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.

Hurricane Season

Each year, with regularity, hurricane season arrives. There are many storms that pop up - some stay small and lose steam before they hit our coast. Others threaten, but then fizzle out. A few hit with enough force as to leave major damage in their wake.

This is my hurricane season. The clouds have gathered, rains have begun to fall, storms are building as I head towards September 17th. I look out on the horizon from my own personal lighthouse, wondering which waves might knock me on my ass. Having survived the storms before, I begin to have fears. Things like "Did he know how much I loved him? REALLY KNOW?" I'll be reminded by someone of something Jim said or did, and I panic - "I forgot that. Oh my god, I FORGOT THAT! What else am I forgetting? Am I forgetting him? All I have left are those memories, I can't lose them!"

I know that the intensity of my emotions will ebb like the cycle of the storm. The sun will come out for a while. I'll be able to catch my breath, and prepare for the next one. It's just that during hurricane season, the storms tend to pile one on top of the other, with very little clear sailing weather in between. The crying season has begun.

RIT

Today I took my oldest to RIT. They run a College & Careers program for high school seniors who are interested in the majors they offer. Students get to spend the night in the residence halls, eat at Gracie's (the dining hall), experience a night of on-campus activities, and then go to four break-out sessions where you learn about your choice of four majors or areas of study.

I went on the campus tour with Kirsten. Mainly because she wasn't ready for me to leave her, but also out of curiosity. It's been 22 years since I graduated from RIT and 18 since Jim did. Things were the same, yet very different. As we walked around, I was reminded of my time there and Jim's. We walked right past the spot where this photo was taken. It's one of my favorite photos of Jim and me. I was pregnant with Kirsten and he couldn't resist making fun of my rather large belly. Today I was back at that spot with Kirsten, but no Jim.

I so wanted to call him and tell him how the campus is now. Reminisce about our time there. The gray hairs he gave mom & dad. How he went on co-op, thought "Damn, there's money in this packaging science stuff.", came back and buckled down. I want to laugh with him again. To tease him. To be teased.

Mom came across campus and showed me where the brick I bought in his memory had been placed on the Quarter-Mile. It's nice, but it doesn't make the missing him go away.