There is no question that some lessons in life are nearly unbearable to learn. And there is some pain that has the potential to change your ability to feel pain or happiness at all. I’ve heard that “death is the great equalizer” because everyone is subject to it, but I certainly do not believe that death makes a life well-lived somehow much more similar to one lived in fear, greed, or anger. The only similarity may be, in fact, that all life ends in death.
It may be hard to fathom, or it may not, the difficulty with which I went home to Colorado this week. It seems like a simple enough thing to go to funeral, especially when the person who has passed has no direct relation to you and you haven’t spoken in a year (almost to the day). I’ll admit that when my best friend Trina called me on Thursday morning to tell me that her mom, Kathy, could die from a massive, and very unexpected, stroke, my first impulse was to go home. In one of those rare instances, my first impulse was exactly the last thing on earth I wanted to do.
All summer, the one thing that has underlined my every thought has been my desire to go home. But for so many reasons, not enough money, not enough time, I couldn’t. But I have found that death is, in fact, the great equalizer of all excuses. And that to stay here, in Shreveport, would mean two things: that I would not have to face one of the last things on earth anyone ever wants to face, and that there was no excuse not to face it.
I am probably not alone in this experience. Not the experience of death, but the experience of loving a family so much that even though you’re not really part of it, you make it your own. I’ve seen people do this with TV families, relating to them, worrying about their daily struggles., watching their lives with intent curiosity. I have had the great fortune of living in the North Fork Valley, where TV is as far from relevant as it is far from the truth, at least in my mind. And “family” is a term that applies both to those who share your blood, and to those whom you choose to share your life with.
For the past ten years I’ve had not the standard two families of a child with divorced parents, but four families who have played an undeniable and indescribable role in who I am. If I wasn’t being picked-on enough, Trina and Emily’s brothers were there. If I never had an older sister to wonder at and admire, Twyla was more than fascinating enough. I had parents for all occasions; my own for everything they’ve done for me, Jan Rogers (who kept an eye on my great grandmother from down the road) for silliness, excitement and songs, Butch Rogers for concern and still more silliness, Ed Schwarzer for bravado and to keep everyone’s ego from going all stuffy and over-inflated, and Kathy Schwarzer for adventure, faith and courage sometimes all at once. These families gave me experiences of kinship–not wholly dissimilar to mine, because we never lacked love–but of such a different color from my own two homes.
It may seem silly. I am fully aware that more often than not, people like to think that they are islands, beholden to and dependent on few, or no one. But I will freely admit that I need what the Schwarzers and Rogers gave and continue to give to me. And while I understand that I am not a part of their immediate families¬¬–in no way would I have belonged in that hospital room–they are part of the family that I chose to call my own.
All this comes in order to explain, in some insignificant and underwhelming way, why my heart was broken this week. There have been five deaths in my life this year. Some anticipated, the others not at all. Some deeply personal, the others only tragic because those distant characters who played a part in your life are not allowed to die. But they do, without your permission. When Kathy Schwarzer died it was both unexpected and more deeply personal than I would have expected it to be, had the thought of her disappearance ever crossed my mind before that day.
Kathy is the reason for so much in my life. She raised my first boyfriend (whom every girl remembers and whether you’re still friends, as Tyler and I are, or you never speak, you still think of from time to time. And to whom, whether you like it or not, you owe a certain debt of gratitude.) More importantly, she raised one of the two young women who taught me friendship and honesty at all costs. Trina Hobbs, Kathy’s youngest daughter, from the first moment we danced in the rain (while the others stayed on the bus), has been my sister and a better friend than most people could pray for in their lives.
Such fawning admiration comes only after years of agreements, disagreements, dances, perturbations, season tickets, fancy dresses and boxer shorts, boys, mix tapes, and boxes of macaroni and cheese. It’s a Counting Crows song from beginning to end, if such a friendship was possible to destroy (despite incredibly rough patches from time to time).
But you do not have to be Trina’s closest friend to know that she wants to be a good woman above all. And that to her, being a good daughter is as important as being a good Christian and being a good wife. Again, I know that to some that sounds naïve and somehow demeaning, but when your parents only want to be good parents, you believe in a good God and you have married a good man, it is the simplest way to make the world a better place.
