grief (grēf) noun: deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement.
Born on Wednesday, April 13, 1955, Michael James was the first of six children born to Florence Anne (née Hooker) and Arthur Joseph Doherty, 42 weeks after their ceremonial nuptials. Ah, the good ole days when couples were capable of “saving” themselves until their wedding night! I’m sure getting married young probably helped a great deal, mom being only 19 and dad 22.
I remember my father telling me a story about when he and my mother first brought Michael home from the hospital while living in Queens, New York. Soon after his arrival, a neighbor who worked as a nurse stopped by to see my parents’ new bundle of joy while Michael was asleep. Noting the deafening silence and being shushed several times, the neighbor told my parents that keeping the home quiet would never help Michael learn how to sleep; therefore, they must make as much noise as on any given day they would normally make in their home before their new roommate arrived. I never forgot this advice and put it into practice after giving birth and returning home with my own kid. From vacuums to lawn mowers, suffice it to say, the kid could sleep through a tornado sucking up our house in New Jersey and crash landing in California during a magnitude 10 earthquake, only to wake up and complain that her covers were missing.
In quick succession, two years and one day later, Kathy arrived, followed by Maureen one year, nine months and six days later. Moving from their cramped apartment in Whitestone, Queens to a small house in Deer Park, Long Island, Arthur, Jr., born one year, six months and 13 days after Maureen, rounded out the “first half” of our family. Taking a brief hiatus from procreating, my parents welcomed Regina three years, three months and 22 days after Arthur and ended with me one year, two months and eleven days later, forming the “second half” of our family, never having known Arthur, Jr.
There is a route I often take that I refer to as my “go-to place,” a paved loop around the Cooper River, stretching west from Cherry Hill to Camden, New Jersey. This is where I go when I don’t want to think about where I’m going, the only decision being whether to take the hill on the way there or on the way back, having to choose between massive bodily exertion or wiping out on the curve and its multitude of potholes while every car breezes by me within inches of my life…literally. I’ve been riding this track for 15 years now and know it like the back of my hand. On occasion, I find something new along the way but not too often these days. However, what I do love about going there is that I can photograph the same site repeatedly yet see it differently each time. Sometimes it’s the seasonal changes. Sometimes it’s a slight shift in the angle. Sometimes it’s merely the direction of the light. Ever the observer, however, I’m always looking for something new.
Whether the hill is on the way there or on the way back, I used to pass a memorial at a bend in the road before hitting the bridge overlooking the river with a perfect view of Center City, Philadelphia. A small stone wall with dolls, stuffed animals and other toys encircled a large tree decorated with ribbon bows and photographs and a large wooden crucifix resting at the tree’s base. It was erected on October 13, 2015 and taken down at some point over the last few years. I never stopped to look at it – I knew it was there and knew why it was there; that was the day they found the body of a three-year-old boy in the woods nearby. His father was sentenced to 10 years in prison for manslaughter after a jury found him guilty of suffocating his son with a pillow before dumping his body in the river so he could continue a relationship with his teenage girlfriend who apparently didn’t like children and gave him an ultimatum: it’s me or the kid. I cannot imagine what a parent is thinking when they commit such a horrific act, but I can imagine what the mother is going through, having lost her only child at such a young age.
The kid has been our entire world for nearly half of our lives. She’s put me and the hubby through some rough patches on more than one occasion, but the thought of hurting her, let alone killing her, has never crossed our minds. Trust me, we’re not perfect parents and do the best we can, considering neither of us had ever been in this situation before. I pray every day that we will never endure such a loss because I know what it’s like. Within their lifetimes, both my parents experienced the death of two children.
In an old photograph edged in white and dating from the early 1960s, there are four children in front of a typical suburban home in the middle of Long Island. Two sisters are wearing identical outfits: white polyester dresses with puffy crinoline slips barely grazing their kneecaps and teal button down wool coats, white kneehigh socks and black patent leather Mary Janes. The eldest son is wearing a white button down cotton shirt and black dress pants, the youngest son donned in yellow short overalls, white tee shirt and teal sweater. It’s Easter Sunday and the “first family” is wearing their best church clothing. Michael is front and center, sitting on the concrete stoop, Arthur, Jr. (a.k.a. “Baby Arthur”) perched on Michael’s lap while Kathy stands to his right and Maureen sits to his left. Baby Arthur was also three-years-old when his life ended.
Years ago, before the kid was born, I gathered my family together for a meeting at our parents’ home in Mays Landing, New Jersey to talk about Baby Arthur. All the mystery and silence surrounding his death had been a large part of therapy in my early 20s. My father and brother opted to stay outside on the back patio, the pain still too raw to recall, while Regina, Maureen, Kathy and I sat down with our mother to fill the gaps in their collective memories. From my understanding, Michael and my father were running errands as Maureen played in the yard and Kathy and Arthur were inside the house. My mother, four months pregnant with Regina at the time, couldn’t recollect what she was doing (maybe laundry or ironing?), only that she had not been in the kitchen or seen what happened. As a child, I was told that Arthur had been electrocuted after putting a metal knife into a plugged-in toaster. Obtaining his death certificate over 30 years later mostly confirmed what I already knew: it was an accidental death by electrocution after he stuck his hand inside a plugged in toaster that was resting on a wet surface. He was pronounced dead at the scene on Sunday, June 30, 1963 at 10:52 AM. I’ve heard stories from relatives and friends of how my parents reacted to Arthur’s passing, their devastation unimaginable, the death of a loved one being the most stressful life event a human being can experience. The demise of the first family had come to an end with the second quickly riding on its coattails.
