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.

  

  

Saying Goodbye to Uncle Carley

How do you say goodbye to the kindest, funniest, quirkiest, and nicest person you've ever known?

How do you say goodbye to the person who from the time they were three months old, fed your boys, changed their diapers, bathed them, put them down for naps, played with them hour upon hour, made them laugh every day, wiped their tears when they cried, picked them up when they fell, and loved them with her whole heart.

And loved them with her whole heart.

Carley Meade - JP and Joe's beloved nanny for so many years and Jude's and my friend for 20 years - was placed on hospice care this week.  She's battled colon cancer for several years, sadly.  She's had multiple surgeries, so many ups and downs, good days and a lot of bad days, but she's endured it all almost always with an indomitable spirt and an unparalleled love of life.

Carley and her husband, Jon, continued to travel, especially in the early days after her diagnosis.  They continued to go see live music up until very recently.  Most importantly to Carley, I think, she continued to nanny for various families, as she had done for almost two decades.  That was the hard part for her, it seems, to be weakened by poor health to the point that she couldn't take care of children anymore, which was a calling for her.

I can't possibly tell the story of Carley and our family and do justice to the indelible impact she has had on our lives but I'm going to try.

Jude and I met Carley and her husband, Jon, through ultimate frisbee, of all things.  In the early days of our relationship more than twenty years ago, the ultimate frisbee community in Nashville was a vibrant, fun loving, cohesive, social, and close knit group of people.  When we started dating, Jude already was playing ultimate frisbee.  She introduced me to the game and, more importantly, to the unique group of individuals who played it in Nashville.  For that, I am eternally grateful.

So many trips, so many ultimate frisbee tournaments, so many summer leagues, so many parties, so many friendships.  So many happy memories, almost all of which involve Carley.  In those halcyon days of our relative youth, we traveled together to tournaments in Birmingham, Huntsville, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Memphis, Lexington, and Atlanta.  As a group - no, as a family of sorts - we traveled like vagabonds across the South to play ultimate frisbee with each other.

Salsa Dave Turrell, Jon Meade, Johan Madson, Nancy Schelin, Carrie Plummer, Dan Bahen, Doctor Tombo, Chelencia, Monica, Aaron Cuz Moredock, Richard Gurley, Ben Ryan, Kris and Eric, Howard  McNeely, Lynn Rodriquez, John Scala, Harriet Workman, Tony Brown, Kim Green, Hal Humphreys, Matt Hausman, Joanie Curry, Kelli McAbee, Chris Ma Bell, Howard Mertz, Brian Sword, et al.  And, of course, right in the middle of everything, Carley Farley. Always smiling, always laughing, always having fun, and always - always - making others laugh.

Yes, her name before she married Jon Meade was Carley Farley.  Of course it was.

In my mind, anyway, Carley, Jon and Salsa Dave became inseparable when Carley and Jon started dating.  Three peas in a pod in many ways, forever going out to eat together at an out of the way restaurant with good, cheap food - who knew? - like Siam Cafe or La Hacienda on Nolensville Road. Going to concerts together.  Playing silly, makeup games, often with a mini disc, in the house Or, of course, traveling together to ultimate frisbee tournaments.

Over time, of course, some things changed.  In a way, I guess, we grew up.  Hal and Kim got married, Jude and I got married and, yes, Jon and Carley got married, in 2005 or 2006, I think.  The entire frisbee community traveled to Virginia en masse and stayed together in a lake house near a vacation home that belonged to Jon's family.  It was a beautiful weekend together for all of us and to be there, in person, to celebrate the matrimonial union of Jon and Carley, two people at the center of our Nashville ultimate frisbee universe was special.

Time passed and things changed, as things are wont to do.  Some of our group moved away, some got busy at work and some, like us, had children.  The point being, of course, is that the ultimate frisbee torch for the most part was passed on to others, as so many of us moved into different phases of our lives.  Jon continued to play competitively, however, and he and Carley traveled, really, around the world for ultimate frisbee tournaments.  He even played for a time for the Nightwatch, Nashville's first professional ultimate frisbee team, now defunct.

