Joe Turns Eight

Last Thursday, Joe turned eight years old.

My Joe, always smiling, always happy, always in a good mood, always upbeat and optimistic, always up for whatever is next.

My companion on so many stroller walks in the Baby Jogger City Elite - that I still have in the basement, by the way - when we lived in the old house and he was a baby, then a toddler.  How I loved to walk through the neighborhood, on the way to get coffee at Bongo Java or a Saturday mid-afternoon beer from Sweeney at the 12South Tap Room or from Doc at Mafiozza's or from Spencer at Edley's (at the small bar before the renovation).  We covered a lot of miles together in that stroller.

I miss those days in many ways.  Simpler, more innocent times, for all of us.  I miss my mom, of course, and Carley, too.  Carley, especially, was so close to Joe.  When I think of Joe as a toddler, my mind, and heart, inevitably turn to memories of my mom and Carley.

I smile when I think about "Joe Time," a phrase I invented for the 45 minutes or so Joe and I had together on weekday mornings after Jude took J.P. to University School but before I took Joe to Children's House, which started later.  Occasionally, we watched Daniel Tiger on television.  Other times, we went to Bongo Java, played Battleship, and Joe had "second breakfast."  Sometimes, we went to Belmont and played football in the atrium outside the Curb Center.  Students always laughed as they walked by us, inside, yelling and laughing as one of us ran down the "sideline" cradling the Nerf football.

Of course, much like his brother (and his father), Joe is all sports, all of the time.  As Carley quickly noticed, in many ways he's even more competitive than J.P.  I love that about him, because I want my boys to be competitive in sports, and in life.  Joe loves playing baseball the best, last least for now, although basketball and soccer run a close second.  Coaching Joe (and J.P.) in baseball is one of the joys of my life.

Joe seems to be a natural leader, still.  I noticed that at an early age, at Children's House, and it hasn't changed.  Other kids tend to gravitate to him.  First grade at University School has been a good year for him on all levels, I think.  Ms. Roth, a veteran teacher who taught J.P., as well, is perfect for him.

Joe is a phenomenal reader.  Much to my delight, he absolutely loves to read.  When he gets a new book as a Christmas or birthday gift, he often opens it up and starts reading it on the spot.  I love it.

I think, in many way, Joe and I are kindred spirits, whereas J.P. is more like Jude.  Joe has a huge heart and tends to wear his emotions on his sleeve.  If he's sad or down, like he has been with Carley's death, he cries or talks about it.  I'm the same way.  J.P. is more inclined to keep his feelings inside, which worries me sometimes.  Neither way if right or wrong, obviously, just different.  Joe is an extrovert, I think, like me, and not very concerned with what others think.  He just does his thing.

Joe and J.P. get along so well.  Joe idolizes J.P.  They love sports, playing sports and watching sports on television or in person.  Again, Joe is a little more intense than J.P., even when it comes to watching sports.  At a Lakers - Grizzlies game in Memphis last fall, J.P. and I had to remind to Joe to settle down because he was getting so angry, early in the game, when Memphis took a lead.  The same thing happens when we watch Predators' games together.  He's intense even as a fan, just like I was at that age.

It's just so strange and a little disconcerting, frankly, how fast it goes by, you know?  There's a helplessness and powerlessness to it all from my standpoint.  One day I'm strolling Joe through the neighborhood as he naps in the stroller, the next day he's showing me that he lost his second front tooth at school, eating salami, and has no idea where the tooth went.  That actually happened earlier this week.

Joe.  My guy.  Always and forever.

On Death and Dying

I've never understood what it means to die with dignity.  To die a good death.  To die the right way.

Until last Friday.

Carley Farley Meade died peacefully Friday morning at Alive Hospice, surrounded by her family and her husband, Jon, who loved her and supported her until the very end.

And you know what?  Carley died with dignity.  She died a good death.  She died the right way.  Her way.  And in the end, I think that may be what matters the most.

I was blessed to have spent a few minutes with Carley Thursday night, along with Jon, Kim Green, an her mom.  I had seen her Tuesday and Wednesday nights, too.  By then, Carley wasn't conscious, but I talked to her as I held her hand.  I promised her I would - at long last - watch The Princess Bride, one of her favorite movies.  I also prayed for her.  

Other, earlier nights, I sat in the family room at Alive Hospice, or the kitchen, and talked with others who were there.  Spending time with Carley's family and with so many of our shared friends made me feel useful, like I was helping in some small way.  It was a comfort to me, especially as I slipped into a routine of driving over to Alice Hospice at night, after my boys were in bed.  I've felt so helpless - I think we all have - as we watched Carley suffer.  I sought solace in being there, just being present, to support Carley, Jon, and their families.      

During the past few weeks when she was at Vanderbilt Hospital first, then at at Alive Hospice, I shared a few moments with Carley.  At Vanderbilt, as we held each other and cried together, she told me she would miss us so much.  And my heart broke.  For her, for Jon, for her family, for my boys.  And, selfishly, for me.