Our parents visited Arthur’s grave in Long Island National Cemetery whenever possible until the day my father declared he no longer had the strength to carry his sorrow, each call becoming more and more intolerable. By then we had moved to Ramsey, leaving behind the ghost of Baby Arthur at that small typical suburban house in middle Long Island, a four-hour round trip drive away. And that was that. Aside from Michael and Regina visiting together once as adults, Baby Arthur lay all alone for over 40 years, no one from the family stopping by that cemetery again.
In the last years of her life, my mother would tell me how painful it was to not visit Baby Arthur’s grave over all those decades. So, after my father died in 2013, she petitioned to have Baby Arthur disinterred and reburied next to his namesake at the Brigadier General William C. Doyle Memorial Cemetery in Wrightstown, New Jersey. After obtaining Baby Arthur’s death certificate and receiving a permit from the town registrar of vital statistics in Deer Park, the funeral director very diplomatically and very empathetically told my mother that, although it was possible to disinter Baby Arthur’s body, they would have to place his remains in a new plain pine casket. After decades within the earth, his coffin had deteriorated significantly. Although difficult to hear, mom didn’t care – she wanted her baby back. I remember being notified by the cemetery when Baby Arthur had finally arrived and was placed next to my father’s grave, a tiny three by three patch of soil indicating where he had been laid to rest; that’s when it dawned on me how young he had been when he died, just two months shy of his third birthday. Up until her death, I took my mother to see Baby Arthur every time she wanted, regardless of the hour and a half roundtrip journey or the weather. She had a lot of time to make up, eventually joining her husband and her son the following year and Michael’s ashes joining them eight months later.
After the family meeting adjourned that day so many years ago, my father came back inside, went upstairs and returned with Michael and the old black and white and color slides of Baby Arthur, the “second family” joining the first to reminisce of a young life cut too short – only this time there were no secrets.
“That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run”.
-Forrest Gump
bridge (brij) noun: a time, place, or means of connection or transition.
My first two-wheeled bicycle at the age of five was a hand-me-down red Schwinn with white trim and attached training wheels that I rode daily up and down the dead end street behind my house. I was the last in the line of five children to possess it. Considering Michael was 10 years older than me, that bike had been around many blocks for a very long time. Then one day, unbeknownst to me and not having procured an approval, my father decided to remove the training wheels. I wasn’t ready! I didn’t have the balance or the length in legs to keep it upright long enough to get anywhere. And, for some reason, every time I tried sitting on the seat the chain would scratch up the insides of my calves and cause them to bleed. As a result, I started riding it like a recumbent bike, sitting on the back fender with my legs extended to the pedals. Most likely looking like a dang fool, Kathy approached me one afternoon after witnessing the spectacle before her and asked if she could help me learn to ride the bike properly, to which I gleefully obliged. She repeatedly helped me up onto the seat, holding my body so I wouldn’t fall down to the ground, giving me sufficient support to get moving. I don’t remember if she simply lowered the seat or if her confidence in my ability to ride got me going. Either way, from that day on, if I was going somewhere, I was riding a bike sitting on the saddle!
There’s a brief memory of having one of those banana seat bikes later on (purple comes to mind for some reason), but I don’t have any good stories to tell about that one, if in fact it ever existed. The next hand-me-down was from my second eldest sister Maureen. It was a light brown 10-speed bequeathed to me at the beginning of high school. It was the easiest and quickest way to get around when you just didn’t feel like walking and were too young for a driver’s license. On a 10-speed, I could go much farther as well. I rode that bicycle everywhere I went, using it nearly every day for the next three years. Naturally, I was devastated when it disappeared from our garage during my last year of high school – a garage we never locked up because we didn’t need to, at least not until the day it went missing. Weeks later I caught the bike thief, the drug addicted boyfriend of an old friend I’d fallen out with thanks to her drug addicted boyfriend getting her hooked as well. No doubt she told him about the unlocked garage too. As would be expected, from then on, all my garages and all my bikes would be locked and secured.
My first brand new bicycle was a black 10-speed with gold trim that I bought at a local department store with the money saved from various yard work and babysitting jobs throughout high school. Unfortunately, I had to sell it a couple of years later to help pay for a ticket back home to New Jersey after a failed year-long attempt at adulting in Arizona. At least it went to a good friend who I knew would take care of and love it as much as I did (hopefully).
The seed for my true love of cycling, however, was planted when a boyfriend in college (circa 1986) lent me his mountain bike one summer (when he returned home to cheat on me with his other girlfriend in Maryland, only to return to school and cheat again on me and his other squeeze with an older friend’s 16-year-old daughter). I don’t recall what brand it was, but he assured me that his parents had paid thousands of dollars for it. By the way it handled, I can tell you it was worth every penny. Having to return that bicycle in the fall was agonizing. And then, for some reason, I stopped cycling (except for the bike rental in Ireland to explore the Gap of Dunloe). Perhaps bicycles reminded me too much of him and what he did. Either way, my newfound love suddenly disappeared and life had taken over.
Almost 20 years later, I found myself in another local department store looking at the racks of bicycles, reminiscing about the good old days and the ghosts of wheels past. For a mere $89, I convinced myself to buy a shiny, brand new red Schwinn mountain bike with white trim (who says you can’t go home again?). Coming full circle, I promised to keep up on its maintenance and started getting more serious about cycling. I rode every chance I got, pushing to travel more miles on-road and learning to ride on every and any kind of trail I could master. But all good things come to pass. I couldn’t expect that Schwinn to last forever, especially considering the torture I put that poor thing through.
