Dearest James,
I went to sleep last night with the intention of posting a quote or lyrics to a song this morning to commemorate all that today is, but I woke up needing to say more. Sometimes I don’t think my heart can take missing you anymore than it already does. Then another year goes by and it does just that. Today marks an unbelievable seven years since life without you began. That night is ingrained in my mind. It was so odd to be leaving the hospital without you. Mom, Dad, Nora, Brendan, and I piled in the car in the middle of the night and drove home. I don’t remember much of the car ride, but I remember sleeping on the couch that night with your Canisius blanket. I think I thought I’d wake up and discover it had all been a dream and you’d want your blanket back.
If I’m completely honest, it’s not February 26th that “does me in” every year. It’s the day before. It was the morning before you died that I got the phone call from mom. I was sitting in the cafe at The Met in NYC. I must have had my phone on silent because I remember looking down and having a lot of missed calls from Mom. I thought it was odd because she knew I was away on a school trip, but I wasn’t worried until I heard her voicemail. She had just said to call her, but something in her voice was off. To this day it's still a little difficult to answer calls from home at odd hours.
I remember at the time wanting to pretend I hadn’t seen the calls or heard the voicemail yet and just go on with my day. It’s crazy, but it’s as if I knew the minute that phone call went through to home, I would be hearing things I wasn’t ready to hear. I learned later Mom and Dad were very adamant about not telling me over the phone what everyone at home now knew… you were dying. What she did tell me was that you weren’t doing well and that I might want to come home. She gave me the option of finishing my trip and returning to Rochester the next day where someone would come pick me up at school or having Marmee and Da, pick me up at the airport later that day on their way home from Florida.
Our family has an amazing capacity for subtext in a conversation. My decision was a heart-wrenching but easy one. I would get home as soon as possible. I hung up the phone and slowly told my friends what was happening, and that I needed to go back to the hotel and pack my things. They were amazing in that moment and perhaps that’s the very reason why God put them in my life in that place at that time. They walked me back to the hotel, the entire time assuring me that it would be okay and that my Mom was probably just being cautious and maybe even wanted me home to cheer you up.
They didn’t know what I knew. There was no way Mom would have called me with this news if something wasn’t really wrong. After I finished packing, I still had some time before the car was supposed to pick me up. It was the first of a few times I’d find myself waiting that day. If ever there was a moment I wanted to blink and be somewhere else as quickly as possible, that was one of them. Everything took forever that day. In the car on the way to the airport I remember I kept looking out the window trying to distract myself then at the driver wondering if he knew that he was driving someone who’s entire world was about to turn upside down?
I finally arrived at the airport. More waiting. Eventually I ended up on the plane with Marmee and Da heading back to Buffalo. I think there was small talk… an effort on all our parts to pretend like everything was going to be okay. For the most part we rode in silence. It’s a difficult thing to carry on a conversation when your stomach is in your throat.
When we landed in Buffalo it was dark. A very visible reminder of how much time had passed since I talked to Mom that morning… too much time. Waiting at the doorway into the airport was Uncle John and then I slowly recognized Father Sibby was with him. My immediate (and uncensored) thought was “oh shit, we’re too late.” Appropriate or not, we laugh about it now because we know you would too. Probably not the best idea to send the priest along when you know you’re on your way to someone’s death bed. The implication was that you didn’t need him anymore and that we would. The entire way to the hospital I kept thinking he was waiting for the appropriate time to break the news that we’d missed our chance to say goodbye. Thank God, he really was just along for the ride to help in any way he could.
I don’t know if you know this, but when someone in a hospital is dying they kind of wave the whole maximum number of visitors thing. That was evident as I turned down the hall towards your room. Our entire family was there, our friends were there, friends of yours I didn’t even know at the time… it was a short hallway full of a lot of people, appropriately reflective of your life. Things you never thought you’d be able to handle become abundantly more bearable when the ones you love most in this world are surrounding you.
The moment I sat next to you in the hospital bed, I knew it wasn’t that I had been worried I wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye, but that I wasn’t going to hear you say goodbye to me. You were already slipping away from us and in that moment I was just grateful to be holding your hand. I was grateful to God for getting me home in time. I didn’t know then what I know now to be true. God’s heart was breaking too.
There’s a lot of people in this world that don’t understand a God who could let bad things happen to good people. My prayer is that someday they’ll see the truth. God made everything in this world good and pure. People are the ones that screwed it up. God could have abandoned us, but instead He sent Jesus. He so very clearly has a plan for each one of us. God blessed us with seventeen years together, James and I'm so grateful for everyone of them.