When I got Trina’s message at 8:00 am on Thursday, my first thoughts were for her, and the singular relationship she had with her mother. From that moment to this one, thoughts of what has been lost weave their way into every other thought or activity. I cannot fathom Ed’s pain, especially knowing what they must have planned for the rest pf their lives. The thought of Tim’s path and my own diverging is enough to make me cry instantly. I cannot imagine if he simply not to exist any longer, or maybe I cannot because I do not want to. I cannot imagine building the kind of love that Ed and Kathy had for twenty years–it was exemplary in every way–and facing that kind of loss. The consolation of so very many memories is something I can’t touch to describe. I simply am not capable of describing this emotion.
Kathy was very much a cornerstone for her family. To know her children thoroughly and to equip them with the means to be sensual (that is, to live with their senses fully tuned), to be truthful, and to be driven not for someone else’s popular goals but for their own personal ones, that she did these things and did them well was apparent.
I did not agree with everything, all the time. And I am certain that she knew that, but I know that for someone who held such strong beliefs, Kathy was remarkably kind, understanding, and fair with me, not for my benefit, but for the benefit of her children, who love me as I love them.
I did not have a chance to stand up at her memorial and say even a fraction of what I have said here. Towards the end of the day, Trina said to me, “I don’t want to sound like I’m over everything but it’s hard to talk to all these people who are crying when I’ve made my peace with it. It’s not so unbearable that I can’t go on; I’m just really, really sad.” What I wanted to say, though I never got the chance, was that what those people needed exactly that. The people whom I saw approach Ed, Twyla, Tyler, Trina and Stephen, as well as Chris, Katie and Adam, needed to mourn for Kathy publicly and to mourn on their behalf, so that you, Trina, would know that everyone is there for you to the best of their ability, an ability with which, I believe, people in Crawford are capable of exceeding the expectations of all.
Beyond that we needed you to be strong and at peace in order to reassure us that this thing is not the end of the world.
I needed to go home to see and accept that. Largely because of Kathy, the Schwarzer home was never just a house, so much as it was a place where even the most bedraggled child could feel at home despite different philosophies and differences of opinion. I needed to go home and see that Ed had mown the grass and Stephen still cheers for the Broncos, that Tyler still sings and Twyla still smiles at everyone on instinct, that Tippy still prefers company over food and that Trina will always be sentimental and true (especially when I depend on her for sentimentality and truth), that Kathy’s touch will always be felt and there will always be milk in the fridge. That there is at least one family who is certain that every member is accounted for, even if someone can’t be seen.
It may be hard to fathom, or it may not, the difficulty with which I went home to Colorado this week. It seems like a simple enough thing to go to funeral, especially when the person who has passed has no direct relation to you and you haven’t spoken in a year (almost to the day). I’ll admit that when my best friend Trina called me on Thursday morning to tell me that her mom, Kathy, could die from a massive, and very unexpected, stroke, my first impulse was to go home. In one of those rare instances, my first impulse was exactly the last thing on earth I wanted to do.
All summer, the one thing that has underlined my every thought has been my desire to go home. But for so many reasons, not enough money, not enough time, I couldn’t. But I have found that death is, in fact, the great equalizer of all excuses. And that to stay here, in Shreveport, would mean two things: that I would not have to face one of the last things on earth anyone ever wants to face, and that there was no excuse not to face it.
I am probably not alone in this experience. Not the experience of death, but the experience of loving a family so much that even though you’re not really part of it, you make it your own. I’ve seen people do this with TV families, relating to them, worrying about their daily struggles., watching their lives with intent curiosity. I have had the great fortune of living in the North Fork Valley, where TV is as far from relevant as it is far from the truth, at least in my mind. And “family” is a term that applies both to those who share your blood, and to those whom you choose to share your life with.
For the past ten years I’ve had not the standard two families of a child with divorced parents, but four families who have played an undeniable and indescribable role in who I am. If I wasn’t being picked-on enough, Trina and Emily’s brothers were there. If I never had an older sister to wonder at and admire, Twyla was more than fascinating enough. I had parents for all occasions; my own for everything they’ve done for me, Jan Rogers (who kept an eye on my great grandmother from down the road) for silliness, excitement and songs, Butch Rogers for concern and still more silliness, Ed Schwarzer for bravado and to keep everyone’s ego from going all stuffy and over-inflated, and Kathy Schwarzer for adventure, faith and courage sometimes all at once. These families gave me experiences of kinship–not wholly dissimilar to mine, because we never lacked love–but of such a different color from my own two homes.
