I'm sitting here in my long-sleeve t-shirt and boxers in my basement writing this. I used to write these at my office, wearing more clothing, before it flooded on December 26. At first, I thought it would be a seamless transition. My equipment is set-up, working flawlessly, and my commute is so much quicker, clocking in at a paltry two flights of stairs.
That is, until, I went by the office yesterday to get rid of some papers and a bit of furniture that needed to be moved out. As I walked through the building, around the workers putting finishing touches on the drywall and baseboards, I realized that from the time the waters flowed in until that moment yesterday, I had never actually grieved for the loss of my space.
As I walked through the building, I saw what was no longer going to be for me, and a wave of sadness washed over me that I didn't quite expect. I steeled myself as I walked out the door. "It all happened for a reason," I kept saying to myself, hoping it would make a dent.
I say that to myself a lot to endure bad things in my life, but sometimes no matter how much I want to believe in my own words, they ring hollow.
It's been a rough three weeks, and not just for me, but for so many people. It started with the flood, and it went downhill from there. In St. Louis, where I'm from, Rams owner Stan Kroenke took a figurative and almost literal dump on our town by not just moving the Rams back to LA, but pulling a scorched earth, "No team could survive in St. Louis" statement.
It was a shrewd move being able to tell other owners, "Look, fellas, I just laid a Cleveland Steamer on an entire city. If you force me to go back there, I'm a dead man...a really wealthy dead man who could have made you a shit-ton of money by moving to LA. Whaddya say? Amiright?"
But what has really been the worst of all is what cancer has done to so many beloved people. Look how many stars have died since Christmas: David Bowie. Lemmy Kilmister. René Angélil. Grizzly Freaking Adams.
Alan Rickman. That one hurt a lot. We watched The Half Blood Prince last night in honor of what will be remembered as one of the most beloved characters of my children's childhood.
But the especially hard ones are those to whom we have a personal connection. Charles Rohde, a World War II veteran and dad to a dear friend. Laura Wiley, a mom, a wife, and a woman who touched literally every person she met. We became friends over the last year, and she never failed to encourage me to keep going with telling stories about people with cancer.
So what do you do when you're surrounded with sadness, regret, and maybe even a tinge of bitterness?
For me...I'm going to suck the marrow out of the pain.
I'm a firm believer that "grief pain" is an affirmation that you're still here and you still have tales to tell, especially about those who no longer can. The question now becomes, "What's the best way to let it out?"
Well, I'm a cryer from time to time. A Bach song or a good Mazda commercial is enough to send me over the edge. For starters, I'm going to turn to Adele. For the past two days, I've watched her pull off the most ridiculously awesome version of Monster by Nicki Minaj on James Corden's Late Late Show. It consistently puts a smile on my face. But I'm going to switch from watching the Queen conquer to When We Were Young from her appearance on SNL, which is actually incredibly appropriate considering the circumstances.
And then, for a gut wrenching, snot exploding, wailing and gnashing of teeth eruption, I'm going to pop in What Dreams May Come, now made all the more impactful knowing that Robin Williams is no longer alive.
And I'm not going to do this in front of anyone. It's going to be me alone, probably at 2:30am some morning when the mood finally hits that I need to let it go.
And what I have figured out for me is that I do have to let things go. When I was younger, I was that typical boy who would take the pain and crunch it and squash it and mash it and fold it and bury it down deep until it was no more. But as I've gotten older, I know now that this sort of pain may lay dormant for a long time, but it does revisit you, especially when you least expect it, and until you deal and you vent and you drop the baggage, it's like actual baggage.
When is that last time you actually threw away a suitcase? It's not easy. They're bulky.
I'm not saying this will work for you, and I'm not saying that this will be an end of grief. Just last night, I learned that Chris Mortensen from ESPN, maybe the most dogged NFL analyst ever, has been diagnosed with Stage IV throat cancer. As a former sports guy for the Steve and DC Radio Show, I've followed him for years and have a tremendous amount of respect for him.
Though I won't know when he'll be coming back on the air for ESPN, as I'm boycotting the N F-ing L for a while.
The punches never stop coming, and while we always keep fighting, eventually we're not going to be able to defend an onslaught. But I think I've learned that it's okay to stay down for the ten-count and embrace the knockout.
It's only from the ashes does the phoenix rise again.
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For all of you who have read my book, The Half Book: He's Taking His Ball and Going Home, I'm so grateful to you. For those who haven't, if you'd like an unvarnished, painfully humorous look at what a 29 year old "boy" dealt with through a cancer diagnosis, treatment, and aftermath, order your copy here!