Tag: Perseverance

Breaking Bread with Dead People

When you think of the commonalities you share with another person, what comes to mind? Most likely, things like interests, hobbies and passions.

Can we bridge the gap in areas of emotional distress? Why can’t we talk about death or tragedy without people feeling sorry for us or reluctant to welcome a difficult conversation?

Common tragedies bring people together from a sense of knowing. Compassion, empathy and patience are automatic.

The more we talk, the more we gather, the more we grow.

I would be remiss without referencing the inspirational, M. Scott Peck’s poignant words from The Road Less Traveled,  “…we must live with the knowledge that death is our constant companion traveling on our left shoulder.” Important words for the future whether you have lived through a significant death or not.

I originally wrote this in the summer of 2021 after lunch with two former high school classmates. I was so troubled and moved by their shared tragedy, I went home to write this for them.

Sadly, in the time since that day, there are other friends who, tragically and with great despair, have reluctantly joined the club.

This is for anyone who has lost a child.

I recently shared a meal with some high school mates among whom time and distance has put a few decades of space between. Life happens and so does death. How did we move from the bleachers of our high school gym to a table in a restaurant discussing the death of each of their sons?

Catching up on our years since takes a vastly different direction when one has lost a child. I only know this from afar because not only have I never lost a child, I do not have one to lose. In the reminiscent realm of these gatherings, ‘yea, me too’ is not something one might consider hoping to share.

I do know death intimately, though. We are old acquaintances. I have felt the air sucking deflation of every ounce of purpose and faith.  When I met death, disguised as hope and a glimmering light, it felt like falling off a cliff waiting for the bone crushing end that continued in perpetuity.

A bone crushing crash that never ends. Yes, can you imagine?

This is a path where second guessing intersects why me. A winding path full of questions that offer no answers and ends in a place where the entrance to the club requires a secret handshake.

They know the nature of fragility. They met at a dead end road.

They remain in turmoil while they stumble towards peace. They seem to rationalize the absence but not the loss.

How does one even reconcile the loss of a child?

How does one not say, ‘God should have taken me?’

They have asked those questions but find no answers. They choose to live despite them. They know time fleets, wanes and is a gift wrapped in a constantly unraveling bow. 

As an empathetic spectator, it moved me to witness the grace with which they each shared their grief and pain, and ultimate compassion for the other’s loss. A sense of knowing that doesn’t emerge until you walk in another’s shoes.

Interestingly, they both attended the Catholic elementary school together but admittedly struggled finding solace in their faith. I imagine a loss so great cannot be reconciled in any form intended to comfort.

It is there that we break bread with dead people. Where shared tragedy bridges decades long gaps instantly exchanging what truly matters, for what truly does not. Tomorrow isn’t what it will be without yesterday. Forward our only choice.

My old acquaintance taught me this, and apparently, it taught my friends the same.

Perhaps, this club is not for everyone. It requires great strength, resilience and fortitude to enter and stay, but true unwavering perseverance to leave, to seek and find peace, to hope and breathe again, and ultimately, to find the parachute’s cord before the bone crushing end.

If you know someone who has lost a child, meet them at the dead end road. Welcome a difficult conversation. Check in, be present, listen and support.

If you are the surviving parent, keep them close. Live within, through and beyond their absence and loss, ‘always traveling on your left shoulder.’

Peace and love for a memorable, reflective and joyous Thanksgiving to all.

The Last Time I Said I Can’t

At what age do we really start thinking for ourselves, making plans, setting goals and believing those outcomes are ours to achieve? If it is as simple as shifting our mindset, when and how do we know to do so?

My Hungarian father and his parents’ sacrifices cast a brilliant light on what resilient and perseverance meant and the tenacity with which they approached survival and hope for a new day. They were worthy examples but as an adolescent how could I associate the direction I needed to take with that of people who left their lives behind for freedom.

Through their example, I grew to see my life as limitless. It was simultaneously encouraged by my parents, but how and when could I put it into action?

Reflecting on that now, to pinpoint a pivotal moment in time when the light went on, it was my senior year of high school on the basketball court.

Something changed, forever.

My coach towered over my 5’9” lanky body and persisted in challenging me to a close jump shot through her outstretched arms. With absolutely no effort, she repeatedly swatted my shot away before it had any hope of success.

“Again,” she commanded, as my teammates watched, grateful not to be standing in my shoes while I continued to struggle.

“Again!”

After the fifth or sixth time, I muttered “I can’t.”

“What did you say?” She was as shocked by my response as I was by the tone of her question.

Gulp, “I can’t.”

Her next words changed my life.

“Don’t you ever say I can’t,” she screamed as she slammed the ball down on the court, promptly spun on her heels and returned to the locker room. Practice over.

Naturally, she was pushing me to think outside the box and do something differently to enable my success, but I threw in the towel and just gave up. I quit.

I can still feel that feeling today. My humiliation was overshadowed by an inordinate sense that I needed to shift my mindset. Verbalizing my negative thoughts allowed me to quit, give up and stop trying.

One of many quotes from Eleanor Roosevelt that I love; “Nothing has ever been achieved by the person who says, ‘It can’t be done.’”

Think about it. Believing you can’t is a cop out, a way to avert failure, an excuse that enables quitters. It’s Superman’s kryptonite.

Combining ‘I can’t’ with any hope of accomplishing something we set our minds to are opposing forces. The up and down of the seesaw has no prospect of finding balance in the middle. I knew in that moment; I could talk myself into something just as easily as I could talk myself out of it.

