xoxo (sorry I am all over the place)

THE WEDDING:

We were married on Saturday, September 21, 1980 in Perth Amboy, New Jersey.

Steve and I met at Beth Israel Hospital in Denver, CO. But according to Donna, a classmate of mine, I had my eyes on Steve long before we actually met.

Apparently, Steve walked by us one day while we were hanging out in the quad on the University of Colorado Boulder Campus. I told Donna that I planned to date him.

Steve was dressed in a shirt and tie, while I was in jeans and a tee shirt with curly hair in an afro.

Donna thought, no way. Two years later, to her surprise Steve and I were living together.

Then one day, while Steve was driving on the Boulder Turnpike to Denver, he said, without looking at me, “Maybe we should get married.” I wasn’t sure if that was a proposal or a proposition.

Apparently, it was a proposal. We announced our engagement to family members who happened to be in Denver for my pharmacy school graduation celebration. Four months later, we were married in First Presbyterian Church by Pastor Justin Mattot, a former Catholic — which made my father happy, since the he couldn’t find a Catholic church that would marry us without requiring us to sign over our firstborn.

Bottomline: he was the love of my life. Did we argue? Hell yeah. But Steve was also my best friend and the person who always had my back. He knew me–all of me–and somehow loved me anyway. Most people don’t understand what I had with Steve. I know I was lucky. But truthfully, I still want more.

That’s probably the hardest part of an anniversary after loss. The calendar keeps moving, but the love doesn’t.

THE LAST ANNIVERSARY:

Our last anniversary together was in 2020.

We celebrated with lunch at Ulele Restaurant on Tampa’s Riverwalk with Erica, our only child. Ulele is a beautiful restaurant with a connection to Florida’s history, named for Princess Ulele of the Tocobaga Tribe.

I remember that lunch because I didn’t know it would be our last anniversary together. I didn’t know that a few months later, Steve would contract COVID at the hospital where he was being treated.

Princess Ulele saved Juan Ortiz, a Spanish sailor, from being killed by her tribe. Unfortunately, I could not save Steve from COVID. That sentence still hurts to write.

Steve used to tell me, over and over, that I had saved his life from colorectal cancer. I had advocated relentlessly with his healthcare providers. I questioned everything. I pushed when I was told no. I refused to accept answers that didn’t make sense.

Once, I asked Steve a simple question: “did you have a good life with me?” He answered immediately, “Yes, I love you, and you saved my life more than once.” I have never forgotten those words.

The saddest part is that the man who told me I had saved his life more than once died from something I could not save him from.

I couldn’t save Steve from COVID.

And there is something particularly cruel about knowing you spent so many years fighting beside someone–supporting, protecting, loving, arguing, laughing, planning–and then suddenly there was something you couldn’t fight your way through.

46 YEARS:

September 21, 2026 would have been our 46th wedding anniversary. I wish I were still planning what restaurant we would go to. I wish I could hear Steve recite a ridiculous metaphor, argue with him about something stupid, have him tell me I need to “calm down,” and then pull me in for a hug.

I wish I had one more day.

One more argument.

One more laugh.

One more anniversary.

Instead, I have photos, memories, stories, and the stones I made from his ashes. They sit in my home as a reminder that someone I loved existed and that 46 years of love does not disappear because someone’s life ended.

Steve was my husband, my best friend, and the love of my life.

So, forty-six years just wasn’t enough!

I still want more!

Our former NJ Governor Tom Kean was pulled from political retirement shortly after September 11, 2001 to
lead the official bipartisan 9/11 Commission that resulted in a 576-page report. It demonstrated “massive government failure” of multiple government agencies. Many needed recommendations were made to better protect our citizens from future terrorist attacks. There was no national bipartisan commission to investigate America’s COVID response even though the evidence shows that so many fatal mistakes were made. The number one responsibility of government is to protect its citizens. Our present Congress has been unwilling to form a bipartisan Covid commission as they did with 9/11. This is so frightening, irresponsible and dangerous. A future Pandemic in the next 5 to 10 years is not only predictable, it is predicted.