tender
I watched my husband’s son study his uncle’s coffin, and whatever the thing is called that covers it and gets cranked down into the earth. I watched his wheels turning, thinking about how that thing is made and how it works, just like his dad. Same stance, hands on hips, his mind’s wheels turning like the mechanical ones that lowered Darrin into his grave. And Gracie sat next to me, being almost ten and so sad, and just as the case closed over the coffin she whispered, “Goodbye Uncle Darrin” with a white rose in her hand.
It’s all done. The receiving line at the visitation and the absolutely beautiful funeral service seem like a dream. Boom. Done. Over. All the scrambling to get ready, find the pictures, make the calls, make decisions, go, go, go. It’s over.
The day after the funeral we all met at sister Greta and her husband Matt’s house. It was the most relaxing, joyous, and silly good time. We talked in little groups and then came back together to watch the clowns in the family perform. Floaties shaped like huge chickens wobbled around the pool with people on them, having “chicken fights” that never really worked because the chickens just weeble-wobbled the people right off.
We will be catching up on sleep and quiet and wondering if Darrin is that dragon fly, that Cardinal, or that Robin. We won’t believe he’s actually and truly gone. We will walk around with this weird feeling that this real thing is not at all real. Did all of this really happen? Did his drinking really take this turn? And people keep saying “but how does that happen, he had everything, so successful, such a beautiful family…how could he?…” and sometimes I want to scream at that. We have so far to go in our understanding. That’s not anyone’s fault. We just learn what we learn. We learn that dependent drinking is a choice. It’s a moral decision. You just stop.
Some don’t. Some can’t. No matter the losses or how much they love and are loved. I don’t know what else to tell you about that, but there are times when you simply need to believe what others know:
He had every reason to live. We know. He had every reason to live. And the nature of alcoholism is such that even the best of reasons, though they be more than worthwhile and loved, drown in the sorrow and physical dependency of alcoholism. The person begins to believe everyone is better off if they slowly disappear. It’s more cruel in the mind of a suffering alcoholic than you can ever imagine if you haven’t experienced it.
There’s an old saying in recovery rooms: No alcoholic dies in vain. And I hate that any person at all ever dies from this, but it happens all the time. Alcoholism does not discriminate. And as much as those that loved Darrin hate that he’s gone, and over this…over this, we know that the ripple effects of his community knowing what happened to him, will be immeasurable. We have already heard stories. We will continue to hear stories. We will also never know how many and for how long Darrin’s story will help others. But it’s a lot. Darrin was an achiever, a fighter. I imagine him now, doing this good work like he did everything else (baseball, tax season, coaching, and more) with great love, and over the top intensity and gusto. His legacy holds a multitude of achievements. Staying sober did not happen to be one of them, but it is not in vain.
Know this: He was never weak or a terrible person. Alcoholism stole his abilities and belief in himself, but never his heart or his belief in his children and a power greater than himself, that he knew would comfort him as his body gave in, stole his fight, let him go.
Last night his brother, my big burly husband said, “I’m feeling tender.” He meant his heart was hurting. But this is how I describe him to others, you see. Tender. I say, “He’s just so tender with me.” This is a family gift. Darrin had it, too. The sisters and his kids and all these wild and fabulous Ogdahls, they have it. They make you feel so loved because of their welcoming tenderness, and that is how Darrin will be remembered.
Darrin, we love you tender.