Enter Ole Bessie the Mule, a 2009 white Trek 6000 mountain bike with turquoise trim. She cost a lot more than the Schwinn, having a price tag that took the hubby a while to catch his breath and swallow. I promised he wouldn’t regret the expense. Ole Bessie and I were going places! Fifteen years and hundreds (probably more like thousands) of dollars of repairs and upgrades later, I think he’s gotten over the initial sticker shock.
Aside from that 20-year gap, there have been many times when I stopped riding on a regular basis: illness, surgeries, caring for my elderly parents, being overwhelmed with work and motherhood. But I managed to get back in the saddle every time. After my visit to Milwaukee with the kid in July of 2015 and all those conversations with Michael about cycling, I realized how much it meant to me. From that very first hand-me-down red and white Schwinn to the now ancient Bessie, cycling is something that has kept me going, regardless of life’s obstacles. Returning from that visit, I found myself more and more motivated to ride. For the first time in my life, I decided to do some kind of charity bike tour. I wasn’t sure what it would be, but I needed a goal to set my sites on and something to honor my brother’s fight against cancer. Many of these tours, however, are overloaded with much more experienced cyclists who focus only on their time and how quickly they can get to the finish line; that’s not what I wanted. There was so much out there to see while riding long distances, but I knew I wasn’t going to see it racing through the streets. It dawned on me that I didn’t want to race, something many cyclists don’t seem to get. I needed a tour that I could simply ride at my own pace and raise funds for an important cause. My training wasn’t about how fast I could go or how quickly I could complete the course; that’s when I remembered Forrest Gump: “I just felt like running.” My brother no longer had that option. I was riding for my brother because he couldn’t. I was riding for me because I could.
It all started on Tuesday, September 16, 2015 at precisely 11:38:45 AM. During that summer I began following a schedule that would coach me to ultimately ride 30 miles with little effort. That particular day I needed to ride 15 miles. Six weeks before Michael died, I got on Ole Bessie for no particular reason and decided to go for a little ride. Setting out early that morning in hopes of beating the heat, I headed to a place I’d been to the year before: the 102-year-old Centerton Bridge in Mount Laurel, New Jersey. Following the back roads, Bessie and I were in search of the rickety old bridge crossing the Rancocas Creek that would bring us to Rancocas Village, a mid-18th century town of days past long ago, abandoned by its citizens and for which the creek was named. It was a beautiful morning with temperatures in the 70s, low humidity and a crystal clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight.
On that day, I also decided to start taking pictures of my bicycle rides and post them on Michael’s social media page as a way of cheering him up while he was in and out of the hospital. Determined the first photo would be of the gorgeous views from Centerton Bridge, along with the antiquities of Rancocas Village, I rounded the bend leading to the bridge off Centerton Road, only to be met with a blockade: the bridge was out! After 10 long miles, I was pissed and demanded to know why it was closed, later reading that it had been shut down indefinitely five months earlier due to structural safety factors. Having ridden that rickety old bridge, I completely understood why the township made the decision to close it. However, their decision didn’t make me any less angry. I was taking a stand! Logic told me the sign just said “BRIDGE OUT,” not that I couldn’t take a look beyond the triple panel and barrel barricades. So, in absolute defiance, Ole Bessie and I walked past the sign, continuing to disobey the rules of traffic and society. Bessie took a much needed rest against the Jersey barrier (aptly named for New Jersey and the neverending construction throughout our lovely state) while I hurled myself over. The bridge may have been “out,” but it still extended across the creek and was seemingly safe and easily walkable to the other side. I strolled about halfway down to take some pictures but turned around soon after, fearing that Ole Bessie might get lifted or I might get picked up for trespassing, both of which I had experienced enough in my youth and still haunted me. Looking around, there wasn’t much else to photograph, except for the fluorescent yellow goldenrod against that crystal clear blue sky. It would be the sky I would see nearly every ride I took over the next six years. Even if it was raining when I started out, the sky would usually end up looking like it did in that very first photo on Tuesday, September 16, 2015 at precisely 11:38:45 AM – it was Michael’s sky.
Keeping to my training schedule, I continued to cycle throughout September and into October, but the bike tour didn’t happen that fall. Before I could finish, I was back in Milwaukee saying goodbye to Michael; that’s when it dawned on me that he was no longer seeing the photos I posted during the weeks leading up to his death. It had all been for nothing. I didn’t stop riding after my return, however, and set my sights once again towards my first bike tour. I was more determined now than ever to ride for Michael and continued to post photographs of my travels on social media.
Throughout the following year, I considered starting a blog about my cycling adventures, somehow weaving Michael into its stories. I wasn’t sure what the purpose would be or in what direction it would go, but I liked the idea of recording my travels and knew I would find some kind of solace in writing. Finding my thoughts on Forrest Gump, I contemplated utilizing the themes from the movie: “That day, for no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run.” It would be my Gump run, the birth of My Gump Ride having been delivered.
So, on September 16, 2016, I decided to return to the currently defunct Centerton Bridge in hopes of finding it reopened, only to discover the same blockade of triple panel and barrel barricades with a new sign stating “BRIDGE OUT – DO NOT ENTER.” Risking life and limb, let alone possible legal apprehension, once again, I hitched Bessie to the same K-rail and took pictures of the view. Aside from the barricades having been moved along with newer warning signs, not much had changed. Along the way, however, I managed to find some vibrant blueberries growing wild, abandoned train tracks leading to nowhere, wild flowers growing along (and sometimes in) the road, a soybean farm, local growers selling off their autumn harvest and a peaceful creek running under that closed bridge.
