Missing in action — forever

Albert John Blasi through the years

"He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it."

                                   ~Clarence Budington Kelland

CAPE ELIZABETH — Lingering grief is like being buried alive in a shallow grave.

Melancholy is grief’s best friend, and if you immerse yourself in endless desolation, you will be consumed by your own sorrow — like a rotting corpse resting in the deep earth.

I won’t allow that kind of emptiness to rule my life. My father wouldn’t tolerate it, either. And I don’t have a choice — I have a family that still needs me despite my sadness.

My father, Albert John Blasi, died this weekend on Nov. 8, 2014 — another casualty of a cruel disease known as Alzheimer’s. He was buried with full military honors after serving a tour of duty during the occupation of Germany in 1954. Actually, he played baseball for the U.S. Army’s post teams. It was a good gig, and instead of lugging around an M-1 Garand rifle, he carried a bat and donned a glove on a baseball diamond somewhere in Europe.

I have this great picture of him playing catch at Zepplin Field where Hitler’s Nazis rallied during World War II. Behind my father is a destroyed, concrete swastika — remnants of the Third Reich.

There were hundreds of mourners at his wake and a police escort accompanied the hearse to the cemetery where he was buried in Peabody, Mass.

I still have the flag which was draped over his coffin on that cold day. It sits in a case that rests on top of a curio cabinet that I bought for my parents long ago. Call it a shrine, if you like, but it doesn’t alleviate the pain that goes along with my father’s loss.

That takes time, sometimes counseling, and a begrudging acceptance, and there is no closure — just a deep wound that never heals.

He was a teacher, coach and father whose integrity, loyalty and compassion made him a respected member in a city just outside Boston, and his reputation as the Revere High baseball skipper for 42 years extended well beyond the borders of the Greater Boston area. Boston Globe writer Martin Pave did a wonderful job with his half-page article about my dad.

It is an anniversary that no one in our family cares to celebrate. The memories are painful and his permanent absence has left us all with a sense of longing and sadness.

The new normal is impossible to get used to, and there is not a day I don’t think about him or my mother. The house at 17 McClure Street has been sold, and that’s a different kind of sadness.

I knew hanging around my home recalling his last moments on earth would trigger paralyzing grief and a strong bout of depression.

That wasn’t going to happen. I did that for four years as I watched his beautiful mind and precious memories slip away as the Alzheimer’s slowly progressed.

So I spent this weekend visiting the ocean and walking trails along the coast with my son who came home from college for the weekend. He made these past few days bearable.

I grew up in a seaside community and I have always found the turbulent waters of the Atlantic a calming force in my life. We are all connected to the sea. 

The late President John F Kennedy said, “We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea — whether it is to sail or to watch it — we are going back from whence we came.”

Maybe that is why we headed south to visit one of our old stomping grounds — Fort Williams in Cape Elizabeth. It offers stunning views of the coastline and made me feel a helluva lot better to see the cold salt water lap against the shoreline and breath in the sea air on a chilly, windy November day.

For the next hour, I thought about my father, but in a positive way, avoiding the misery that accompanies grief.

Somedays are harder than others, but I have come to terms with his death, and although I miss him every day, I feel I was lucky to have parents who gave a damn about their four kids and put them first in their lives.

That feeling of loss never goes away as my grief subsides and acceptance takes a firm hold.

I see my father in my son and in my sisters’ children, too.

He lives on in all of us, but I still miss the man who stood for something good.

That will never change.

'Tis the season of hope and remembrance

"Remember, hearts will never be practical until they are made unbreakable."

-  the Scarecrow on the "The Wizard of Oz"


AUBURN, Maine — A pair of Geminids meteors streaked  across a dark, cold Maine sky, and in instant, I had this absurd thought that my deceased parents were chasing each other around the cosmos.

Grief does strange things to people during the holidays, but I am old hand at managing melancholy.

If you live long enough, you get really good at dealing with heart-wrenching loss. Now that my parents, Al and Louise, are gone forever, I work feverishly to fend off sadness — especially during the Yuletide.

Say what you will about the holiday, but the last thing I want to be remembered as is an Ebenezer Scrooge wannabe who spreads endless grief in his wake.

Christmas is no humbug. Old Jacob Marley found that out the hard way. Dickens’ wretched character was condemned to roam the night wrapped in heavy chains to atone for his indifference to his fellow man. Scrooge was taken out for a walk by the three spirits on Christmas Eve and given a comeuppance he never forgot for ignoring forlorn souls drowning in endless poverty.

