The Things That Stick With You

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After seeing a post about a myLotter losing his father to cancer I started thinking about things. There's been a lot of sadness this year amid my family and friends. Maybe it's the time of life where you feel like you've joined the "funeral of the month" club (to steal a line from Jack Gilford in an episode of Lou Grant....ah, the things that stick with you). Speaking of things that stick with you, if you look at the photo of the bench above, that is something that sticks with me. That's on course #1 in Newark, Ohio, where we played a tournament a few weeks ago. The first time I played in Newark was when we added it to the tour, which was 2014. That was "my year." I won five tournaments that year, including the state championship, and won Player of the Year. It was also over six years since my mom had died at the time. I sent a note to a friend who's dealing with the recent loss of a parent and said, "You never know when those potholes on the road are going to hit you and knock you sideways." That happened to me in Newark on that day in 2014. It was Saturday, and we were practicing before our noon teeoff. The course, as most public places do, had piped-in-music going. Then "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" by Elton John played. If you've read anything of mine you know that Elton was my teenybopper idol. My mom liked a lot of his stuff, too (the stuff that I played for her....I knew better than to say, "Hey, Mom, come here and listen to 'The B*tch is Back!'"). "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" was among her favorites. Now, I'd heard that song dozens, if not hundreds, of times in the six and a half years since my mom's death. And we had never been to Newark, Ohio together (or even separately!). But that day, at that moment, that song and the memories of my mother overwhelmed me. I sat down on that bench, pictured above, and bawled my eyes out. I couldn't control myself. It was just like when I went in the bathroom at the hospital to cry while they were turning her ventilator off. (Side note: she lived about nine hours after the machine was turned off, which mercifully kept the "I turned the machines off and killed my mom" thoughts from occurring.) Flash forward to early July of this year, and my first trip back to Newark since 2014. No "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road." They were playing bro-crock-pop-so-called country music. No overwhelming memories that caused me to sit down and cry. But I remembered that day. And that bench. For my cousins (who just buried their mom Saturday), family, and friends who have been dealing with that horrid loss of a parent in recent days, weeks, or months, I can't tell you "I know how you feel." We're all individuals, and our reaction to anything is based on our individuality. I can say "I've been down that road." It is a tough road if you felt anything for your mom and/or dad. (A psychologist told me that dealing with things tends to be more difficult for the parent you were not close to, but I haven't (yet) found that to be the case.) I can't say "it gets better," maybe as much as "you get used to it." Those bumps. Those parent-shaped holes in the road that keep jarring you. How you deal with it is based on your beliefs, your personality, and all the other things that make you the person you are. But I'll tell you this: if you feel overwhelmed, find a bench and sit down on it, and cry all you want. God bless all of you dealing with the loss.