One of the most important lessons I have learned from Kathy is to “move slow and steady.” There were so many things I was missing with Bessie. I wanted to stop and look around, but the impulse to “race” took over. I was missing those wild blueberries growing on the side of a parking lot I’ve parked in dozens of times. I wondered where those train tracks ended up, thinking about how much Michael loved trains and of the train set he had since childhood still sitting in his and Liz’s home after his death. I wondered how a pretty little flower would grow out of concrete at one of the busiest intersections in Moorestown, New Jersey and not get crushed by every car, pedestrian and/or bicycle that drove through. I looked in awe at field after field of soybeans growing less than a mile away from a mall. I thought about the farmer whose land was attached to his market, how hard he worked all year long to make ends meet and how much I wanted to “act local, think global.” Then there was that sky, Michael’s sky, ridiculously blue with puffy white clouds. I call them “fake skies.” If my eyes hadn’t seen them, I’d think they were a piece of art. All this within a 10-mile radius of home, taking one hour, 37 minutes and three seconds of my life to discover.
Since September 16, 2017 fell on Shabbat (the Jewish Sabbath), I needed to get to my Therapy Bridge one day early. And guess what I found? The bridge wasn’t any different than the year before. Ole Bessie and I now had an annual pilgrimage and a new custom of defying entrance.
Over the next five years, every September 16th I made the trek back to Centerton Bridge in hopes of crossing over the Rancocas Creek once again, each year bringing the disappointing fact that I wasn’t getting across any time soon. I followed whatever updates were made available regarding the fate of the bridge, different ideas of what to do with it being tossed around. From rebuilding a vehicular causeway to creating a pedestrian bridge to tearing it down completely and doing nothing, any solution would cost millions of dollars the township didn’t have. I wasn’t hopeful. As the years came and went, Mother Nature adjusted to the lack of human intrusion, her flora booming more and more each time I visited. The road slowly deteriorated and ultimately succumbed to renewed vegetation, becoming virtually unrecognizable. Each year the blockade also grew larger with eight-foot high chain-link fences eventually being erected, multiple signs warning “BRIDGE IS OUT,” “DO NOT ENTER,” “ROAD CLOSED” and “VIOLATORS PROSECUTED.” And every year I challenged it all, walking past the barricades, climbing over the Jersey curb and squeezing my body through gaps in the fences in order to walk on what I now refer to as my “Therapy Bridge,” a place that helped me heal from six consecutive years of death. Ole Bessie and I had crossed that bridge once, as death-defying as it was, and came out alive on the other side. But then I was denied access and kept returning in hopes of reentry, only being met with recurring disappointment each time.
Every year I was given that beautiful crystal clear blue sky from September 16, 2015 at precisely 11:38:45 AM, the only change being the juxtaposition of the blockade and the vegetation being more overgrown than the year before (along with my weight). The angels provided the day and life had gone on. It was no big deal by the time I finished. By the end of seven years, I knew what to expect when I got to the bridge, but not without the ever-present nagging prayer the bridge would be repaired just in time for my return, as if the Burlington County Board of Freeholders knew how important this was to me. What can I say, I’m an idealist. I never give up hope.
Resolved to get to the other side of Centerton Bridge in 2018, I vowed to find an alternate route that would bring me back to Rancocas Village and sat down at my computer to look at a map. I was also encouraged by a friend who asked if there was any kind of loop around the Rancocas Creek where he was not required to simply turn around and take the same way back home. Like me, he preferred loops. Weighing my options, I learned there were only two ways: another bridge about six miles west of Rancocas Village and an overpass on Route 130, a six-lane highway to hell including multiple entrance and exit ramps. Sounds like a plan!
Between several online maps and my backup handwritten notes, I managed to find my way to Bridge Street outside Rancocas Village on the other side of Centerton Bridge, but not without threatening storm clouds that followed my travels the first 15 miles and temperatures in the high 80s with suffocatingly high humidity, along with some rather shady neighborhoods, long stretches of nothingness and frighteningly narrow bicycle lanes on four-lane highways with crazy-ass people who repeatedly honked their horns screaming, “Get the fuck off!” and attempting to run me off the road, only to discover the bridge pretty much looked the same as the other side: triple panel and barrel barricades along with their warning signs of “DO NOT ENTER.” Ever the rebel and defiantly walking up to the still intact bridge, I finally got to see the eastern view I had waited three years to see and all I felt was disappointment. Needless to say, I didn’t recommend this loop to my friend.
By December 1, 2018 at 3:38:45 AM I had ridden for three years, two months, 14 days and 16 hours. It was time to say goodbye to my blog and my Therapy Bridge. As news of the ultimate destruction of the bridge made the news in 2019, graffiti artists (I’m a serious fan of graffiti, by the way) rushed to make their marks on the Centerton Bridge’s remains. The township had made their final decision: the bridge would be torn down completely and nothing would be done to replace it. When COVID 19 shut down the planet in 2020, Ole Bessie and I watched in dismay as construction crews dismantled the bridge, piece by piece. By 2021, I sadly pondered if I would make it to the bridge or if I even had the wherewithal to bother. September 16th was on Yom Kippur, one of the holiest days of the Jewish year, which meant I would need to go the day before or the day after. Going into a 25-hour fast and ending the day before Shabbat, I decided September 14th was it or nothing. Mulling it over the week before, the hubby suggested, “Maybe you’re finished.” I secretly wanted it to be true. I was exhausted and dismayed by death, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t capable of stopping, so I decided to check it out one more time, needing to know whether or not I was indeed “finished.” That ride was more difficult than I remembered in previous years (welcome to middle age) and certainly hadn’t resulted in anything unexpected, except for the multitude of newer deposited triple panel and barrel barricades with new pylons and signs warning that the “BRIDGE IS OUT,” “DO NOT ENTER,” “ROAD CLOSED” and “COUNTY PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING VIOLATORS PROSECUTED” greeting me before the eight-foot high chain-link fence encasing the Jersey barrier and restricting any entrance whatsoever. What else would I do after seven years of visiting my Therapy Bridge? I entered and violated with a vengeance, of course, joyfully challenging anyone who would forbid my opportunity to bid a final farewell. Resting poor Ole Bessie against the fence and clutching its diamonds, I watched as the tail end of Centerton Bridge on the other side was being demolished. The hubby was right – I was indeed finished…or so I thought.