Nobody wants to be the guy who spoils everybody’s good cheer with his poison personality. For me, holidays are for gathering up what’s left of our family to celebrate another year of good food and cheer.

There is a huge emptiness we all face everyday, and that void gets deeper during the holidays.

Perhaps, Christmas is like a role call of who is still here and serves as reminder that every day you reach for your morning cup of coffee is a good day — and you only have so many on this earth.

Thanksgiving and Christmas are two holidays that trigger our worn-out memories of the past. Sentimentality rises to the top when decorating the tree, wandering around crowded store aisles or preparing a traditional holiday dish. A special ornament your late mom gave you makes your eyes water as you place it on a tree. Christmas songs chime about the specialness of the holiday, but many face this day with a heavy heart.

I still browse the aisles marveling at those innovative toys. Another new line of Legos — my son’s favorite gift under the tree— is introduced to shoppers. Then I remember he is now behind of the wheel of a car and those plastic building blocks of his childhood no longer amuse him.

Alas, my son is 18 and his adult toys consist of skis, watches, a cell phone and history books. His childhood slowly disappeared with each inch he grew.  The little boy who meant so much to us has grown into a fine young man, and while I am proud of him, I miss the inquisitive child who built these intricate toy ships with Legos that littered our parlor floor.

This will be our first Christmas without my parents, and while I have done an impressive job of spreading good cheer, there is that ever-present emptiness.

Look, I have seen the face of depression and watched loved ones disappear into that long tunnel of desperation. I won’t allow grief to swallow me whole. The long walk back from slipping into that dreadful darkness is too steep for me to climb.

So I will buy the presents, make the shrimp linguine, enjoy a holiday meal with my sisters and grieve for my father — all at the same time. The two-hour trip to Boston will be a welcomed diversion from the daily  chore of missing a man I admired all my life.

We will make merry on Christmas Eve, but we will also notice the empty chairs on that special night.

And there’s not a damn thing we can do about our heavy losses except embrace the memories of them, and of course, raise a toast to all who are present at the dinner table for another holiday.

Slamming the door on closure

Writer's note: Writing a book review is not my forte. This is a letter addressed to Nancy Berns who wrote a brilliant book called "Closure." I found it fascinating. The book is an in-depth look at how "Closure" is overused. For a man who has suffered loss, I can assure you there is no closure for me. But this book is worth a good read from an author who did a fine job covering a lot of ground about this tired word. Here is a link to one of her lectures:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0rCfXSdYPE

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Dear Nancy Berns,

For me, there is no such thing as "Closure." It is a tired word used by media and grief-ravaged people looking for an instant end to their sadness that will never come. 

When it comes to death's stark finality, "Closure" and grief don't belong in the same sentence.

While I appreciate how you tackled this complicated subject, I believe grieving is a lifelong process with no end. I have discovered that I live with gnawing pain, but I refuse to permit grief to dominate my life.

That's why I find your book refreshing, eye-opening and well done.

I know you have suffered the most devastating loss of all — the death of your child.  I am truly sorry, because I know how much I cherish my son. You can read about our adventures at www.goodfellows52.blogspot.com.  Despite your heartbreak, I am glad you found a way to complete this book.

From a personal standpoint, using a stopwatch to time grief is a lesson in futility.

I lost my mother and nearly a dozen loved ones who shaped my life.  That parade of death continued with the demise our mothers, two friends who committed suicide due to this oppressive economy, and a former co-worker who was murdered — all in a period of just two years.

My mother's death was like having a house dropped on me. There is not a day I don't think about her. It has been nearly three years, and the thought of closure has never crossed my mind. I am not depressed or find myself curled up in the fetal position, but there is a huge sense of longing that continues to this day. 

I understand loss and that our deaths are inevitable. Like John Donne wrote: "Every man's death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind."

But whenever I hear the word "Closure" described as one of the stages in the grieving process, I shake my head.

It's really absurd.

I want to "close" out my letter with these thoughts. Your book was thorough and enlightening, but it confirmed my beliefs: There is no closure - just a lifetime of longing and endless sorrow tempered by time.

Thank you again, and I am sorry for your loss.

