Thanksgiving and the "New Normal"
Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all of your heart. Live not one's life as though one had a thousand years, but live each day as the last.- Marcus Aurelius
NOVEMBER 12, 2013
It was a long weekend. A particularly long weekend. Most of it spent at the wake and funeral of my friend Bobby, with the rest spent thinking about a lesson that has, yet again, become fixed in my mind as well as my heart, by tragedy.
There are times and places where this lesson is reinforced, and others where it fades from my thoughts like a mirage because of the day to day stresses that we all experience ... but I find myself actually wanting to remain aware of it now- despite having this lesson taught only during times that I would prefer to forget- or in times that I truly wish had never happened at all.
That being said, I am a teacher and storyteller at heart- from birth, so I want to share it with you, in the hope that you can benefit from my experience.
Bobby LaRoche was 44. He died from esophageal cancer after a yearlong battle. He fought hard because he had so many reasons to do so. He fought for his devoted, amazing, force of nature wife Karen - the love of his life- with whom he had built a life and family around 17 happy years of marriage. He fought for his two beautiful children, Emma and Michael. He fought for his extended family and friends who constantly surrounded him and basked in the joy and happiness that he brought to every gathering, every conversation, every moment of interaction in which he participated. Bobby was not only the life of the party, Bobby was the party all by himself.
As the priest who delivered the eulogy iterated, Bobby was a huge baseball fan. He played through high school and college, coached his kids as well as others, and was an avid fan of the Red Sox. The interesting thing about a baseball game is that there is no clock associated with it. They play nine innings whether it takes an hour and 45 minutes or 6 hours to finish... the game ends when it ends. I can say without question that despite Bobby's life ending far too quickly, he, more than anyone I can think of, managed to get all nine innings in over his 44 years and provide many, many people with a highlight reel of memories (as well as the occasional blooper reel) that we will all reminisce about forever when we come together. Bobby was a first ballot Hall of Famer at life.
Seeing his young children grieving instantly brought back memories of a similarly horrible experience five years prior, one that first taught me the lesson that I need to share with you today.
It was the Friday before our school's Winter break and I was contacted in the morning by the superintendent, who let me know that the father of two of our school's children, a custodian in one of our elementary schools, had suffered a massive heart attack and died that morning. It was my job to contact people and devise the plan to inform the children as well as to provide whatever help they would require moving forward. This dreadful task was complicated by the fact that the children had lost their mother recently and equally suddenly as well.
Two days before Christmas, these children were about to find out that they were now orphans.
The emergency card listed an aunt as the next contact, so I called her and she came to the school to help me break the news to the kids as well as to provide them with support and care. As you might imagine, being there and leading that deeply personal conversation was easily among the most tragic moments of my professional career. In the hour or so that followed, I used every skill that I have ever developed as an educator, counselor, parent and coach to do my best to try to ease the shock, fear, grief and tragic thoughts of the future that ensued. Unfortunately, that was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a Dixie cup. For all of my education, all of my training, all of my experience, there was little I could do to offer any meaningful comfort, peace or help.
There are times and places where no matter what you want to do, no matter how hard you wish or pray, no matter what you would give for things to be different, you simply can not affect the outcomes. You can't go back in time. You can't make things go back to how they were before. It will never be the same. You are going to live a "new normal" from here on out.
After an hour or so, other counselors had arrived, and I excused myself from the room just to breathe. I told everyone that I would be just outside the door in the waiting area of the guidance office. The chair I sat in was against the window to the conference room and I could hear every plea, every sob, every bit of sorrow and anger and fear and frustration that was choked out of everyone in that room- people whose lives were never going to be the same.
And then... the bell rang.
Last lunch was over. Last period of the day- of the calendar year... holidays, parties, presents, candy, cupcakes, smiling, laughing, excited kids ran through the halls, kissing, hugging, smiling, happy. I could see it all in front of me through the window.
For them, it was just another day. A great one. One of promise. Joy. Happiness. Excitement.
Behind me, abject sorrow, fear, anxiety, emptiness. The worst day of those lives. The worst day that will ever happen in those lives. Lives that were irrevocably changed.
Two worlds. Two realities. Separated by 10 feet. With me as the membrane in the middle between both worlds. A part of me fully rooted and engaged in both simultaneously. I felt like I was in the center of the universe. Each world completely unaware of what was happening, but fully immersed in their own reality- today was either just another day or the worst day of your life... and only a few feet decided your fate.