Years earlier, Jude and I hoped Carley get started as a nanny, although she already had nannied for another couple from our ultimate frisbee community.  We recommended her to friends of ours, also both attorneys, and Carley nannied for Philip and Chloe for several years.  If memory serves, we played a small part in connecting Carley with other friends of ours who were attorneys, which led to her subsequently nannying for Elizabeth, then Virginia and Lydia, and, in later years, Jake.  That's among other children, too.  Many other children.

In the back of our minds, as we struggled to have children, Jude and I shared a nagging worry.  What if we had a child and Carley wasn't available to nanny for us?  What if we hooked her up with a family that she established a relationship with only to have her turn us down if and when we had a baby?  For us, that was a very real concern.

In a story I've told in this space before, I know, Jude surprised me in, I think, August 2007, with news that she was pregnant.  J.P. was born on March 28, 2008.  And, as fate would have it, Carley was available to nanny for us on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.  So began a different, deepened, and more rewarding relationship between Carley and Jude and me.  We had the privilege of witnessing firsthand what we already knew - Carley simply was a natural with children.

In fact - and I can say this with a measure of certainty - in my life, I have never seen anyone who is better at what they do than Carley was as a nanny.

J.P. and later, Joe, loved Carley, and she loved them right back with every fiber of her being.  

It goes without saying - but I'll say it anyway - I could never repay the debt of gratitude I owe Carley for taking care of our boys those three days a week for more than six or seven years.  To leave for work and know - I mean know - that J.P. or Joe (sometimes both) was safe, happy, and loved by Carley allowed Jude and me to work hard every day, sometimes for long hours, without worrying about the boys.

The relationship Carley had with each of my own sons was unique and on its own terms, as it should be, in my mind.  Their age difference - roughly three and a half years - helped, because each boy had Carley to himself for the most part.  What I mean is that Carley nannied for J.P. for more than three years before Joe arrived.  Then, J.P. was off to school, full time, at Children's House while Carley nannied for Joe every day.  In that way, each of my sons was able to form his own distinct bond with Carley.

It's hard to explain to someone who doesn't know her or for whom Carley hasn't nannied, but she was like Mary Poppins.  The perfect nanny for our boys.  Full of imagination, creativity, patience, and kindness.  There was, seemingly, no limit to the number and variety of games Carley could conjure up to play with the boys.

Carley turned the short hallway in our small, old house on Elliott Avenue into a hockey rink!  J.P. and, later, Joe, would stand at one end of the hall - stick in hand, wearing his hockey mask - and Carley would try to hit street hockey balls through his legs for a goal.  Then, he would try to hit one through her legs.  The boys loved this game and played for hours and hours.  Starting lineups were announced, our guest room was the locker room in between periods, and I think, at some point, music was involved.

Amazingly, Carley created a basketball court in J.P.'s small bedroom upstairs in old house.  She bought a basketball goal - like an old school Nerf hoop - and put it on the small door to storage space in his room.  The door was about half the size of a normal door, so the hoop was the perfect height for him at three years old.  She put electric blue tape on the floor and outlined a foul line and a lane.  It was incredible - her creativity - because this was a really small bedroom and Carley's not the biggest sports fan.  But, somehow, she knew that J.P. was, or would be, a sports fan.

J.P. played basketball on that hoop for hours at a time.  Originally, he had a hard time making baskets.  As time passed, he could touch the rim, and the, one day - suddenly or so it seemed to me - he could dunk on it.  It's crazy, but I used to get home from work, lay on his bed, and throw him alley oops while Jude made dinner downstairs.  J.P. was four years old, maybe four and a half.  It was special.

When we moved out of our house on Elliott Avenue, one of the last things I did was to remove the electric blue tape from the floor of J.P.'s bedroom.  Taking down that makeshift basketball court made me sad.  It makes me sad, now, thinking about it.  In our new house, the boys were bigger.  They quickly broke the basketball hoop after we placed it on the door to my office, upstairs, in the playroom.  Rather than throw it away, however, I saved it.  I had too many memories of too many happy times to discard it.

Carley staged rock concerts with the boys and all of their lovies.  In fact, she taught the boys to call their stuffed animals lovies.  I think she and Jon got J.P. one of his first lovies, a small Smokey (Tennessee Vol) dog he sleeps with to this day.