Because I am a curious and idealistic human being, however, in 2022 I drove to my Therapy Bridge, two years of pandemic robbing me of health and motivation to ride Ole Bessie the 20 miles roundtrip. I wasn’t getting any younger, a third gynecologic surgery and pending fourth impeding my ability to ride long distances. As I stood on the edge of the bridge pondering my seven year long steadfast determination to get through to the other side, I recalled taking that first photo of Centerton Bridge and posting it on Michael’s social media page. Even in my resistance, a complete crossing just wasn’t in the cards. He had lost his battle with cancer and gotten over to the other side before it disappeared, something I hoped was in the distant future for me. I’m not quite ready to cross that bridge yet and more than content to wait. Eventually we will all see one another again on the other side.
“Mama always said dying was a part of life.” -Forrest Gump
death (deth) noun: a permanent cessation of all vital functions; the end of life.
From the doorway, I could hear the Christmas loop on his audio player. Although it was only the last week of October, Michael had downloaded a playlist a while back, anticipating what was to come. He wanted to last long enough to have one more Yuletide, the music being his only glimmer of hope. Back in the spring of 2013, he received the final diagnosis of Stage IV anal cancer, a cancer that had rapidly progressed and metastasized over the last two and a half years of his life and had been misdiagnosed repeatedly throughout his adult life. All the radiation treatments, chemotherapy and various alternative therapies attempted in vain ultimately resulted in a colostomy and numerous hospitalizations due to concomitant medical complications. He knew he was dying. He knew it back in July 2015 when the kid and I last visited, privately telling me he was ready to go and wished to die. He just didn’t want to live like that anymore. Then it was too late. There was nothing more the doctors could do for him. It would be his last admission to a healthcare facility, an inpatient hospice located in the suburbs of Milwaukee. His wish had finally been granted.
Arriving at the General Mitchell International Airport in the early afternoon of October 26, 2015, I was picked up by my sister-in-law’s brother and sister, both of whom I had never met before. Somehow they knew as soon as they saw me, waiting with miserable smiles and soothing embraces. I’m assuming they were shown a photograph of me to verify my legitimacy. How is it that after 10 years of marriage to my brother I never met my sister-in-law’s family? I guess it was nothing new. For some reason I never made much effort to know any of my sibling’s in-laws, despite the fact that they all knew mine.
The morning before, my eldest sister Kathy telephoned with the devastating news. She had been in Milwaukee the previous week and felt Michael wasn’t going to last much longer, but my sister-in-law Liz had confirmed what we all feared: he only had a day or two left, the doctors predicting he would be gone within the next 48 hours. Michael had misled us over the last several months of his life, first telling us he had at least another year. Then it was six months. And then, less than 48 hours. After disconnecting that call from Kathy, I sobbed uncontrollably in the hubby’s arms, a yowl bursting from my belly and piercing the quiet calm of our typical Sunday mornings. I questioned whether or not I should fly out to say goodbye, not knowing how much time we had left. In an effort to mollify the decision not to go, Kathy assured me that Michael was in and out of consciousness and probably wouldn’t even know I was there. She also emphasized how painful it was to see how much the cancer had ravaged Michael’s body and that the experience reminded her of our mother dying at home with hospice in February. I wasn’t sure I could handle that again. My other surviving sister Regina had visited Michael earlier in the month while he was still conscious and alert. She wouldn’t be going to Milwaukee. I don’t think she could handle it either. Between her own breast cancer battle and mom’s death, she had enough on her plate.
What I did next may sound insensitive, but I stopped crying, calmed myself down and went for a bike ride. Michael would’ve understood. Anyone who knows me by now knows how much cycling has affected my life. It’s a way of helping me clear my head. Since the age of five, I had shared the love of cycling my brother once had. Michael and I often talked about our bicycle adventures, our favorite story being the time he and a friend in high school rode over 60 miles roundtrip on a whim of boredom from our house in Ramsey, New Jersey to West Point, New York. I was surprised to learn that he had stopped riding over the years and no longer owned a bicycle. I’m not sure why he stopped, but I guess he had his reasons. Maybe he questioned it himself and liked hearing about my escapades, reliving the fond memories he had from childhood.
By the time I got home from that bike ride, I had ridden 30 miles but was no closer to a decision on whether or not to go to Milwaukee. Wanting her advice, I telephoned Liz the next morning. I could hear the need for closure in her words and the disappointment in her voice if I didn’t show up. I was the only one left who hadn’t said goodbye. The decision was final. By nine years, nine months, three weeks and one day, he was my older brother, the only brother I have ever known. In the 50 years, eight months, three weeks, two days, two hours and 40 minutes on this planet together, we had shared way too many experiences to simply say goodbye in a one-way telephone conversation. We shared a special bond, he being the oldest and me being the youngest. I needed to go. So, looking online I found one last flight out of Philadelphia to Milwaukee and quickly bought a ticket. There was just enough time to call an airport shuttle and throw a pair of pants, some undergarments and several pairs of socks into a small duffle bag. If needed, I could always buy more clothes and other supplies at a local department store. Honestly, I didn’t care if I needed to wear the same clothing for several days. In context, it really didn’t matter.
