Spirit in the Sky

It's impossible to know when the worst moments in your life will occur.  Impossible to prepare for them.  Impossible to know how to brace yourself for them.  But you always know when you are in the midst of one of these moments.  That, at least, is always crystal clear.

For my family, one of these moments came on October 12th at around 8:45 pm.  It was then that Conor learned that his older brother, Carey, had been found unconscious and unresponsive in his home and was being rushed to the hospital.  For an hour after the news came, we sat on the couch in tears, desperately trying to be hopeful that everything would be okay.  Surely this could be fixed.  Surely he would recover.  He was too young, too important, too loved.

We learned around 10 pm that night that Carey had passed away at the young age of 40 years old.  It was likely a heart attack, but we are still not completely sure.  We hope to know more soon.

The weekend that followed was one of the most painful of my life.  For me, most of the pain stemmed from watching those around me experience complete and utter devastation.  The loss of someone who was so special and so important that the absence of him seems unfathomable.  Standing on the sidelines of intense, overwhelming grief is so humbling.  I wanted to take their pain away, but I couldn't touch it.  I could only be a witness to it.  It was an entirely helpless experience.

But, as is commonly found, amid this grief, there was beauty.  There was laughter through tears and many, many shared stories and experiences of Carey's life.  There was strength and grace that was absolutely awe-inspiring from Carey's longtime love and soulmate, Brenda.  There was the unbreakable bond of a family that has already seen way too much loss.  It was a painful, beautiful weekend.  A dear cancer mom friend of mine once used the phrase "brutiful" to describe her life at the time.  Beautiful and brutal.  Brutiful.  That's what last weekend was.  It was altogether brutiful.

Here is what I want to remember from Carey's funeral weekend.  I want to remember standing in a circle with all of the siblings and spouses in front of Carey's casket, passing around a flask of whiskey and toasting Carey's life.

I want to remember the warmth of hugs from my sisters and brothers in law, the kind of hugs that last longer than casual embraces and have a truly healing effect.

I want to remember how comfortable my two sons, as well as Carey's other nieces and nephews, felt standing beside his open casket.  They weren't scared.  It was Uncle Carey.  They wanted to be near him.

I want to remember the hulking figures of all these football player buddies of Carey's from college, dressed in their Sunday finest, paying their respects.  There was such a bond there, such a love.

I want to remember the moment when Brenda realized that Carey's funeral was on the same day as George Wendt's birthday.  George Wendt was "Norm" from Cheers, and this was also Carey's nickname. The laughter through tears of that moment.  Oh, that was a good one.

I want to remember watching Carey's coffin leaving the church to the jaunty tune of "Spirit in the Sky."  He didn't have many wishes for his funeral, but on this detail, Carey was clear.  Give me a proper send-off with this damn song.  And dammit, we did.  It was perfect.

I want to remember the party after the funeral.  The weather was beautiful.  Crisp and cool but sunny.  There was a fire pit.  All the kids played football in the grass.  I felt Carey's presence.  I think we all did.

There is no way to prepare for the worst moments of your life.  But I guess we can control how we respond to them.  Also how we remember those who have left us.  I choose to remember Carey as an uncle.  Not just an uncle.  The best uncle.  Throwing his nephews and nieces up in the air, swimming with them, putting them on his shoulders.  He simply lit up like a Christmas tree when he was around the Crimmins Littles.  And they adored him.  We all did.  Rest in peace, Uncle Carey.  We love you so much.