The boys played grocery store, restaurant and many, many other games with Carley.  Every day - literally every day - when I walked into the house, I couldn't help but smile in anticipation of what J.P., or Joe, and Carley would be playing, or doing, as I said hello after a long, sometimes stressful day at work.

They played outside and inside with Carley.  They went on walks in the stroller through the neighborhood - a much different neighborhood than it is now.  This was before 12South was really a thing.  They walked to Sevier Park and played on the playground.

Sometimes, in the mornings, we would meet Carley at Bongo Java, where I would handoff J.P. or Joe to her for the day.  When she was close, she'd call me and I'd order her a breakfast bagel.  J.P. or Joe would light up - literally - when she walked into the coffee shop and sat down with us at our table.

Carley was on a first name basis with the librarian at Green Hills Library because she went there so often with one or the other of the boys.  J.P. and Joe love to ready, which I love, given that I'm such an avid reader.  I give a lot of credit to Carley for the boys' love of reading and the fact that they read so well.

Carley taught my boys' sign language when they were babies.  As I write this, I can see J.P., and later,  Joe, sitting in the high chair, banging fists together to sign for more milk.  Wonder of wonders.  Truly.

J.P. and I used to hide in the bushed outside our house or in our neighbor's yard and wait for Carley to arrive in the mornings.  Even when she wasn't really surprised - when she could see us behind the giant maple tree in our front yard - she always acted surprised when we jumped out and tried to started her.  J.P. laughed and laughed, every time, as Carley reacted with surprise, or mock surprise.

One day, somehow, someway, for no apparent reason, I invented the "Uncle Carley" song.  I have no recollection of where it came from.  I really don't.  I wrote multiple, nonsensical rhyming lyrics, and J.P. and I, then later Joe, used to sing it to Carley almost every day.  She feigned disdain - actually, it might have been real disdain because it was a silly song - but she always laughed and, when we finished, looked at J.P. or Joe and said, "Why I oughtta . . . ," shaking her fist, as the boys laughed and laughed.

Uncle Carley.

The first person listed in my favorite contacts on my cell phone is Uncle Carley.  When I look her telephone number on my cell phone, there's a photo of her, holding Joe, at an ultimate frisbee tournament or a soccer game.  It's a great photo.

I'm smiling as I write this and the memories of those days with Carley flood back.  So many happy memories.  It was a simpler, more innocent time for all of us on so many levels.  I don't think I appreciated, at the time, how good things were.  In fact, in retrospect, I know I didn't.

With our boys, Carley was an extension of Jude and me.  She was family, plain and simple.  It seemed like the boys' - and our - time with Carley a happy, reassuring presence in our daily lives.  But, of course, all things end.  All things.

I came across a post recently on this blog about Carley's last day of regularly taking care of J.P., just before he started kindergarten.  It was the first sign, for me, that J.P. was growing up and that things were changing.  Though to take for someone one like me - who doesn't like change - to take.

Of course, at that point, Carley still had Joe to take care of and I knew we had another run with her of at least three years.  Carley had a special relationship with Joe.  Not that her relationship with J.P. wasn't special, too, because it was.  Perhaps because she knew it was her last Newman boy to take care of or perhaps because she knew how much Jude and I wanted J.P. to have a sibling, Carley really seemed to treasure her time with Joe.

Or, more likely, it's because Carley was taking care of Joe when she originally was diagnosed with colon cancer, which really sucked.  That might explain part of her bond with him.  For a time, while Carley was getting treatment, Jude's parents stepped in and took over for her and watched Joe while we were at work on Tuesday, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.  If memory serves, Carley missed two or three months - during which time Joe missed her tremendously - then she was back with him three days a week, much to his, and our delight.

Carley and Joe, and our family, slipped back into our comfortable routines.  Carley and Joe spent Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays together and, occasionally, Carley kept both boys if J.P. was out of school.  They loved every minute of their time with her, and so did I.

And then, one day, Joe started kindergarten at University School and, just like that, our time with Carley in our lives on almost a daily basis was over.  An era had passed, sure, but not one that my boys or Jude and me will ever forget.  Not ever.