Walking through the entry hallway of his private room, I knew nothing could fully prepare me for what I was about to see when I turned the corner. If memory served from earlier in the year with mom, it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but after 30 years of being a psychiatric social worker I’m well versed in putting on a pretend smile while shoving those feelings way down into my gut and acting like the elephant in the room is perfectly normal. There was a counter to my left with cabinets for storage above and below, an assortment of food, personal belongings and medical supplies strewn about. The room was typical of most inpatient hospices. I certainly knew at that point. I visited more of them than I cared to have over the previous five years. Natural light was radiating through a large bay window facing the highway outside and exposing the inner sanctum before me. This one had a more homey feel to it than all the others, set up like a sterile bedroom in someone’s home with a couple of arm chairs, a nightstand and a simple chest of drawers, the hospital bed centered against the wall. Michael was lying on his back, his head slightly elevated and adorned with a Santa Claus hat, an NG tube thrust up his nose. He looked so old, his once auburn locks faded and receding with the remnants of a white beard resting on his chin. It was so strange to me – in his entire life he never had facial hair. Apparently, he decided that he liked it after not shaving while being stuck in the hospital and insisted on keeping it even after his death. Although his eyes were closed, Liz, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, assured me Michael was “awake.” At that point, I was told he could no longer open his eyes or speak but could hear and “respond” to my voice. The painkillers were working pretty good this time.
If there’s one thing my brother had was a fantastic sense of humor, something all my siblings and I inherited from our father. That ability to laugh in the face of death had been his strength, as well as his saving grace nearing the end of this life. It’s something I myself learned to embrace facing my own pending diagnosis of possible cancer over the prior 16 years. The only way I was going to get through it was to find that funny bone and throw it out there. I kissed him on the forehead, grabbed his hands and swayed his arms in time with the music, a faint smile creeping across his lips. All I could think of saying was, “Hey! What’s this lying around shit?!”
Sitting in a chair to Michael’s right and making small talk with Liz who was sitting to his left, we could hear her mother Lisa and step-father Frank quietly speaking in Chinese as they entered the room. Through everything, Michael’s in-laws had been the supportive parents an orphan could truly appreciate. The funny thing is that Liz’s mom was around the same age as my brother, Liz being 20 years his junior. No one in our family cared. Even though it was his third marriage, we all knew that Liz was “the one.” Our “sister from another mister” was the best thing that ever happened to him. Her natural ability to interact with him in a way no other human being had come close to achieving speaks volumes of this extraordinary human being. Trust me, I knew from 50 years of experience that Michael wasn’t the easiest person to get along with; there was a lot of baggage and anger there. But if her only purpose in this lifetime was to make the last years of my brother’s life happy and comfortable, she had succeeded tenfold. What makes this story more sorrowful is that Liz, her siblings and mother had already been down the cancer road with her father some years back. I can’t even imagine how painful this situation had been for them.
Lisa and Frank were standing at the foot of Michael’s bed, welcoming me and asking about my travels while Liz and her sister Karisa were getting ready to drive over to the funeral home to meet with the director and arrange for Michael’s burial. It was a surreal conversation to hear, but I’m cognizant of its necessity. “I sure wish it wasn’t.” It’s a fact of life and death and one I’ve overheard at least six times over the five years prior but one I’ve never had to have myself. As Liz and Karisa were walking out the door, their mother and step-father were smiling sincerely, talking to Michael as if he was consciously part of the dialogue. Turning to see if he had any reaction, I found my body catapulting from the chair in shock to see Michael slightly sitting up in his bed, perched on his right elbow, eyes wide open and mouth agape, his left arm stretched out with index finger pointing towards Lisa and Frank, who were chuckling with astonishment and happiness that he had suddenly “woken up” and appeared to recognize them. As they moved next to me, however, Michael was still pointing at the wall opposite his bed, a look of absolute awe on his face. And then, as quickly as he had risen, he laid back down and was still again, his eyes and mouth closed once more. I recalled the friend that asked after mom died who I thought she might have been welcomed by to guide her into heaven and wondered who was waiting for Michael at that moment.
Watching another human being actively die is difficult to describe in written words and is absolutely exhausting, especially when you don’t know how much time you have left together. At some point you need to develop a routine despite their wasting away in the other room. You need to breathe. You need to eat and drink. You need to piss and shit and change your underwear. You need to sleep. You need to secure where you’re staying for the night and check in with your loved ones. You need to ensure you’ve done everything you can in all your relationships while considering your own future. You are still actively alive. These things are necessary.
Lisa had made a feast fit for royalty. I was escorted to one of the family rooms providing kitchen and dining facilities for those who chose to stay close enough to be there until the bitter end. The family gathered around a couple of tables pushed together to allow enough room for all of us, looking at and inspecting the food Lisa had prepared and brought from home with smiles of approval all around. I felt awful rejecting it due to my being strictly kosher at the time, but Frank was quick to ask how he could accommodate my needs and offered me his car keys so that I could drive to the local supermarket to buy food for myself. Learning from religious friends who’ve traveled to the outer reaches of the world armed only with cans of tuna fish and a can opener, I knew what to look for and had learned not to be picky. I didn’t require much; however, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and it was already dinner time again. Before I could even get behind the wheel, Frank was at the driver’s side suggesting he drive me to the store instead. I’m not sure why. Perhaps he was concerned about my state of mind or didn’t want me to be alone. Or maybe he was worried I’d get lost or crash his car. Either way, it was a nice gesture, although I’m not a very good passenger. My overwhelming need to control situations causes a bit (actually a lot) of anxiety when I’m not. I couldn’t say no – it was his car. If I didn’t already, I’d surely look like an asshole now if I refused and took the car without him accompanying me.
