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

Take me back to the ball game

"You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you're a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen."

- Joe Dimaggio

     AUBURN, Maine — Whoever thought a short story  about one spectacular moment in Red Sox history could resurrect a dormant memory about my deceased mother's past.

      The fond memory had been shoved aside to make room for the daily deluge of life's experiences that cram my crowded brain.

Songs, smells and certainly pictures of the past can also pry memories loose. Strolling the isles of an indoor flea market sends me down memory lane, too. All it takes is a rotary phone or an old Philco radio to trigger recollections of family members who have passed away.

This book, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu," has now become a treasured possession. It was graciously given to me by my sister, Brenda, a year ago. 

The article detailing Ted Williams' last at-bat at Fenway Park on Sept. 28, 1960 was written by the late Pulitzer-prize winning author John Updike, and it first appeared in "The New Yorker" on Oct. 20, 1960. The 52-year-old magazine piece was turned into a book and published in 2010.

Updike writes about his fascination with baseball and Williams, who was also endearingly known as "The Splendid Splinter" and "Teddy Ballgame." It is indeed a splendid book about Williams' last hurrah at Friendly Fenway.

The storied moment, when Williams smacked his 521st home run in last at-bat in his 19-year career, is still talked about by the Fenway Faithful.

Decades later, my mother mentioned Williams' parting shot in passing at the kitchen table. She told the tale with a wide smile. I have spent hours in the kitchen listening to my mother's stories about her childhood and marriage to my father. My dad, on the other hand, left the storytelling to my mom, and she could spin a good yarn.

      

What I forgot was that my mother was THERE when The Splendid Splinter cracked one out of the park and into the record books. 

I know baseball fanatics who would trade their homes — or their wives for that matter — to witness Williams make his final round trip around the diamond. I know I am romanticizing this extraordinary moment in Major League Baseball's history. It is like watching "The Natural" all over again, and Williams is my parents' Roy Hobbs.

I was rolling around in a crib when my mother and father witnessed history on a cloudy September day in Boston over five decades ago.  My dad, whose memory is disappearing as Alzheimer's gets the upper hand, doesn't remember who babysat me. My mother was our living reference. When we had questions about our family's history, she was the go-to person until she passed away two years ago on a warm March Monday.

I cling to this memory of my parents catching a glimpse of Williams' final performance at Fenway Park. I need to hold on to those memories of my mother since I can no longer hold on to her in this life. I remember when she spoke about Williams and his home run. She just smiled as her eyes lit up the dinner table.

Williams' Fenway farewell in September 1960 is just another opportunity to remember my mother and keep her close to my heart.

But if Ray Kinsella could grant me one baseball wish, I would ask the Iowa farmer to find me a seat at Fenway on that September day to see — my parents together again as they watched Williams hammer out a piece of Red Sox history.

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

Loss for words

"You never realize how much your mother loves you till you explore the attic - and find every letter you ever sent her, every finger painting, clay pot, bead necklace, Easter chicken, cardboard Santa Claus, paperlace Mother's Day card and school report since day one." - Pam Brown


"Everyone I know goes away In the end." 
                                           "Hurt" by the Nine Inch Nails

AUBURN, Maine — Nothing is the same when your mother dies!

I look at the phone resting quietly on the counter and expect a call from her. But the line remains silent as I sadly remind myself that I will no longer hear her voice again.


The one-year anniversary of her death has snuck up on me and knocked me to the ground. I've been hit hard with such sorrow and find it almost impossible to believe she's been gone for what seems an eternity.

Those are the most difficult and depressing moments — when I am alone in the house and find myself longing to hear her long-distance voice. There is always that emptiness that seeps into your heart. She will never be apart of my life. The finality of death can drive any person mad or send them spiraling into a crippling depression.

Her passing reminded us all of our own mortality.

I cherished our lengthy discussions when we both had a free moment to speak with each other during the day. 


The world seemed right and I felt reassured that my mother still gave a damn about me despite our differences. Two hours before her death, I was pleading with her to see a doctor, believing she might have pneumonia. She wouldn't listen and told me she would be fine.