She also told me that she never took her time with J.P. and Joe for granted.  I cried harder, held her tighter, and replied, "I know.  I know."

I whispered to her that the boys, and Jude and I, would never forget her.  I told her, too, that a part of her was in the boys, and always would be.  That was  her legacy.  And, most of all, I thanked her for loving my boys like they were her own.  Because that's exactly what she did.

I was lucky enough to talk with her a couple of more times at Alive Hospice when she was still getting up for a few hours a day.  Just a few stolen moments that meant everything to me.

The last few weeks, much like last year when my mom died, I've tried to make sense of death and dying.  In the broader sense and on a smaller scale, specifically as it relates to Carley's.  It's been hard for me to concentrate at work and, at times, in the middle of the work day, I just sat and stared off into space.  My mind wandered and it was hard to stay on task or, really, to be emotionally engaged in anything that wasn't related to Carley, Jon, and their families.  I teared up, often, as I thought of Carley and Jon.

In fact, one weekday morning a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at Honest Coffee Roasters in Franklin, having a cup of coffee before work, as I normally do in the mornings.  After I finished my coffee, I almost called my office, canceled the day's appointments, and went home.  Everything that was on my schedule seemed so meaningless and all I wanted to do was go to Alive Hospice, see Carley, and sit with her family and friends.  Just to be near her.  I didn't do that but, damn, I sure wanted to.

It seems to me - and only to me because I'm not speaking for anyone else - that Carley lived the last three or four weeks, maybe longer, not for herself, but for all of us.  What I mean by that is I know she was uncomfortable and in pain, at times.  Things must have been unpleasant for her emotionally and she was anxious, too.  She had to be.  Still, I think she held on for all of US.  For Jon, for her family, for her friends.  And, also, for all of the children she has nannied over the years, many of whom came to see her and say thank you to to express their love for her.  And to say goodbye.

It was hard for me to watch helplessly as J.P. and Joe cried uncontrollably when they said goodbye to Carley when we took them to see her at Vanderbilt Hospital, immediately after she decided she was finished with surgeries and medicine.  I sobbed as J.P. hugged her close and, in tears, thanked Carley for taking care of him and spending time with him.  The enormity of the moment was not lost on J.P. or me.  Joe hugged her next, crying the entire time.  And Jude and I cried right along with him.

It may have been my most difficult moment as a parent, watching my boys in such searing emotional pain.  Still, Jude and I felt strongly that the boys needed a chance to say goodbye to Carley.  For closure.  For healing, short term and long term.  I thought then, and still do now, that it was the right thing to do.  For them.  And for Carley.

And in a true act of selflessness, Carley gave J.P. and Joe what they needed - a chance to hug her, to laugh with her one more time, to thank her, and to tell her they love her.  A chance to say goodbye.  They needed that opportunity and, in a way, it was her final gift to them.

And you know what?  In her suffering the last three or four weeks, she gave all of us that chance, and more.

She gave us a chance to be together, to bond with each other through our shared love for her and, yes, through our sadness.  She gave us a chance to renew old friendships that lay fallow over the past few years as we drifted through our distinctly different, busy lives.  She gave us the chance to make new friends, as so many of us - Carley's family and friends - sat in the family room, or in the kitchen, or in the library, at Alive Hospice and talked quietly with each others for hours upon end.

 Carley gave us a chance to, perhaps, reassess our lives.  To reset the individual compass that guides us each and every day.  By showing us the things that were most important to her - love for her husband, love for her family, love for her friends, love of children, love of music, love of the earth - she reminded us that those things should be the most important things to us, too.  That's what she did for me, anyway, and I suspect that's what she did for a lot of us.

Isn't it amazing that in her discomfort and suffering, Carley gave those things to us?  Gave even more of herself to us?  To the very end, it seems to me, she was giving.  Never taking, only giving.  To me, that was Carley.  Actually, that is Carley.

I reconnected with old friends from our ultimate frisbee days whom I hadn't seen in years.  I sat and talked with friends who traveled to Nashville from New Mexico (Erik L.), Colorado (Scott Z.), and Missouri (Daniel K.), just to spend a few minutes with Carley.  To tell her and show her they loved her.  To tell her goodbye.  The outpouring of support from Carley's friends was tremendous.  Truly, it was a testament to how she lived her life, how she connected with people, and how openly and freely she shared her love with them.

Carley's beloved teammates on Flo, the Nashville ultimate frisbee community's original women's team, got together at our house on a Saturday day night before they went, as a group, to see Carley at Alive Hospice.  Such an amazing, exceptional group of ladies who played ultimate frisbee together on fields throughout the south many years ago.  Having those ladies at our house, albeit briefly, was special.  I teared up - again - as I watched them talking with each other.  Later that night, in keeping with a Flo tradition, they sang a Michael Jackson song to Carley at Alive Hospice, with lyrics Jude had written earlier that week.