I really like Frank. He has a good heart and treated me with genuine care and respect, even though he’d only known me for a few hours. I was Michael’s sister; that was good enough for him. He drove the way my father always did, slow and steady, doing the exact speed limit and obeying every traffic law to the letter, which helped lessen my anxiety. I enjoyed his company as he attempted to help me pick out something decent to eat, asking various questions about what made the food kosher. I liked that he wanted to understand my situation and gladly answered every inquiry. Managing to find a couple of kosher frozen meals, Frank and I headed back, where we joined the rest of the family in the dining area. Despite their absolute kindness, as I kashered a microwave to heat up my frozen dinner, I felt completely and utterly alone. I was with a family who was not my family, although they treated me with the warmth and affection I would expect from my own. Aside from Liz, they were people I had never met or interacted with until that day. The hubby and the kid were back on the east coast, along with my sisters and brothers-in-law going about their daily business and all I wanted to do was cry out of self-pity. Mine seemed like a different kind of grief than theirs.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I had nothing left to say and no more tears to cry. The nurses offered the family room as a place for me to sleep, assuring me that Liz and I were the only visitors staying overnight, so I wouldn’t be disturbed. Before heading to the bed I created by pushing the front rails of two armchairs together, I wanted to say goodnight to Michael – it might have been my last chance to let him know how I felt. The room was darkened, dim lights guiding me toward the bed. Liz hadn’t left Michael’s side since his admission and would be sleeping upright in the chair that had been her “bed” away from home. Saying goodnight to Liz, I leaned over to kiss my brother’s face and whispered in his ear that I loved him, wished him a peaceful journey and asked him to hug everyone for me when he reached the other side. He squeezed his eyelids several times in response. It didn’t last long. At that moment, I had a feeling it would be the last “conversation” I would have with my brother.
It was so cold in the building. I know it’s necessary for the health of the patients in combating bacterial growth, but my sweatshirt wasn’t much of a warm blanket and the chairs kept slowly separating every time I moved, not to mention the rock-hard pillow under my head. My brain refused to shut down. I just couldn’t fall asleep, but at some point I must’ve dozed off because I awoke to find a nurse gently touching my shoulder. Looking up at her and checking the clock on the wall, I saw that it was 2:50 AM. With an angelic voice, she declared, “Your brother has passed.” I can’t imagine how many times a day the staff must say these words, but she was good at it. Maybe it’s a midwestern thing because every death for me on the east coast had been completely different, more manic and not this kind-hearted. Not knowing how to respond, all I wanted to know was what time he had died and what it was like. He died 10 minutes before. She described standing next to Michael’s bed and holding his hand when he opened his eyes, looked at her as if to say, “I’m ready,” closed his eyes and then quietly and peacefully left us. He finally succumbed to cancer, his life coming to an end at 2:40 AM on October 27, 2015. He had got the cancer and died on a Tuesday.
Somehow teleported to his room, I found Liz holding Michael’s hand and sweetly talking to him as only a wife would do. She had not been there either, having decided to lay down on one of the lobby couches in front of the gas fireplace. Considering what I had been through over the past five years, I would have made the same choice. Sometimes you just need a break. I don’t know what she was saying, not because I didn’t want to hear it – I didn’t want to invade this very private conversation between a husband and his wife and feel like I was eavesdropping. When she was done speaking to him, I hugged my sister from another mister and sat back down in a chair, staying with Liz and Michael’s body until the funeral home came to collect him.
Waiting in the lobby while Michael’s body was being prepared for transport, Lisa and Frank rushed through the main entrance, weeping as they hugged us. That nagging feeling of loneliness hit me like a ton of bricks again. I wanted my family to be there. I wanted my family to be weeping and hugging me – the only other people who have known Michael as long as me. I hated myself for being so selfish. I didn’t experience the last two years as Liz and her family did with my brother’s cancer. Her family took care of him, not mine. Liz was the one who drove him to appointments, comforting him after every treatment and prognosis, learning wound and palliative care towards the end. Although Michael and Liz had visited our family in New Jersey at least yearly throughout their ten-year marriage, I only visited them twice since he moved to Milwaukee and got married, the second time only because we discovered he was sicker than he let on. Maybe I was an asshole.
Liz warned me that Frank only takes “scenic routes” because he doesn’t like driving on the highways, so it took a bit longer than usual to get to her townhouse. I didn’t mind. I drive the same way. I’m not too fond of highways either. It also gave us more time to think about what came next now that there was a giant hole in our lives to fill. Although I would be sleeping in one of the guest rooms that night, there would be a lot more people wanting a place to stay over the next few days. I wouldn’t be needing the bed for long, however. Things were about to get complicated for me, and some people were not going to be happy with the decisions I needed to make for myself. Until then, all I needed was to run out for some new clothing and toiletries before heading to the airport to pick up Kathy, my brother-in-law Joe and Regina the day after Michael’s death.
