Home Depot, Toilet Seats, and Jim

Today is September 17th. Two years have passed since Jim died. Today's not the magic day. The day when I finally wake up and missing Jim's not the first thing I think of. The day when there aren't a dozen things throughout the day that remind me that he's gone.

So what does this have to do with Home Depot and toilet seats? Yesterday, I made the mistake of going to Home Depot to pick up a new toilet seat for the kids' bathroom. Home Depot was on my way home from a rare appearance at my company's office, so I stopped out of convenience. I hate going in those places - everywhere I turn, I see reminders of Jim. He was more than handy. Christmases were filled with gifts from Home Depot for Jim. I walk around the store with a lump in my throat every time I have to go in there. Unfortunately, toilet seats are in the bath section. The bath section is dominated by Kohler products. Jim worked for International Paper, but was on permanent assignment to Kohler. He was proud of the work he did. IP and Kohler were the best during Jim's illness. I won't buy any products other than Kohler because of that. So there I am in the back of the store, staring at Kohler toilet seats, crying. Obviously, yesterday wasn't the day either.

My mother-in-law passed away earlier this year. Mark and his sisters are in the process of going through the house. There seem to be three piles - keep, sell, toss. It's a painstaking process, but eventually all the physical pieces of each of our lives will be put in one of these piles by those left-behind. Kate had to do that for Jim. It's a disconcerting feeling to walk into a house where a person lived and not see the physical objects of their daily life about. Once someone picks up the shoes of the deceased and puts them in one of the three piles, the person isn't there to leave them by the door anymore. No more coats thrown over the chair, car keys on the window sill, dirty coffee cup by the side of the sink. Eventually, everything is picked up, put away, or tossed. The physical presence of their lives slowly fading away.

I don't have any physical pieces of Jim's life. For a while that bothered me. I mistakenly believed that I needed something physical to hold onto or I'd lose Jim. Over the past two years, I've come to realize that isn't correct. Each of us has different memories of Jim. Objects in my own life bring those memories to mind readily, without the need for a physical object that he actually touched and owned. Yesterday, I had a very strong reaction to toilet seats, yet am fairly certain I wouldn't want Jim's! The important part of Jim's life wasn't the objects, but the memories about Jim interacting with those objects that we carry forward. The objects are flat, while the memories are sharp.

I caught up with an old friend who lost her brother our freshman year in college. She told me that the intense pain never goes away. Eventually it just doesn't consume you. I'm not there yet, but that's okay - she mentioned wishing 10 years would go by in a blink of an eye to get her past the consuming pain. I told Mom on Sunday that I'd much rather have this than be standing there saying "He was a real asshole. I'm glad he's gone." It's a testament to my brother's life that so many people carry his death as a painful loss; that there are so many good memories, and today people other than his own family are remembering what a wonderful person he was.