Carley's spirit - her very soul - inhabits our boys' very beings and is part of who they are.  She is in there DNA, if you will.  Their kindness, sensitivity, generosity, curiosity, sense of humor.  So much of that is Carley.  J.P. and Joe will carry her with them for the rest of their lives, wherever they go, and whoever they're with.  And, one day, God willing, Carley will live on in J.P.'s and Joe's children.

As I write this - as I've struggled to write this for more than a week - Carley Meade is at Alive Hospice.  She heroically fought colon cancer and a myriad of related illnesses for the past few years until, finally, a little more than two weeks ago, it was time to stop fighting.

Not quite three weeks ago, Jude and I were in New Orleans for the weekend with the boys to celebrate Jude's 50th birthday.  Jon texted me late Sunday night to tell me that Carley was back in the hospital and that she was looking at palliative care options, including hospice care.  I think she had been through so much that she was tired of surgeries, medication, side effects of medication, and pain.  Tired of fighting.

As I lay in bed, everyone else sleeping, in a nondescript New Orleans hotel room on Royal, I read Jon's text, then reread it, then felt tears well up in my eyes.

What would my boys do without Carley?  What would anyone do without Carley?

In many ways, that's the question I've been struggling with the past three weeks, in between my visits to see Carley and Jon, and their families, and our many mutual friends, first at Vanderbilt Hospital, then at Alive Hospice.

It's taken me three weeks, or more, to write this.  It's hard to focus on, for me.

I have more to say about the last few weeks and the beauty I've seen and the love I've felt for Carley, and from Carley, at Alive Hospice.  And, yes, the sadness I felt, and still feel, every day.  For Carley, for Jon, for her family and friends, and for the many, many children who are losing their Carley.

Or, in my boys' case, their Uncle Carley.

J.P and Joe love you, Carley.  Jude and all of your Flo teammates love you, Carley.  And I love you, too.

Your indomitable spirit and love of life, your very soul, will live on on in all of us and, most especially, in J.P. and Joe.

Holiday Highlights

The holidays are officially over.  As always, too soon.

I'm sitting in Honest Coffee Roasters, have a cup of coffee, about to head over the office to start pushing the boulder up the mountain yet again.

It was a different holiday season, for sure, for reasons I've mentioned in earlier posts.  My first Christmas and New Year's without my mom was different, difficult, and maybe even a little depressing.  Next year will be better and easier, or so I tell myself.

Still, there were memorable moments the holiday season.

• J.P. and Joe, my muses and my inspirations.  It's hard not to love the holidays when they're so excited to be out of school, for Christmas, to watch football games on television, to go to Belmont games, to play on their iPads in the morning, etc.  They make me laugh and smile.
• Glow Nashville.  I was skeptical, at first, when Jude suggested we check it out at the Sounds' stadium downtown.  Turns out it was pretty cool.  We went just after it opened, well before Christmas, on a beautiful night without much of a crowd.  The boys ice skated while we watched.  They rode inter tubes down a hills of fake snow.  Not for me but they loved it.  Lots ob beautiful lights.  And, they saw Santa Claus.

• Christmas tree hide and seek at Santa's Trees.  Always a highlight, for me, of the holiday season.  We bought our Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving, then spent at 45 minutes taking turns hiding from each other amongst the trees.  I also ran into Miranda Pontes and reminded her of the Easter Sunday a decade ago when she served Jude and me day old pastries even thought Frothy Monkey was closed, as we sat on the front porch with our infant (J.P.) in the City Elite stroller.  That story made her happy and, somehow, I think she needed that day, she needed that.  I miss seeing Miranda around and I haven't seen her on Instagram as much, so I was happy to visit with her for a moment or two.
• Bardstown bourbon at the office with Lee, Chas, and Deb R.  I've never paid $129 for a bottle of bourbon and I probably never will again, but damn it's good stuff.  One night after work, Lee, Chas and I sat up front in our office, looking out at the Christmas lights on Fourth Ave. and on our office Christmas tree, while we sampled Bardstown bourbon.  I saw Deb leaving the courthouse late, waved her down, and she joined us.  Good conversation, good people, and good bourbon.
• Jude's brother and sister-in-law, Megan, and their young kids, Caroline and James, stayed with us over Christmas.  It was so much fun to have little ones in the house again at Christmas time. It also reminded us of how much work it takes to care for kids that young.  Full time, on call, 24-7, for sure.  James and Megan are great parents and their kids are treasures.  J.P. and Joe love Caroline and James and play so well with them.  I think Joe enjoys not being the youngest kid around for a change.  A developing tradition when we get together is the "cousin sandwich," pictured below.

