Pieces of Bob

“He died.” I say to Andrea as the northern neck whirs past the windows of the Jeep.

“He did?” Andrea said - more a statement, than a question.

You can never really be prepared for these things. You may think you can, but when it actually happens, it's as if your still beating heart is outside of your chest and its being held by a strong, giant hand that closes around your heart and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until it’s difficult to breathe and it hurts. I imagine a pair of giant hands holding the hearts of Bob’s sons and know it will be a long time before the hands loosen their grip.

I describe this feeling to Andrea - hastily adding that I’m not having a heart attack. I suppose I could be but this isn’t what this is - I’ve felt this before and it’s what your heart feels like when it threatens to break. Of course, hearts don’t really break - they are more resilient than that. In time, my heart will spring back to its upside down pear shape. Boinggggggg. Not now. Maybe not right away, but soon.

Today Andrea wakes me up by proclaiming that Bob’s obituary doesn’t even say how he died. I’ve told Andrea, repeatedly, that when I die - she needs to say why - even if it’s something embarrassing like I tripped on a cat while descending the stairs - which is more likely than not. I get it - people are private. Bob was private - Bob who once told me I could write whatever when he was gone. So here I am - word vomiting.

Sunday night, my entire body cried, “Uncle!” I was aching all over and woke that way Monday - dragging myself through the motions until I could crawl back in bed for a few hours. Today I’m better and doing laundry so I can fly to Boston Christmas night for Bob’s wake and funeral.

I’m grateful Bob is not suffering and it makes me smile to imagine Mary Dewling spotting him (up in heaven) and shrieking, “BOB! What the fuck are you doing here?” I imagine Hanna Z. with her beautiful gray hair and wry smile. I’m the last one standing from that regional team - all of them taken too young. What makes me smile the most is Bob reuniting with his wife.

But still - what the fuck are you doing there, Bob?! We’re here. We need you - we’re selfish and greedy like that. Losing you means there is one less person who loves us and believes in us - and honestly, we’re not allocated nearly enough of those people in our lives. What now? How do we move forward?

On Friday, when it was apparent that things were on a fast downward slide, Noeline asked, “What would Bob tell us right now?”

It’s a thought I keep returning to - as though I’m running my hands over a worry stone. What would he tell us?

And how can we carry pieces of Bob with us into the future?

What lessons did Bob teach you?

Ouch I have lost myself again

Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found

Yeah I think that I might break

Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend, hold me

Wrap me up, enfold me

I am small and needy

Warm me up and breathe me

Be my friend, hold me

Wrap me up, enfold me

I am small and needy

Warm me up and breathe me.

Breathe Me, Sia