It may seem silly. I am fully aware that more often than not, people like to think that they are islands, beholden to and dependent on few, or no one. But I will freely admit that I need what the Schwarzers and Rogers gave and continue to give to me. And while I understand that I am not a part of their immediate families¬¬–in no way would I have belonged in that hospital room–they are part of the family that I chose to call my own.
All this comes in order to explain, in some insignificant and underwhelming way, why my heart was broken this week. There have been five deaths in my life this year. Some anticipated, the others not at all. Some deeply personal, the others only tragic because those distant characters who played a part in your life are not allowed to die. But they do, without your permission. When Kathy Schwarzer died it was both unexpected and more deeply personal than I would have expected it to be, had the thought of her disappearance ever crossed my mind before that day.
Kathy is the reason for so much in my life. She raised my first boyfriend (whom every girl remembers and whether you’re still friends, as Tyler and I are, or you never speak, you still think of from time to time. And to whom, whether you like it or not, you owe a certain debt of gratitude.) More importantly, she raised one of the two young women who taught me friendship and honesty at all costs. Trina Hobbs, Kathy’s youngest daughter, from the first moment we danced in the rain (while the others stayed on the bus), has been my sister and a better friend than most people could pray for in their lives.
Such fawning admiration comes only after years of agreements, disagreements, dances, perturbations, season tickets, fancy dresses and boxer shorts, boys, mix tapes, and boxes of macaroni and cheese. It’s a Counting Crows song from beginning to end, if such a friendship was possible to destroy (despite incredibly rough patches from time to time).
But you do not have to be Trina’s closest friend to know that she wants to be a good woman above all. And that to her, being a good daughter is as important as being a good Christian and being a good wife. Again, I know that to some that sounds naïve and somehow demeaning, but when your parents only want to be good parents, you believe in a good God and you have married a good man, it is the simplest way to make the world a better place.
When I got Trina’s message at 8:00 am on Thursday, my first thoughts were for her, and the singular relationship she had with her mother. From that moment to this one, thoughts of what has been lost weave their way into every other thought or activity. I cannot fathom Ed’s pain, especially knowing what they must have planned for the rest pf their lives. The thought of Tim’s path and my own diverging is enough to make me cry instantly. I cannot imagine if he simply not to exist any longer, or maybe I cannot because I do not want to. I cannot imagine building the kind of love that Ed and Kathy had for twenty years–it was exemplary in every way–and facing that kind of loss. The consolation of so very many memories is something I can’t touch to describe. I simply am not capable of describing this emotion.
Kathy was very much a cornerstone for her family. To know her children thoroughly and to equip them with the means to be sensual (that is, to live with their senses fully tuned), to be truthful, and to be driven not for someone else’s popular goals but for their own personal ones, that she did these things and did them well was apparent.
I did not agree with everything, all the time. And I am certain that she knew that, but I know that for someone who held such strong beliefs, Kathy was remarkably kind, understanding, and fair with me, not for my benefit, but for the benefit of her children, who love me as I love them.
I did not have a chance to stand up at her memorial and say even a fraction of what I have said here. Towards the end of the day, Trina said to me, “I don’t want to sound like I’m over everything but it’s hard to talk to all these people who are crying when I’ve made my peace with it. It’s not so unbearable that I can’t go on; I’m just really, really sad.” What I wanted to say, though I never got the chance, was that what those people needed exactly that. The people whom I saw approach Ed, Twyla, Tyler, Trina and Stephen, as well as Chris, Katie and Adam, needed to mourn for Kathy publicly and to mourn on their behalf, so that you, Trina, would know that everyone is there for you to the best of their ability, an ability with which, I believe, people in Crawford are capable of exceeding the expectations of all.
Beyond that we needed you to be strong and at peace in order to reassure us that this thing is not the end of the world.
I needed to go home to see and accept that. Largely because of Kathy, the Schwarzer home was never just a house, so much as it was a place where even the most bedraggled child could feel at home despite different philosophies and differences of opinion. I needed to go home and see that Ed had mown the grass and Stephen still cheers for the Broncos, that Tyler still sings and Twyla still smiles at everyone on instinct, that Tippy still prefers company over food and that Trina will always be sentimental and true (especially when I depend on her for sentimentality and truth), that Kathy’s touch will always be felt and there will always be milk in the fridge. That there is at least one family who is certain that every member is accounted for, even if someone can’t be seen.
"When the morning came
the bees flew down and wrapped themselves around me
and that's when I spoke the word
to have them trace your face for me in pollen.
But I wasn't prepared for this.
Come back to me my Darling."
-Eisley