• Christmas morning with Jude's parents, James and Megan, Jude and all of the kids.  Controlled chaos but filled with happiness and Christmas cheer.  
• Running a lot and running well and in good health.  For me, that's a small thing but it's everything.
• A few hours a my sister, Tracy's, house on December 26, with Gary, Tracy, Kaitlyn, Alice, Jerry, Will, Stacy, Hope, and Will.  It was different without my mom and without my mom's presence, but we got through it together.
• Church at St. Patrick on the afternoon of Christmas Eve.  Always special and more special with Joe carrying baby Jesus down the aisle to be placed in the manger, accompanied by J.P. and Caroline.  

I'm not really sure where we are with J.P. and Santa Claus.  At 11, almost 12, I'm fairly certain he has doubts.  Maybe he doesn't believe anymore but doesn't want to spoil it for Joe (or us).  My best guess is this was the last year of Santa Claus for him.  Joe, somehow, appears to still be all on Santa Claus.  He's determined that there's no Tooth Fairy - courtesy of a friend at school who apparently found a couple of his teeth in a drawer in his dad's bedside table - but he hadn't made any connection between the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus.  Go figure.  

Somehow, Joe's a little more worldly than J.P., so I suspect he will figure things out as it relates to Santa Claus at an earlier age than J.P.  

In the end, a different kind of holiday season for me.  More subdued, more contemplative and, frankly, a little sad.  I think (and hope) next year will be different and more . . . normal, for me.

Remember the Titans

Derrick Henry and the Titans have been on a historic run the last few weeks, particularly in the first two rounds of the playoffs.  Henry has been unstoppable in the Titans' upset wins over the Patriots and, last weekend, the Ravens.

Derrick Henry is the only player with two playoff games with over 175 yards rushing in the same season.  He's the only player with three consecutive games of over 180 yards rushing.  He's the only player over an eight game stretch in NFL history to have at least 1,250 yards rushing and 10 touchdowns.

And now, the Titans are in the AFC Championship game this weekend against a heavily favored Kansas City Chiefs' team.  The city of Nashville and, really, the entire state of Tennessee, are buzzing with excitement over this run by the Titans.  It reminds me of 1999, when the Titans played the Rams in their lone Super Bowl appearance, in the sense that everyone is talking about them.

I must say, thought, that it's been bittersweet for me not to be able to share the Titans' unexpected success this season with my mom.  She absolutely loved the Titans.  She watched every game, then listened to Mark Howard and crew on the postgame show.  During the week, she listened to George Plaster and Willie Daunic on Plaster's radio show.  All Titans' talk during the fall and early winter and she loved every minute of it.

After every Titans' game, especially the last few years before her memory failed her, I called her.  We had a routine that made us both laugh.

If the Titans won, when she answered my call, I'd say "how 'bout my Titans?!?"

If the Titans lost, I'd say "how 'bout your Titans?!?"

In recent years, there were more Titans' losses than wins, or so it seemed.  After losses, my mom would laugh that infectious laugh of her and ask "how come they're your Titans when they win and my Titans when they lose."  We would laugh together, then break down he game, big play by big play.

As a gift to my mom, I framed the front pages of the Tennessean after the "Music City Miracle" win over the Buffalo Bills and the AFC Championship win over the Jacksonville Jaguars during the 1999 season, which she hung on the wall in the playroom of her house.  She also hung on the wall an autographed painting of Eddie George and replicas of the Titans' logo and football helmet.  She even had a ticket - still in a lanyard - from a Titans' game I took her to long, long ago.  All of those hung on her walls in the playroom for more than 20 years, happy memories from days gone by for a Titans' fan like her.

