The last week

 

April 2012 ~ Florida

Two years ago this week, Jon traveled down to Florida with us for the second year in a row to spend a week’s vacation on the beach.  Little did any of us – including Jon, I think – know that it would be the last week of his life.  We decided not to return last year to the place we had vacationed for the 4 years prior, because the idea of facing the memories there felt way too much to bear.  But this year, with some trepidation, we decided to return to this special place to honor the memories of Jon, as well as create new ones.  So here I am, as expected, flooded with memories of the time spent here with Jon.  Even the good memories are at best bittersweet, as death can turn the happiest of times.  It brings me both comfort and sadness to remember that overall it was a good week, and in many ways, an ordinary vacation.  I remember standing at the airport with him, waiting to board our flight - he wore a new green polo shirt that made his eyes literally glow, and when I complimented him on it, he laughed and said he treated himself to some new clothes (not something he did very often) for the occasion.  He was happy and excited for vacation – I remember that so well.  Something I’ve gone over and over in my head many times is how, when we arrived, he struggled with the decision of whether to put himself on the rental car we had reserved, at a cost of $100 or so for the week, and ultimately decided not to.  If he knew it was his last week on earth, would he have even given it a second thought?  While here, he did the things he always did – read voraciously, slept a lot, snored loudly, applied sunscreen liberally, drank coffee in the morning and a beer at night.  He swam in the ocean, dipped in the pool, ate good food, and seemed to relax.  I remember him enjoying the sunsets and eagerly spotting dolphins in the ocean from our deck.  He actually wanted to swim with dolphins, and looked into it, but couldn’t find anywhere around here where he could do it.  This was also the week that he got an iPhone.  We had bought him one (in the form of a gift certificate) for his birthday (in October) but in typical Jon fashion, he hadn’t gotten around to getting it because his old phone worked just fine.  Mladen insisted on taking him to the Sprint store down here to get one, and I remember how pleased he was with it, and how – as with everything he set out to learn – he quickly mastered the new device.  I’ll even confess that he (on the second or third day he owned it) taught me (who had owned one for two plus years) a new trick.  That week was the hockey playoffs, and he followed it closely.  I vividly remember him joining a group of old men sitting by the pool, trading remarks about the season and recent games – of course Jon was up on all the current stats and history of the sport.  But in addition to these ordinary events and good memories, there are the more subtle things that my mind has poured over and over for the past two years.  In retrospect, he was a little more distant than usual, a little quiet, and maybe even a little resigned.  The first year he came down, I remember we had a big argument – he had a temper, no doubt, and we had a history – the perfect recipe for a sibling fight.  But that week, when we started to bicker, he didn’t engage and walked away, which at the time of course was a welcome change, though now only adds to the mountain of questions and regrets I have.  Most poignantly, I regret allowing him to put the distance between himself and the rest of us, thinking that it was good to ‘give him space’.  I regret not putting my arm around him to remind him how much I loved him and that I would always be there for him.  I wish more than anything I had tried and succeeded to have one of the deep conversations we had on occasion where he really opened up to me.  Listing all the regrets I have would surely exceed the word limits of this blog.  I have spent the last two years trying to accept the fact that history cannot be rewritten, and that all the regret in the world won’t bring Jon back.  I try, especially this week, to remember the good times and the things I don’t regret.  One of those things did happen here in Florida during Jon’s last week.  I shared it in my eulogy and will post it here again in the hopes of keeping it from fading:

In one of the few times we connected that week, Jon and I played Prokadima, the paddle ball game we played together as kids, on the beach. We were a good match, and while you might expect a cut-throat game between 2 competitive siblings, we actually cheered each other on as we made heroic and sometimes embarrassing efforts to hit the little blue ball. We played until it became necessary to go cool off in the ocean. As we walked into the water, he asked me if I wanted to swim out to the sandbar with him, as he had done himself the day before (I remember thinking he was crazy for doing it). I looked at how far out it seemed, and how much deep, dark water it required swimming through first. I told him I was too scared of what might be lurking in that dark water to do it, even though I am a good swimmer. He said, "I was scared too, but I just had to do it to conquer my fear. Come with me, trust me, you'll feel so good for doing it." So I went. And while we were swimming out, he asked me how I was doing, and I said "Ok, you?" and he said, "It's weird, but I'm not scared this time, because you're with me."

I'm still with you Jon.