Sincerely,

Anthony Blasi

53 Valley Street

Auburn, Maine o04210

Winds of time

AUBURN, Maine — The problem with living a long life is that you lose people along the way, and when they leave, you are only left with powerful memories and their sentimental things that eventually become yours.

I am bringing this old windmill back to life. I wish I could do the same for my mother, Louise.

I am restoring it to honor a mother who meant to so much to her family.

I took the windmill back to Maine months after her death. It fell in disrepair and was rotting away in her cellar, and I was no longer around to repair it and place it on on their front lawn every spring.

Nobody wanted the dusty old thing, but I wanted to spare the windmill a fate from wasting away in the cellar. My mother and I both loved the bulky ornament. It wasn't anything fancy, but someone in her family made it, and that made it special to her. 

I am resurrecting this windmill out of love, and I wish I could do the same for Louise, who rests under manicured grass and shade provided by three healthy trees at Puritan Lawn Cemetery in Peabody, Mass.

She would love to see me give the neglected windmill a new lease on life. I would like to see her apart of my world again.

My father is not interested in woodworking and wanted no part of it as the windmill's three pieces sat in a remote corner of their damp cellar. So this wooden creation was left abandoned as spiders made a home out it and dampness ruined part of the wood.

She loved this unique lawn ornament because it was designed and built by her Uncle Ted Davis, a true gentleman from Pennsylvania. I only met him once, and I often thought of him as a kind man.

Every spring, she asked me to drag it out of the basement and drive the windmill's two stakes deep into the cold ground and station the wooden structure in the middle of the front lawn.

She was proud it and I was proud of Uncle Ted's design.

It was a tradition that lasted until I began attending college and my thoughts turned to textbooks, sports and girls. We both ended up forgetting about the windmill as life took its twists and turns and my parents became surrounded by loving grandchildren.

For some reason, the windmill wasn't that important to us until her death.

Last May, I packed up some of her treasures, and one of them was the windmill. I was numb as I rummaged through our dead parent's belongings for the first time. It was an unpleasant task and I felt like I as intruding on her personal life.

I didn't have much time to restore it last summer, and I kind of ignored it after carefully repairing one of its broken blades. But this year, my wife demanded that I get it ready for July 4th, and while the passing of time has not removed the nagging grief since her death, I began cleaning it and then painting it.

I painted the mid section a fire-engine red and applied white paint to the blades and the ladder that is attached to the structure with a hinge. I added a coat of blue to the sturdy base of the windmill, giving the restored ornament a "red, white, and blue" patriotic feeling to it.

I know Louise would approve of my work.

Over the years, I think it was overlooked as her four children were busy raising their children. I would see the windmill sitting in that lonely corner whenever I visited her in Revere.

So now the windmill has found a new home about 681 miles from where it originated - Waterford, Pennsylvania.

The 40-year-old windmill will sit in a flower bled in my manicured backyard and remind me of a woman who spent her youth wandering around her relatives' farms in the Keystone State during the Great Depression.

Essential personnel

"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person." 

~Mignon McLaughlin

Dear Terri,

Happy Mother's Day!

I am fortunate that you remain by my side. We have lost so many people the last few impossible years, and we will never get them back.

Anyway, you know I love you, and thanks for seeing me through the darkest moments in my life. Remember, I would stand up for you until I dropped.

You are a special person who has experienced her own journey into the abyss, but I think we found a way out of that deep, awful hole together despite those tumultuous periods in our lives. We have turned out to be wonderful parents who created this extraordinary son.

I am grateful to you for keeping me from falling into this muddy pond of grief. There has been a lot of sorrow the past two years.

Mother's Day will now serve as a day of remembrance for our mothers who both passed away last year. But I will also look upon this special day as a way to honor a special person and remarkable mother.

I am still baffled at how you put up with me. Living with me is like being on board a runaway freight train barreling down the tracks without a conductor. And yet, you found a way to tolerate a man whose passion for life can be quite overwhelming.

I am also impressed with your courage for undergoing life-saving back surgery last year, knowing all along that nothing is guaranteed when you face the surgeon's knife. Those four months, which were filled with uncertainty, foreboding and sadness, put an enormous strain on both of us. Thanks to our steel anchor — Anthony — we discovered a way out of that maze of sorrow and apprehension.

After 21 years of marriage, I think we both have come to appreciate and truly understand the phrase: "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health."

Happy Mother's Day, Terri. And thanks for making my life richer and more exciting. I appreciate it.

Your husband Tony