I’m so attached to my answering machine? A way to hold onto Danny and our history.
I listen to the message again. He sounds so alive and with us. I tremble inside as I hear the closeness of his voice. He should be here, with us. How could he be gone? How does someone leave you an ordinary everyday message on your answering machine one day and then hours later that person no longer exists? Where did that light-up-the-room smile of his go? And what about that mischievous laugh of his that I heard a million times, where did it disappear?
For the longest time after he died, I used to believe his death was a just a terrible joke he was playing on all of us and that any minute, he’d be walking through the door with that ‘gotcha’ look in his eye. I remember those first few months after he died, grabbing my phone after the first ring hoping to see his name appear on my call display. Whenever I’d turn a corner, I secretly hoped Danny would be around the other side waiting for me. He was like a ghost haunting me everywhere I turned. Closing my eyes at night to fall asleep, I’d stare into his blue eyes. When I’d open them, he’d be there right beside me, like an imaginary friend.
Grief became my new best friend. First came the shock. It was around eleven o’clock on a workday morning when my cell phone vibrated incessantly in my suit jacket. Relatively new to the company back then, I was sitting attentively at a work meeting with senior management. I tried my best to ignore the calls but after what felt like fifty or more incessant vibrations, I knew I had to answer it. I remember stepping outside into the hall to answer my phone and startling the receptionists and secretaries with the sound of my gruff hello to whomever was on the other end. It was Mary, Danny’s sister, crying hysterically into the phone. There had been an accident. Something about a tractor trailer on the highway. Right away, I interrupted her and asked if Danny was all right. Dead, she wailed. Danny’s dead. Sucker-punched. All the breath zapped right out of me. My legs could barely hold me up. I froze. I kept the phone to my ear but words wouldn’t come to me. There had to be a mistake . . . not Danny . . . must be a mistake, I kept thinking. Mary asked me to meet her at the morgue. And with those words, our season in the sun had come to an end.
The last time I saw Danny was the Sunday before he died. We were on one of our weekly Sunday morning bike rides through the trails of Toronto. I think about the thousands of kilometers the two of us clocked on our bikes together over the years and how today I sit on top of my bike all alone. In honor of Danny, I’ve decided to get on my bike this morning and ride to one of our favorite rest stops, James Gardens in Toronto, located on the west bank of the Humber River. With the warm air and bright sun shining, I begin my ride hearing Terry Jack’s voice singing in my head.
I reflect back on the last three years of life without Danny. Surreal. Painful. Lonely. Irreversible. My grief has manifested itself in interesting ways. Where do I begin? For one, my workaholic tendency. In the first year after Danny’s death I dove head first into my career by logging in thousands of long hours and even more air miles in business travel. I operated on autopilot: work, sleep, and business travel. What better way to avoid the pain you’re feeling inside than to work yourself up to a perpetual state of exhaustion; too tired to think or to feel. As my career was advancing quickly and successfully, emotionally, I was sinking. The corner office came at a price and in my case, the price tag had loneliness, depression, and isolation written all over it. And I bought in willingly . . . still do.
Socially, I changed. I avoided places where the two of us would hang out; no more bike rides to James Gardens, our occasional visits to our favorite pool hall, The Crooked Cue, stopped altogether, goodbye Toronto
I listen to the message again. He sounds so alive and with us. I tremble inside as I hear the closeness of his voice. He should be here, with us. How could he be gone? How does someone leave you an ordinary everyday message on your answering machine one day and then hours later that person no longer exists? Where did that light-up-the-room smile of his go? And what about that mischievous laugh of his that I heard a million times, where did it disappear?
For the longest time after he died, I used to believe his death was a just a terrible joke he was playing on all of us and that any minute, he’d be walking through the door with that ‘gotcha’ look in his eye. I remember those first few months after he died, grabbing my phone after the first ring hoping to see his name appear on my call display. Whenever I’d turn a corner, I secretly hoped Danny would be around the other side waiting for me. He was like a ghost haunting me everywhere I turned. Closing my eyes at night to fall asleep, I’d stare into his blue eyes. When I’d open them, he’d be there right beside me, like an imaginary friend.
Grief became my new best friend. First came the shock. It was around eleven o’clock on a workday morning when my cell phone vibrated incessantly in my suit jacket. Relatively new to the company back then, I was sitting attentively at a work meeting with senior management. I tried my best to ignore the calls but after what felt like fifty or more incessant vibrations, I knew I had to answer it. I remember stepping outside into the hall to answer my phone and startling the receptionists and secretaries with the sound of my gruff hello to whomever was on the other end. It was Mary, Danny’s sister, crying hysterically into the phone. There had been an accident. Something about a tractor trailer on the highway. Right away, I interrupted her and asked if Danny was all right. Dead, she wailed. Danny’s dead. Sucker-punched. All the breath zapped right out of me. My legs could barely hold me up. I froze. I kept the phone to my ear but words wouldn’t come to me. There had to be a mistake . . . not Danny . . . must be a mistake, I kept thinking. Mary asked me to meet her at the morgue. And with those words, our season in the sun had come to an end.
The last time I saw Danny was the Sunday before he died. We were on one of our weekly Sunday morning bike rides through the trails of Toronto. I think about the thousands of kilometers the two of us clocked on our bikes together over the years and how today I sit on top of my bike all alone. In honor of Danny, I’ve decided to get on my bike this morning and ride to one of our favorite rest stops, James Gardens in Toronto, located on the west bank of the Humber River. With the warm air and bright sun shining, I begin my ride hearing Terry Jack’s voice singing in my head.
I reflect back on the last three years of life without Danny. Surreal. Painful. Lonely. Irreversible. My grief has manifested itself in interesting ways. Where do I begin? For one, my workaholic tendency. In the first year after Danny’s death I dove head first into my career by logging in thousands of long hours and even more air miles in business travel. I operated on autopilot: work, sleep, and business travel. What better way to avoid the pain you’re feeling inside than to work yourself up to a perpetual state of exhaustion; too tired to think or to feel. As my career was advancing quickly and successfully, emotionally, I was sinking. The corner office came at a price and in my case, the price tag had loneliness, depression, and isolation written all over it. And I bought in willingly . . . still do.
Socially, I changed. I avoided places where the two of us would hang out; no more bike rides to James Gardens, our occasional visits to our favorite pool hall, The Crooked Cue, stopped altogether, goodbye Toronto
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