Late at night, at Alive Hospice, many of us - old friends, all - told stories as old friends are wont to do.  We ran through our Rolodex of shared memories of parties, dinners, road trips, and ultimate frisbee tournaments.  Memories from what almost seemed like a different lifetime.  We teased each other.  We smiled and laughed together.  And, of course, we talked about Carley.  About how much she meant to us.  About how unique of a person she was.  About how much we were going to miss her.  About how there would never, ever be anyone like Carley.  And about how much we loved her.

Many of us cried together, too, in the family room, in the hallway outside Carley's room, and in the parking lot as we walked out of the building together.

We cried for Carley, for Jon, and for Carley's family.  And for all of the children who have been loved by Carley and, I think, for all of the children who would have been loved by Carley.  And, of course, we cried for ourselves and the fact that we won't have this beautiful, kind, tender, and innocent soul in our lives any longer, at least not in the traditional sense.  We cried at the cruelty and unfairness of it all.  We cried because we felt helpless.  We didn't understand how this actually could be happening.

In those late nights when I visited, I spent time with Jon's parents.  I spent time with Carley's mom, Trish, and other members of her family.  Such good and solid people.  I have such admiration for all of them.  I feel a kinship with them.  I feel like, somehow, I became part of a new, larger, supportive family.  The family of Carley.  

Carley's family, Jon's family, their friends, all as one, new, larger family, held together - bonded together - by their love for Carley.  So many wonderful people.  And I really hope that doesn't change.  I don't think it will.

I learned something - or at least I tried to learn something - from my mom's journey with Alzheimer's disease and our 8 day vigil at St. Thomas Hospital with her before she died on January 31, 2019.  I think I even referenced it when I gave her eulogy.

There's beauty everywhere.  Sometimes, you just have to look a little harder to find it.  But it's there.

I kept those words close to my heart the past few weeks as I thought about Carley and when I saw her or spent time with her family and friends at Alive Hospice.

Speaking for myself and myself only, as painful and difficult as these past few weeks have been, at Vanderbilt Hospital and at Alive Hospice, I saw beauty - real beauty - and that's part of what has sustained me and will continue to sustain me in the days to come.  I hope it's the same for others, too.

Some of the beauty I saw firsthand and some of the beauty I saw in photographs people shared on Google photos.  Some new photos and some old photos.

I saw Carley smiling, laughing, and hugging children she had cared for in the past, including mine.  I saw her playing games with children.  I saw her saying goodbye to children.  And I saw children smiling because they were in the presence of such a powerful love.  Their love for Carley and her love for them.

I saw Carley building Lego's with her brother, Tony, and others.

I read what people had written in a journal Jon's sister bought and left at Alive Hospice.  Jon told me Carley read many, if not all, of the entries.  The entries were heartfelt and beautiful, every one written from the heart.  Memories and expressions of gratitude and love toward Carley for a life well lived.

I saw a family lean on each other, for support, in its darkest hour.

I saw Carley, smiling with so many old friends.  She had time for everyone one of them, it seemed.  Time to say I love you.  Time to say goodbye.

I saw old friends reconnect, coming together from places near and far away to honor Carley.  To say goodbye to her.  To support Jon.

I saw new friends connect for the first time.  I met John Williamson after I listened to him play original songs on his guitar for Carley, late at night, in her room.  It was a moment I'll remember for the rest of my life.  Later in the week, as we talked, I was struck by the feeling that I had known John my entire life.

I saw musicians - like Louis and York and John Williamson, among others - make the time to stop by Alive Hospice and play music and sing for Carley.  What an act of love for someone like Carley who loved music.  Simply amazing.

I saw a husband so devoted to his wife that he rarely left her side.  Jon's devotion to Carley manifested itself in ways large and small, as it has for so many years.  During her last few weeks at Alive Hospice, he consoled her, he read to her, he held her, he cried with her, he kept people away when she wanted to be alone, and he arranged for people to see her when she was up to seeing and talking to people.  I saw Jon rub Carley's feet, lovingly, on the last night I visited her, constantly trying to make her more comfortable as she slept.  Jon's undying love for Carley was perhaps the most beautiful thing I saw, maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

So much sadness, yes, but beauty, too.      

Last night, Kim Green and Hal Humphreys hosted a quiet get together at their house on Halcyon Street.  Several of Carley's ultimate frisbee teammates were there - the fabulous ladies of Flo - along with Carley's family.  Jon's mom was there, too.  We hugged each other, tightly.  We reminisced.  We talked quietly with each other.  Then, we said goodbye.  To each other and, in a way, to Carley, too.

This all seems so surreal to me.  Quite honestly, I'm having a hard time accepting the fact that Carley Farley Meade, so full of life and kindness and laughter, is gone.  How can that possibly be?

I'll go on, today, and in the days to come.  We all will, because we have to.  I think Carley would want us to, actually.  She would want us to love our children and each other.  To love and enjoy life.  To live every day to the fullest and to take nothing for granted.

Some comets are meant to burn brightly as they trail across the night sky but not to burn for a long period of time.

To me, that was Carley.  She brought so much light into our lives -and into so many children's lives - in the relatively short time she was with us.

And I'll remember her forever.