The Kids are Only Moderately Alright
Reading From Left to Write Book Club‘s October book, The Kids are Alright made me want to hurl the book across the room. The kids are not alright, not alright. It’s never alright to lose a parent. It’s not alright. Never.
My friend and neighbor died on Friday, just a day after I finished reading the book. He has three young children, ages just around the ages of Amanda, Dan and Liz. They are alright, as far as your-dad-just-died-but-don’t-forget-your-science-project-homework thing goes.
But, the truth is, those three beautiful kids will never be alright. There will always be a piece in them that lost their father when they were young. There will be a piece that is forever part of any puzzle — from father-daughter nights to wedding day aisle walks, from warm talk about manhood to power struggles with being the man of the house — it will never be alright that the family they built will forever have a piece called Dad that simply isn’t there.
The kids might be alright, but it will never, ever be right that they lost their dad this week.
Surprisingly, watching my neighbor friends take on death, taught me a lot about how I want to live. And for me, living means lists. The Kids are Alright did the same for me: it made me want to write lists. Maybe it’s a matter of controlling the uncontrollable. But from this week of reading and loss came a five-item To-Do List:
1. Get a living will. How come I don’t have this? Why doesn’t @la_gringa have this? I think because it’s money we don’t want to spend on a topic we don’t want to think about. But it’s been long enough. We each need a living will. If you’ve got a good estate attorney, let me know. We’re going to make this happen before the end of the month.
2. Talk to my family about what I would want to happen with my children in the event of my death or terrible illness. This is different that a living will for me. This means having the Talk. I want my family to know what my private dreams are for my children as they age including what I want for them idealistically (things like: secretly, I don’t care if my kids try smoking pot, but I do care where it comes from. Or: happiness comes before education no.matter.what.), and, what I want for my kids literally (i.e.: birth control pill as soon as the word ‘boyfriend’ hits her mouth without any judgement whatsoever. Or: If he gets in a fight on the playground remember to check his wounds both internally and externally before grounding his sorry ass). These are not estate issues, they are philosophical beliefs I have and want to share if something should happen to me.
3. Get a physical. Have @la_gringa get a physical. We have terrific health insurance and we’re in good health. But why wouldn’t we get an annual physical? Lame. No excuse. Just lame of me. What if I could have caught something early enough to fend it off? Or at least early enough to buy time to do the stuff I want to do. Get tests — cholesterol, blood pressure, mammograms — all things I never check that I really should. Calling now.
4. Go to church. Now you all know how I feel about this topic, but I am reconsidering all this right now. My friend who died this week was a tree hugger, full of love for nature. He was a believer. I don’t care what church it is or where it is, for that matter. I just care that if something happened to me and @la_gringa, that my kids would have a great, vast, large network of people who believe in the greater good and of the peaceful destiny of their parents. One thing about The Kids Are Alright that really bugged me was that there was little-to-no village for the kids. We’ve got a friend and family village, but I want one of faith for them to fall into.
5. Examine and up our life insurance policy. I have no idea why this keep sticking with me. But it does. What are the percentages? Should I have it or just @la_gringa? How much should it cost? What’s reasonable? We’ve always had some life insurance, but as kids age and needs grow, we need to look at this before the end of this month. Who has good rates? Good reputation. Again, if you know of a good one, let us know, we’re looking to do this now.
I know checklists are all for peace of mind. But peace and piece of mind both broke my heart for Amanda and Dan, Liz and Diana. I want to kick their dead parents in the gut, which is a horrible thing. But it made me angry to think they hadn’t provided for the What Ifs of life for their kids and family. I plan to take that frustration and put it into action immediately. If anything should happen to me, the kids wouldn’t be alright, but I would want to make sure they had the best chance to grow up as alright as I can possibly muster for them.
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Uwe is Dying
My friend Uwe is dying.
Tonight I wrote a long meaningful blog post about my friend and his extraordinary wife, my friend. I wrote a draft about these last days. I wrote poignant words about how an entire community of people are living for them this week as he and his family face the end of his life. I wrote about how @la_gringa and I think about them almost all the time right now.
What a silly stupid post. There are no words. Delete. Delete. Delete.
I explained death tonight to my children. They saw Uwe earlier today, only one half of him in this world, the other in his next. It frightened them. They asked me what would become of him and I told them that I believed he’d become a redwood tree; a giant, full, quiet, shaded redwood tree. We came home and my son told me that he thought a man in a wheelchair should become someone who could fly. He thought Uwe would become a rare falcon. He drew a picture of “cycle of a life” drawing. 1. Start as a baby 2. Grow to a teenager. 3. Die as a very old person.
My daughter thought and listened. She cried and didn’t say much. Before going to bed she told me that she thought Uwe would become The Giving Tree in his next life so he could keep giving to his family.
I tucked them in. My son asked me what I’d come back as in my next life, and I told him a dog. That made him laugh. I’m allergic to dogs.
And our life goes on, while just one block away, Uwe’s does not.
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The George Mark Children’s House
I am irrationally protective over my kids’ safety. Not crazed, but protective. I refuse to drive down a street near a mortuary, and if I have to, I do so very quickly and drive fast. I don’t like them getting near one side of the street where we know a homeless guy was killed. I am superstitious about their safety, I can’t imagine them anything but safe. God willing.
The first time I heard of The George Mark Children’s House was a few months ago at the first Silicon Valley Tweetup. La Gringa and I mingled and networked like we’re supposed to. We traded business cards and banter like the pros. We had a couple drinks. But there was nothing, but nothing that stops a mom in her tracks like the story of a sick child.
The charity that benefits the Silicon Valley Tweetup is The George Mark Children’s House, a hospice for children who are dying. They are d.y.i.n.g., not recovering, from illness. This is the kind of thing I steer far from. It’s one degree of separation from the world’s worst horror and I don’t do that shit. But this time, somehow, it got me.
I got home that night and looked up the website. Indeed, an acclaimed 501c3 charity with a slew of volunteers, programs and support for the families of dying children all in a peaceful, private environment. You go to The George Mark Children’s House to die. If you’re a parent, you likely have already died a thousands deaths in bargaining with God to not take your child.
I don’t know much about this charity other than looking at the photos online, reading of their desperate struggle to stay afloat during this economic crisis we’re experiencing. I know a guy who’s niece died in a dignified manner at the House. I know that I can’t bear to think of a child dying. I know that somehow this charity got me in the gut.
So here’s how you can help: Visit The George Mark Children’s House website, look at their “wish list” and go find something in your garage that fits the bill and send it to them. You can donate online with stock or cash. You can write a note to a family. You can send good juju. You can speak with your very loud, influential voice to beg others to do the same.
I turned two streets out of the way tonight to avoid the mortuary again. Kids in the car. Don’t do mortuaries. And came home thinking of families that are sharing their child’s last breaths. And I felt so grateful to be home.
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Side Gigs