I wish that was true, but she wasn't a fan of doctors or maybe she had enough of muddling through another day of dragging around that ball-and-chain, her oxygen tank.

Going out for a cup of coffee also became a chore because she was forced to take along her portable respirator.

It's been a year since her tired body gave out and death quietly claimed my mother, leaving a family shell-shocked and heartbroken over her abrupt departure. I do not seek pity or comfort from my fellow man. I understand Death is inevitable, and for me, there are no five stages of grief, only longing for a person I loved and respected despite her shortcomings, and we ALL have them.

It just hurts and will smart the rest of my life. I have done a fine job keeping it together in spite of this enormous loss. My understanding son and wife are my lifelines and prevent me from going under in a tumultuous sea of sorrow.

Louise and I would talk every day about every thing. We engaged in lively debates about politics, religion and music. No topic was taboo for a mother-and-son team who figured out the world's problems over the course of a 20-minute phone conversation. I miss that give-and-take from a woman who loved opening her mind up to new adventures and ideas.

I still find myself reaching for the phone to boast about one of Anthony's adventures or accomplishments. She enjoyed hearing about all her grandchildrens' exploits, and I made sure she was the first to learn about our fun in the sun.

She was a remarkable women who confronted mental illness and other hardships with her combative zeal.

She wasn't perfect, and I don't think she sought perfection, anyway. She was life-long smoker who could drive us all mad at times, and of course, her four children drove her completely bonkers. But that is the pact you make when it comes to unconditional love among family members. There is a hidden clause in that unwritten contract where families promise to stir the pot as emotions run high between siblings and parents. We would be at odds with her one minute, and like sudden gust of wind, we would all be hugging her and professing our devotion to this family's matriarch.

Louise loved the ocean and was a regular at Revere Beach. Our mother courageously brought four children to the beach and single-handily watched over her brood without any help. She did this on a daily basis well into our teenage years before we slowly ventured out on our own. To this day, I think she deserved some kind of medal for entertaining four rambunctious children on hot summer days. There was one warm September day when we, just the two of us, walked the beach and then dipped our feet in the salt water that was still warm from those steamy August days. We topped off that Indian Summer day with a hot dog from Kelly's Roast Beef and just talked. Years later, Louise, my son and I spent a few hours on the beach while she sipped coffee and I flew a kite. She stood by the wall and smiled as our kite soared into the heavens.

Sometimes, I will listen to WBZ in Boston to get handle on the news and I think my mother is sitting at the table listening to radio with a cup of coffee in her hand. Louise always had her ears tuned to radio. She enjoyed the medium and thought television could not hold a candle to radio, books or newspapers. Louise believed in the power of knowledge and the printed word. She understood words start wars and bring peace, inspire people and uphold the law.

There is an old, hand-made windmill that was built in Pennsylvania by my late Uncle Ted. I took it home with me soon after Louise's death and began restoring it. She loved the unique lawn ornament because Uncle Ted built it.  I worked on it with loving care and remember how she would ask me to drag it out of her cellar each spring and display it on the lawn. I will carry on that tradition when I drag it out of my cellar and place this restored windmill and all its splendor in my backyard. 

A year has passed since she passed away with no fanfare on a Monday afternoon. The sadness still gnaws at me and memories of her still trigger a sense of hopelessness. A glance at the windmill, a song from the '70s or reading one of her numerous letters can be a heartbreaking experience.

I have in my possession hundreds of photographs of dead people who can no longer be apart of my short life. My mother joined that exclusive club of late family members frozen in time.

I miss them all.

And now, whenever I want to ask a question about our heritage or a long-lost relative, she is no longer there to provide the answers. This was a woman who was proud to be a DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution) member and regaled with stories of her childhood growing up in Everett, Mass., and spending her summers as a child in Waterford, Penn.

What I wouldn't do to have one more long-distance conversation with her over a morning cup of coffee. I would tell her I loved her even though she already knew that.

But I would tell her anyway.