Driving Michael’s car was so surreal. He was like me: we both needed to be the one behind the wheel and in control. He also drove like our father (and Frank), slow and steady, doing the exact speed limit and obeying every traffic law to the letter. The only times he didn’t drive were the few occasions he visited our parents and I picked him up from the airport in my own car. Of all the cars he owned, this was the first one I had driven. It was nothing special, just an inexpensive previously owned American-made sedan that gets the job done (flashbacks to that awesome baby blue convertible he had in his mid-20s). I was actually surprised at how messy it was. Michael was typically a very neat and organized guy, his car not being as untidy the last time the kid and I were passengers. I suppose he had more pressing matters to attend to.
Pulling the keys out of the ignition, I eyeballed a New York Yankees hat (his favorite baseball team) in the back seat, tossed it onto my head and grabbed the makeshift airport taxi sign made for my family’s arrival. Waiting at the terminal, I found it difficult to control my need to cry as I saw them slowly walking towards me down the ramp. We were all that was left: three sisters out of four; three children out of six; three members out of eight. Grabbing Kathy and hugging her tight, I told her how happy I was to finally have my family with me, to which she responded, “But they are family.” I felt like an asshole again, but my definition of family was not the same at that moment. Honestly, at that point, I would have rather had the hubby and the kid there hugging me. They are my family.
Michael’s funeral was scheduled for Saturday, which just so happened to be Halloween. How apropos. Karisa contemplated how to manage trick-or-treating for her young children while Liz put the finishing touches on Michael’s life celebration. I, however, was trying to figure out how to make my exit by Friday morning. I wanted to be home in time for Shabbat. I sound like a callus heel, but mourning for someone who is not Jewish is tricky, especially for a convert like me when it comes to their family members, let alone attending a funeral on the Sabbath, which is forbidden and simply does not happen in religious Jewish communities. I’ve been Jewish for more years than not and had a difficult time wrapping my head around the burial process of non-Jews. I prefer our way: you die, you’re buried within 24 hours, your family mourns for whatever allotted time required depending on the relationship and then it’s done. Move on and keep living the life you still have. I had already been down this road a few times, thinking about the body sitting in a refrigerated drawer somewhere waiting for its final resting place six feet underground. Then again, Michael was cremated; that’s something completely different altogether (an issue I actually shared with my mother, she being a converted Catholic).
The following day was the most difficult. That morning Kathy, Joe, Regina and I accompanied Liz to the funeral home to review the details of the ceremony and observe the mortician’s handiwork. Liz was very upset with someone’s decision to dye Michael’s beard a reddish brown and used a makeup color too dark for his fair skin. I’m relieved not to have seen Michael in that state – it was not how I wished to remember him. Besides, in Judaism, displaying a dead body for viewing is considered disrespectful to the person whose soul has passed, a tradition I wasn’t willing to defy and that just doesn’t happen in the life of a Jew. I wasn’t a fan before I converted either. It wasn’t the first time I needed to make the choice to wait in the lobby while others paid respects and expressed condolences.
Later in the day, a large group of us went to a non-kosher restaurant for dinner where I opted to eat a plain salad. I was just too tired and hungry, my faculties being worn to the bone and incapable of making appropriate decisions. Heeding the words of a former rabbi of mine, I ate one less bite just to be sure. At least the beer was kosher. Vowing to myself to never do that again, I understood why it was important to surround yourself with religiously like-minded people. At times like these it mattered. My mourning process was and would be unique to my status as a convert to a sibling. I needed to be with my tribe.
Being that Michael was a beer fanatic, the night ended with multiple beer toasts in his memory, followed by personally crafted picture boards for the wake. I chose to sleep in the living room on one of the recliner chairs so that others could have the extra guest bed; this way I could also make a quick and quiet getaway. I still couldn’t sleep though. I don’t think I slept that entire week. I know people were not thrilled with my leaving before the funeral, but what’s done is done. I wanted to be home for Shabbat to embrace the next 24 hours without any obligations, no distractions and grieve the way I needed to with my family. The taxi arrived right on time, leaving me enough time to get to the airport for a 6:00 AM flight back to Philadelphia. Our bus with wings only had a handful of passengers, leaving me two seats to spread out my body and the duffle bag filled with the unlaundered pair of pants, undergarments and socks worn throughout the week. I sat in the window seat, watching the sun rapidly rise as we flew east. The clouds looked like foamy white waves breaking through space, the morning slowly creeping into view, changing from violet to midnight blue and then to that beautiful sky blue I had grown to cherish; that blue sky – it was Michael’s sky.
Thank you for the inspiration from beyond and giving me the courage and motivation to bring these experiences to fruition. Without you, My Gump Ride would literally not exist. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t think about you and miss you dearly.
The majority of this book is based on a blog I wrote between September 16, 2016 and December 1, 2018 called My Gump Ride (I have since taken it down), an homage to Forrest Gump’s run across America in the movie Forrest Gump. I’m not sure when the exact thought came to me in 2016, but I decided to incorporate the movie into a blog that would help me process a massive grief six years in the making. Something about Gump’s journey spoke to me at that particular time, becoming the springboard from which I leapt. I’ve loved the movie since the first time I saw it in 1994, ultimately purchasing the DVD (and later a digital download) after renting it and watching it multiple times from the local library. The story of Forrest Gump inspired me to tell my story as I grieved multiple losses in a short period of time. From the very first post of that blog, I knew from the beginning that it would end exactly three years, two months, 14 days and 16 hours later. I’ve learned to set parameters for myself with any given project. I tend to ramble (i.e. ADHD). Being a very specific time limit, it became a focus goal and my motivation to keep writing.
My Gump Ride 