Four Years

Dear Tim,

There’s so much irony in this post — before even getting to our issue. First, here it is June 16 — the anniversary of your passing four years ago — and the last post on the blog is from the anniversary of Dad’s passing.

Nothing in between.

Not because I don’t have anything to say. I have a lot to say, actually. Just haven’t really been ready. Or maybe willing.

Which, as you know, is a bit weird — because I’m always willing to talk about stuff. Especially this stuff.  And the thing is, my focus has changed — and that’s a good thing. As I wrote in the past to you, I was completely and utterly consumed by your death and all things around it. I just let myself get buried in it, and I could never dig out.

But I’ve done that now. Besides, I’ve got a lot of other good stuff going on. The new job is fabulous, and I’m actually taking an interest in exercise and diet — at the same time. I know, right?

I’ve even thought, Tim, of changing the name of this blog. I love “I Got Nothin’.” Heck, I invented the damn saying. But I don’t have nothin’.

I’ve got a lot, actually — and I’m really starting to understand that. Not that I haven’t in the past. It’s just different now. I’m not really sure how to explain it, but I think you understand.

I’ve got family that loves me, friends that would do anything for me (and vice versa) and a great job. Even though the meaning of I Got Nothin’ isn’t negative, it can easily be implied that it is.

And, well, I’ve got somethin’.

Thankfully, Tim, I’ve got you. And what became an obsessiveness over your death has now been turned into something much more focused and positive.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not always easy. I mean, I’m sad today. I’m just not pissed. That’s what I used to be — but I’ve gone about a year not being that way.

And I’m proud of myself for that.

I don’t want to be negative anymore. I can’t.

We think about you all the time. The kids say a prayer for you every night. And, the prayer card from your funeral is Aidan’s bookmark. He asked me about you the other night, and I told him about you and how you passed. And then we read the prayer on the card — Bridge of Love (so good!).

And, when it thunders, it’s you and Dad up in heaven who are bowling strikes. I’ve got Aidan convinced that you are a better bowler than Dad — even though you and I both know that’s not the case.

There will be some awkward moments this week, I’m sure. Danielle, if you can believe it, graduates high school Friday night. We’re getting together Sunday — Father’s Day — to celebrate. No doubt we’ll all have you and Dad on our minds. But, the good thing is, we’ll be together that day. And you know we won’t say anything to each other (nothing has changed since you left!), but being with each other will help. There’s no doubt about that.

If we do say anything, it’ll probably be some of the classic family stories that we’ve told time and time again. And that’s a good thing. It helps. Especially because you did such goofy stuff, there’s no way you can’t laugh at some of these.

That’s the other part of this, Tim.


Before, it was stories about what happened when you collapsed, what happened in the hospital, what songs were on, what we did or didn’t do…and just feeling sorry for myself because of the timing of you and Erin.

Now, the stories — and/or the thoughts — serve a different purpose. Holding key ones close to my heart helps to keep you there.

Where you should be.

And where you’ll always be.

And the thing is — it’s there, Tim, that you’re having an even greater impact on my life then when you were actually here. Go figure. I can’t explain it. I can try, like I have here. I just know it doesn’t always make a lot of sense.

But I also know it’s true.

So, four years later — will you accept my thanks for what you’ve done for me?

I hope so.

Love you.