We really don't appreciate a "normal" day, but we should.
And therein lies the lesson...
A normal day where we go to school/work/whatever we do and then return home safe and sound with our families and go about our evening routines in peace and normalcy should be celebrated and appreciated. Unfortunately, it's only when the routines are disrupted and circumstances change forever that we fully appreciate a normal day...
On Martin Luther King day in 2009, my daughter Lily was diagnosed with diabetes. While she slept peacefully in her hospital bed, I stared out the window at the traffic on the I-Way in Providence and thought about how her life would be affected going forward. How Lily would never be able to live the carefree life that she had always known. How this disease would affect her quality of life and future health. I thought about how I would give anything to trade places with her or let her have just one more day where she wouldn't have to worry about what she ate, or stick needles into herself, or wake up screaming and incoherent because of hypoglycemia.
Then came the realization that today it was simply our day to discover a new normal. Below me, cars drove by, people lived their own lives, went about their business, went on dates, headed home and probably didn't appreciate the "normal" day that they were in the midst of.
In 2009, a student at my alma mater, Pilgrim High School, was killed by a school bus at 7:00 AM at an intersection just a few feet from the school. After the initial shock and sadness of hearing of that tragedy, my thoughts went immediately to her parents and I wondered if the last words they had that morning were "I love you" or something that they might regret now. We always expect that we are going to have a normal day until we don't. We let the little things and common annoyances get in the way of our appreciation for all that we have. I am certain that Kimberly's parents knew that they would see her at dinner that night, that everyone would come home safely to another "normal" evening. Until that peace was shattered.
How do we make sense of tragedies like that? We can't. But we can make sense of our everyday lives and what matters to us. So why don't we do that together going forward?
As we approach Thanksgiving, please be mindful of how fortunate we all are. Be grateful for just another "normal" day, because it's very likely that one day in the future the world will revolve around your own personal tragedy and you will find that you would give anything just to have one more "normal" day, even though it might be too late.
Typically only tragedy will teach us this lesson. But maybe I can help avoid that with this post.
Tell someone today how much you appreciate or love them (and do that every other day too).
Be kind, be helpful, do good things for others. Make a difference. Be a force for good.
But don't ever let another "normal" day simply pass you by.
NOVEMBER 12, 2013
It was a long weekend. A particularly long weekend. Most of it spent at the wake and funeral of my friend Bobby, with the rest spent thinking about a lesson that has, yet again, become fixed in my mind as well as my heart, by tragedy.
There are times and places where this lesson is reinforced, and others where it fades from my thoughts like a mirage because of the day to day stresses that we all experience ... but I find myself actually wanting to remain aware of it now- despite having this lesson taught only during times that I would prefer to forget- or in times that I truly wish had never happened at all.
That being said, I am a teacher and storyteller at heart- from birth, so I want to share it with you, in the hope that you can benefit from my experience.
Bobby LaRoche was 44. He died from esophageal cancer after a yearlong battle. He fought hard because he had so many reasons to do so. He fought for his devoted, amazing, force of nature wife Karen - the love of his life- with whom he had built a life and family around 17 happy years of marriage. He fought for his two beautiful children, Emma and Michael. He fought for his extended family and friends who constantly surrounded him and basked in the joy and happiness that he brought to every gathering, every conversation, every moment of interaction in which he participated. Bobby was not only the life of the party, Bobby was the party all by himself.
As the priest who delivered the eulogy iterated, Bobby was a huge baseball fan. He played through high school and college, coached his kids as well as others, and was an avid fan of the Red Sox. The interesting thing about a baseball game is that there is no clock associated with it. They play nine innings whether it takes an hour and 45 minutes or 6 hours to finish... the game ends when it ends. I can say without question that despite Bobby's life ending far too quickly, he, more than anyone I can think of, managed to get all nine innings in over his 44 years and provide many, many people with a highlight reel of memories (as well as the occasional blooper reel) that we will all reminisce about forever when we come together. Bobby was a first ballot Hall of Famer at life.
Seeing his young children grieving instantly brought back memories of a similarly horrible experience five years prior, one that first taught me the lesson that I need to share with you today.
It was the Friday before our school's Winter break and I was contacted in the morning by the superintendent, who let me know that the father of two of our school's children, a custodian in one of our elementary schools, had suffered a massive heart attack and died that morning. It was my job to contact people and devise the plan to inform the children as well as to provide whatever help they would require moving forward. This dreadful task was complicated by the fact that the children had lost their mother recently and equally suddenly as well.