Last Sunday, J.P. and I removed all of my mom's Titans' paraphernalia from the playroom wall (along with other sports memorabilia), in preparation for the upcoming estate sale at her house.  It was cruel irony, I guess, to be taking down and sorting through those things in the midst of the Titans' unexpected run of success in the 2020 NFL playoffs.  I was more than a little sad because I knew how much fun she would have had the past two weekends.

The word that comes to mind that best describes how I feel about the Titans' success is bittersweet.

It's been great to watch the games - and talk about the games and the team - with J.P. and Joe.  Part of growing up as a sports' fan is watching your team, on pins and needles, living and dying with every play.  In their lifetimes, they've never seen a Titans' team that went on a run like this, so it's been fun to share it with them.

However, with each win, I can't help but think about how my mom would've enjoyed this Titans' season.  I feel cheated, in a way, that I didn't get to share it with her.

One last time.

How 'bout your Titans, mom!?!

Joe Ovechkin

Early last week, Joe was eating breakfast before school.  Suddenly, he yelped and said, "Daddy, I lost my tooth!"

"Where is it?" I replied.

"In my eggs!"  he said.

Yep, there it was in his eggs - the first front tooth he's lost.

As you can see, Joe was very proud.  He looks like a hockey player.

The Birthday That Wasn't

Today was my mom's birthday.

For once, I had a bit of a lull at work, so I took the day off.  After Jude left with the boys to drop them off at school, I had a cup of coffee at Portland Brew in my neighborhood then drove an hour to Dickson Union Cemetery in Dickson, Tennessee.  There, my mom is buried in her family's plot, beside her two sisters, Sue and Ann, and just below her parents, Robert and Mary Alice Ussery.

At heart and in many ways, my mom was a small town girl.  It's appropriate, I guess, that she's buried in a cemetery in a small town.

Near the beginning of our week long vigil at St. Thomas Hospital last January - waiting for my mom's inevitable death after she suffered a stroke and brain bleed - I realized I had no idea where she was going to be buried.  It was the one thing that had never crossed my mind and something that Tracy and I had never discussed.  As I sat in the waiting room, my head spinning, I was lost until I ran into one of my mom's old friend's from Dickson.  It was nothing more than serendipity.

Dan told me to call Tommy Marvin at Taylor Funeral Home in Dickson, Tennessee.  "Tommy's a friend of the family," Dan said.  "He'll know what to do."  So, I called Tommy Marvin and true to form, he knew exactly what to do.

Tommy knew my mom and had handled the arrangements for my grandmother, Mary Alice Ussery, and later, for my grandmother's sister, Sara Dickson, when they died.  I had met him a time or two, although I didn't remember him.  I quickly realized he was a man my mom had talked about and liked, and had stayed in touch with after my grandmother died.  I think she and my Aunt Sara took him to lunch a time or two.  The point being, of course, is that he knew my family and, more importantly, my mom.

Tommy told me that he thought we had a family plot, or two, at Dickson Union Cemetery.  He looked into it and, as it turned out, there was one spot left next to my mom's sisters in the Ussery family plot.  I felt such sense of relief to know that my mom would be buried next to her sisters, whom she loved so much, and with her parents, too.

It's been a mild winter but it was a little cold and windy when I got out of my truck this morning began walking through the cemetery, looking for my mom's headstone.  It was hard, at first, to get my bearings, and I zipped up my vest against the wind and continued walking.  I was an odd sensation, walking alone through the cemetery, reading dates of death and birth on so many headstones in so many family plots.  I thought about the fact that each one of the people buried there had been a cherished and loved family member - a mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, brother, sister, son, daughter.  So many lives lived.

Slowly, I got my bearings, and within 10 minutes or so, I saw the large, gray "Ussery" marker.  I walked up and there I was, staring down at my mom's headstone.  I sat down for a few minutes, lost in thought and alone with my memories.

As I sat there in the wind, I told my mom that the boys were doing fine and that Joe had been so very excited when he lost his first front tooth earlier this week.  I told her the boys had fun playing basketball this fall.  I told her I missed her.  I told her I loved her.  Then, I said a prayer.

I stood up and took one last, long look at my mom's headstone.  Then, I walked back to my truck.

Happy Birthday, Meemaw.  I miss you and the boys miss you.