It became a forever mindset granting me the time and space to believe in myself, to push beyond where comfort lived and to color outside the lines. With time and maturity, it developed my critical thinking skills and furthered my confidence and pride. Attributes that were earned and not given.

After that day, I knew the sky was the limit and my life was mine to live. Sink or swim, I had control. That afternoon on the basketball court was the last time I said or believed, “I can’t.”

Thank you, Coach Nancy Paige.

Frank and Bill – The Tale of Two Fathers

If you have been a young child of divorce, you know the agonizing feeling of loss buried deeply under glimmering hope, wishful thinking and a blatant aversion to reality. Pretending, escaping and willing it away with every breath, longing for the return to normalcy are efforts in futility.

If you have been a young child of divorce lucky enough to be blessed with a second father, then you know the peace and joy that can emerge out such a devastating scenario. I am grateful that one of the most unfortunate situations in my young life grew to be one of the most fortunate.

As I say in nearly every post, I am where I am because of where I have been. As such and without doubt, my two fathers have been the most influential men in my life, albeit through vastly different examples.

Frank was a non-conformist Hungarian refugee who colored outside of the lines in every aspect of his life. He was sophisticated, worldly, cultured, artistic, philosophical, conversational, passionate, carefree, and wounded. He loved the Mamas and the Papas and Picasso, the Pacific Ocean and sailing.

He lived a minimalist laissez-faire life and believed rules were meant to be eradicated.

Frank was into vinyl records.

Bill was an Irish Catholic career military pilot who, before becoming a corporate pilot, retired after 28 years of service as a Lieutenant Colonel. He was disciplined, focused, strict, organized, loyal, humble, stoic, and soft spoken. He loved flying planes, fishing, skiing and tinkering in the garage or yard.

He believed rules were meant to be followed.

Bill was into encyclopedias.

By virtue of their differences, I am the best part of both. Frank, through his influence and struggles taught me resilience, perseverance and compassion. How to be aware and mindful, how to overcome adversity, what inclusion looks like and why it matters. We share the same passions for music, art, the ocean and sailing.

Bill, through his regimented influence and example taught me discipline, order, organization, humility, and loyalty. His favorite saying… ‘it’s water under the bridge,’ through which I learned not to hold a grudge, or wallow in things I couldn’t control. After hearing it so much, it got me thinking why I couldn’t push it back up stream to make it come down differently, something I reference to this day. I ski because of him. I teach skiing to others because of him.

I have five step brothers and sisters, nieces, nephews, and a vast extended family I would not know and love otherwise.

These traits were realized through time and maturity. In fact, many took years, even decades, for me to recognize and embrace. Like a diamond in the rough, time fortified the inherent truths of my traits and the source of such wisdom. With hindsight and reflection, I see that now. The tale of two fathers, their influence and infinite presence always traveling on my left shoulder!

RIP Frank E. Kalapos – February 12, 1935 – November 10, 1988

RIP Lt. Colonel, William J. McElroy III – September 5, 1927 – June 7, 2022

Forever in my heart and on my left shoulder!

Losing Sucks!

Especially the tried your hardest, hope-to-win, feel it in your gut, but still lost, kind of losing. Even more especially if you are someone like me, a purveyor of wins. I win! I get shit done! I stay focused on the journey despite the path.

Easy, because most wins are relative, that is, unless there is a prize involved. Then it is either you’ve got it, or you don’t. You won or you lost. It is black and white, not gray. Your prize is shiny and bright. It is embossed, polished, engraved, laden in gold or adorned by a ribbon in the firsts of primary colors.

Fall short of that and it’s, “Nice try.” “Better luck next time.” “Everything happens for a reason.” The pretend compassion that reeks of cliché-ick apathy. Or worst of all, the loudest of silent voices, “What in the hell were you even thinking?”

While most of my life’s wins fall under the subjective umbrella – still a win because the glass is half full kind of win, a recent loss really sucked! It was a blow that left me gasping for every breath in my depleted worth.

I must trace my steps back to my high school athletic endeavors to even get close to this feeling. In those days, losing produced a gut ache so painful that tears found their way down my cheek. Typically, it was my shallow perspective on a specific reason that produced the loss… missed the jump shot at the buzzer, put the wrong wax on my skis, or was just simply out played.

They were not losses at the core of my identity rather ones that ran along side of it. This loss lives much closer to the core of my identity. It was full-on rejection.

I attended a Writer’s Workshop and there learned of their writing contest. Top prize, a $10 GRAND advance and a publishing contract!! Yes, please!! The only prerequisites of the contestants; attend a writer’s workshop, be a writer, submit a book proposal, and sit back to wait for the bells to ring and confetti to fall. I was confident there was no possibility of losing.

Losing, failing and rejection are the masks of opportunity. Yeah, yeah, yeah… I mean, I have gotten where I am in life believing that, but it doesn’t take away the monumental punch in the gut that lies in their wake. If we are where we are because of where we have been, then tomorrow isn’t what it will be without yesterday. Deal and move on.

While the rejection left me feeling depleted I was not to be deterred. After some time and the replenishment of my self-worth, I jumped back in the deep end and didn’t look back.

To some, it is a bit of a stretch to think of me as a writer. I mean, it seems that you either have always been one, or you are not. I landed somewhere in the middle. Dating back to the days of writing for my college paper, I have always loved the spoken leverage in the written word. Its strength and power exist without interruption, without the risk of deaf ears or a closed mind.

Writing is where I find my voice, even if only for myself. If you are reading this now, then I don’t have to worry about whether you are listening, whether your phone will ding with some notification, or if it’s time to put the laundry in the dryer. If you are reading you are listening. Agree or not with the message, at least I have your attention.