Two days before Christmas, these children were about to find out that they were now orphans.
The emergency card listed an aunt as the next contact, so I called her and she came to the school to help me break the news to the kids as well as to provide them with support and care. As you might imagine, being there and leading that deeply personal conversation was easily among the most tragic moments of my professional career. In the hour or so that followed, I used every skill that I have ever developed as an educator, counselor, parent and coach to do my best to try to ease the shock, fear, grief and tragic thoughts of the future that ensued. Unfortunately, that was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with a Dixie cup. For all of my education, all of my training, all of my experience, there was little I could do to offer any meaningful comfort, peace or help.
There are times and places where no matter what you want to do, no matter how hard you wish or pray, no matter what you would give for things to be different, you simply can not affect the outcomes. You can't go back in time. You can't make things go back to how they were before. It will never be the same. You are going to live a "new normal" from here on out.
After an hour or so, other counselors had arrived, and I excused myself from the room just to breathe. I told everyone that I would be just outside the door in the waiting area of the guidance office. The chair I sat in was against the window to the conference room and I could hear every plea, every sob, every bit of sorrow and anger and fear and frustration that was choked out of everyone in that room- people whose lives were never going to be the same.
And then... the bell rang.
Last lunch was over. Last period of the day- of the calendar year... holidays, parties, presents, candy, cupcakes, smiling, laughing, excited kids ran through the halls, kissing, hugging, smiling, happy. I could see it all in front of me through the window.
For them, it was just another day. A great one. One of promise. Joy. Happiness. Excitement.
Behind me, abject sorrow, fear, anxiety, emptiness. The worst day of those lives. The worst day that will ever happen in those lives. Lives that were irrevocably changed.
Two worlds. Two realities. Separated by 10 feet. With me as the membrane in the middle between both worlds. A part of me fully rooted and engaged in both simultaneously. I felt like I was in the center of the universe. Each world completely unaware of what was happening, but fully immersed in their own reality- today was either just another day or the worst day of your life... and only a few feet decided your fate.
We really don't appreciate a "normal" day, but we should.
And therein lies the lesson...
A normal day where we go to school/work/whatever we do and then return home safe and sound with our families and go about our evening routines in peace and normalcy should be celebrated and appreciated. Unfortunately, it's only when the routines are disrupted and circumstances change forever that we fully appreciate a normal day...
On Martin Luther King day in 2009, my daughter Lily was diagnosed with diabetes. While she slept peacefully in her hospital bed, I stared out the window at the traffic on the I-Way in Providence and thought about how her life would be affected going forward. How Lily would never be able to live the carefree life that she had always known. How this disease would affect her quality of life and future health. I thought about how I would give anything to trade places with her or let her have just one more day where she wouldn't have to worry about what she ate, or stick needles into herself, or wake up screaming and incoherent because of hypoglycemia.
Then came the realization that today it was simply our day to discover a new normal. Below me, cars drove by, people lived their own lives, went about their business, went on dates, headed home and probably didn't appreciate the "normal" day that they were in the midst of.
In 2009, a student at my alma mater, Pilgrim High School, was killed by a school bus at 7:00 AM at an intersection just a few feet from the school. After the initial shock and sadness of hearing of that tragedy, my thoughts went immediately to her parents and I wondered if the last words they had that morning were "I love you" or something that they might regret now. We always expect that we are going to have a normal day until we don't. We let the little things and common annoyances get in the way of our appreciation for all that we have. I am certain that Kimberly's parents knew that they would see her at dinner that night, that everyone would come home safely to another "normal" evening. Until that peace was shattered.
How do we make sense of tragedies like that? We can't. But we can make sense of our everyday lives and what matters to us. So why don't we do that together going forward?
As we approach Thanksgiving, please be mindful of how fortunate we all are. Be grateful for just another "normal" day, because it's very likely that one day in the future the world will revolve around your own personal tragedy and you will find that you would give anything just to have one more "normal" day, even though it might be too late.
Typically only tragedy will teach us this lesson. But maybe I can help avoid that with this post.
Tell someone today how much you appreciate or love them (and do that every other day too).
Be kind, be helpful, do good things for others. Make a difference. Be a force for good.
But don't ever let another "normal" day simply pass you by.
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