I feel blessed that I made it home in time to hold your hand, even if it was for a few hours. I even feel blessed that for the previous two years before you died that we knew you were sick. No one of course ever thought you wouldn’t make it through, but it gave us the opportunity to talk about things that we might never have otherwise. We appreciated every moment. Even game nights, something so simple, became something so cherished.
In the days leading up to and the day of your funeral it became clear how loved you were by so many and how many lives you touched by just being you. People lined the walls at your funeral to not only have the chance to say goodbye, but to also celebrate you and everything you were for so many people. At 17 years old, you had friends from age four to eighty-four. The capacity you had to love and be there for others still amazes me. Not because I didn’t think you capable of it, but because it was so effortless for you. Colin is a name that often comes to mind, the 4-year-old little boy down the hall from you in the hospital who often cried out because no one was there to comfort him. I have this vivid memory of you calling me at school. I was sitting at my desk listening to you on the phone telling me that it "broke your heart" to see him alone so often. His father was working trying to pay medical bills and his mother just never seemed able to be there with him. This horrible thing was happening to you and your heart was breaking for someone else. You became his coloring buddy. When Colin died shortly after you, all I could think of was that conversation we'd had and that your heart no longer had to break for him. I'm sure by now you've made a little golfer out of him.
There’s so many things to miss about you, but do you believe that sometimes I even miss arguing with you? You were and still are the only one who could call me out who I would always eventually admit I was wrong to. I think once in a while I could still use some of that and I’m sure Dad, Mom, Nora, and Brendan would agree ;)
You were interviewed in the newspaper about a year after you were diagnosed. The headline of the article was, “Leukemia Just a Mogul on the Slope For Teenager.” That did seem to be all it was for you. I can’t tell you how many times people would be shocked to hear you were out any given afternoon playing nine holes of golf… after a morning of chemo treatments. Of course, no one, including you, knew this at the time, but looking back, you were making every moment count. There were other days.... the days you were to sick to get out of bed. We watched you endure a lot of those, but almost always without a word of complaint.
In that same article you talked about Canisius. Oh how you loved being a part of that school. It was so important to you to keep up with your classes and you did everything possible to do just that. In fact, I'm pretty sure you had a better GPA than I did! You told the reporter how much everyone at school was supporting you through everything along with your family and friends and of course your “ski and golf buddy, David.” Who, by the way, is getting married! (Side note: you’d love Christina, who has come to know you through all of our stories and pictures over the years.) I hope, on their wedding day, you’ll have a window from Heaven to look through like I know you’ve had for so many days in the past seven years.
It’s hard to think about the amount of life we’ve experienced without you. Brendan following your footsteps through Canisius, then forging his own path at NU, Nora graduating from Miami and volunteering as an EMT, and me living in California finishing up film school (what?!). Nora and Kevin just celebrated their one year anniversary. It’s pretty surreal that all these years later one of your closest friends is dating Nora. I think we’re all pretty convinced you had a hand in that :) I know wherever we are and whatever we’re doing, Dad, Mom, Nora, Brendan, and I carry you with us through our days.
It’s crazy to see all the cousins growing up, going to college, and spread through out different states. It’s hard to think about the younger new members of our family that will only know you by our stories and memories, but everyone will see to it that they will.
Days like today make it easy to drift into thinking about things that could have been. I often wonder what it would be like to know the older version of you. Where would you have gone to college? What would you have done for a living? Who would you have married? How many children would you have? What kind of uncle would you have been? Some things are harder to think about than others… like the toast you would have made at Brendan’s wedding and the advice you would have given him as he grew up. He’s been blessed to have our cousins and good friends, but no one can quite replace a brother. He misses you so very deeply and I think my heart aches for him the most.
It’s these thoughts that make me long for Heaven in the worst way. I used to think of time going by as counting the days and years since I’ve seen you, but now I prefer to think of it as a countdown until I see you again. Life on earth is so fleeting and knowing that makes each moment more precious than the last. You taught me so much along the way, especially to make the moments count. I’m often guilty of forgetting this, but God sends me reminders when I need them.
I miss you James. I miss you more than I thought it possible to miss someone. I miss my brother, but more than that, I miss my friend. I miss hearing you tell me about your day and I miss you listening as I told you about mine. I wish more than anything that I could somehow mail you a physical copy of this letter and even more than that I wish I could get a reply.
God willing, we all have many years on this side of Heaven before we’re reunited. This year I will spend today like I always have and always will. I will spend it celebrating you, your life, and especially the anniversary of the day you met Jesus. I can't even begin to imagine what that moment was like for you because I know it is beyond anything we ever possibly could imagine.
I love and miss you beyond what words could possibly convey (despite having just written A LOT about exactly that ;)
Sending hugs to Heaven today and every day.
All my love,
Lauren
