091018miked

My 9/11 Story

by with No Comment blog

Every year I share the personal 9/11 story of my lifelong best friend and I.

It’s an amazing story of friendship, beer and baseball.

In 2016 our story was told by Mike Rowe on his “The Way I Heard It” podcast. The episode was called “You Don’t Know Mike”.  It went viral and was seen and heard by millions of people.

Last year I re-wrote our story for the popular website “Love What Matters“.

Here is our story.

—

Eighteen years ago this past week I travelled to the East Coast on business with Wild Oats Markets. It was a fast-paced trip that was to cover a lot of ground. I started in Florida for two days, then flew to Boston for a day before driving to visit a couple of stores in Connecticut.

On September 10, 2001 my co-worker/friend Simon and I finished our work several hours early at the Wild Oats in Westport, CT.  It was noon and we realized that we suddenly had a free afternoon and evening.  We weren’t scheduled to fly back home until more than twenty-four hours later, on September 11th from La Guardia Airport in New York City.

We decided to check out of our hotel and head down to New York City. We heard that the Yankees were home and that Roger Clemens was going for his 20th win vs. the Red Sox that evening.  We headed straight for Yankee Stadium.
After we bought our tickets, it started raining like crazy.  The game was delayed, so Simon and I headed to a bar adjacent to the stadium to have a couple of beers and wait for the rain to let up. After an hour or so we headed into the stadium and got situated into our prime seats near the field between home plate and first base.

We hadn’t been in our seats for five minutes and right in front of me I see my lifelong best friend Mike and his wife Elena walking by.  We were all in disbelief, such a wild coincidence.   Baseball was everything to Mike and I as kids growing up together three thousand miles away in Bakersfield, California. We started going to Los Angeles Dodgers games together at 9 years old in 1976.  Over the next 18 years we went to at least 100 games together at Dodger Stadium. Amazingly, here we were running into each other at Yankee Stadium.  What are the odds of running into each other the first time either of us had been to this historic stadium?

I traveled weekly for Wild Oats at that time and would often stop to see Mike when I was in the area. But on this particular hectic trip I had not let him know I was nearby.

The rain started again and the game was eventually cancelled.  We headed to the exits with Mike and Elena.  They didn’t have a vehicle at the game, and we didn’t have a hotel booked for the night.  So they jumped into our rental car and we headed to their apartment in Hoboken, NJ.  This was directly across the Hudson River from lower Manhattan. We could see all of Manhattan and the World Trade Center perfectly from their neighborhood.  Energized by the sight, we came up with the idea to go to Mike’s office the next morning to see the amazing view on our way to the airport.  Throughout the night I called my parents, my wife and a few people that I worked with.  I told each of them how unbelievable it was that we ran into Mike and Elena and that we were going to spend the evening at their apartment. I also shared my idea of going into work with Mike on our way to the airport in the morning.

Quickly after arriving in Hoboken, Mike, Simon and I headed to this cool little Irish Pub in Mike’s neighborhood.  The Harp’s and Guinness’s started flowing.  We listened to music on a great jukebox and had a lively, beer-fueled conversation as Mike and Simon had hit it off really well. Mike kept saying he needed to get to bed, but we kept insisting “one more beer”.

We closed down the bar and headed to Mike’s apartment.

At the bar the three of us had been having a passionate discussion about music. The Pixies place in modern music’s evolution came up and created great debate. So at the apartment we proceeded to loudly put on their classic Doolittle album and have more beer and impassioned debate.

Extremely irritated, Elena got up and told us to turn the music and our voices down now. It took her a few more visits to the living room for us to retire for the night. After 3AM we finally went to bed with the obvious agreement that we would not be getting up early to go to work with Mike. We said our good-byes as Mike said he’d be up early for work.

 

When I woke up not too many hours later, I heard the shower going.  Then I heard someone leave the apartment. A bit later I finally salvaged enough energy to get up. I told Simon to get off the couch and jump in the shower.  I turned the TV on.  I immediately saw that a tower had been hit.  I opened the curtain and could see the smoke as I looked at lower Manhattan out the window.

I assumed I had heard Mike in the shower earlier, but I rushed to Mike and Elena’s bedroom and hollered for him.  No response at first, so I kept hollering “Mike, Mike are you in there?”. Finally, Mike responded with an attitude that he was still in bed because he was so hungover.

I told him his tower had been hit. He looked out the window and said that was not his tower. Then moments later, as we watched the TV, his tower was hit. We looked out the window and could see the smoke and flames coming from the monumental structure.

Mike worked for the small investment banking firm Sandler O’Neill. His office was on the 104th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.  Mike was not at his desk that morning because for the first time ever, a hangover kept him from going to work on time.

There were eighty-two of Mike’s co-workers in the office that morning. Despite the reassurance over the loud-speakers to stay put, sixteen of Mike’s co-workers took the elevator down to vacate the building after the first plane hit. The remaining sixty-six stayed and continued working.

They did not survive.

It was Elena that I had heard in the shower earlier. Her daily destination was the train station in the basement of the World Trade Center. She worked adjacent to the World Trade Center at One Liberty Plaza and had been alerted to the first tower being hit just prior to departing the train station in Hoboken. She turned around and headed back to the apartment. I will never forget how extreme the emotion was as she rushed in and thanked us for keeping Mike up so late.

With Manhattan being in chaos, many of the injured were being sent on ferries across the Hudson River to Hoboken. They were then put into ambulances and rushed to nearby New Jersey hospitals. This scene played out into the evening.

The reality of the day started to take over as the shock made way to Mike coming to the over-whelming realization and confirmation that so many friends and colleagues did not make it.

With the airports closed, Simon and I stayed with Mike and Elena for three more days. On the 12th Simon and I took the train into Manhattan to show our support for the staff at the Wild Oats owned store at 89th and Broadway. We visited the store and then walked the relatively empty streets of New York. I was blown away by how kind, unified and helpful everyone was in the aftermath of this tragedy. People were solely focused on helping people. It was the best I have ever seen in humanity. The image and feeling of this has stayed with me ever since.

Eighteen years later Mike and Elena are still living in New Jersey, taking the train into Manhattan each day. Mike and I talk often throughout the year and have never missed having a conversation on September 11th.

Never forget 9/11/01.

–

From 2016, here is Mike Rowe telling our story….

http://mikerowe.com/2016/09/twihi-you-dont-know-mike/

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Celebrating My Past

by with No Comment blog

Grief is a lifelong journey. As much as others wished I could, I could not wave a wand and be over it.

My life was turned upside down by the sudden death of my fiancée, Dana. The night prior to heading back to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo for her final weeks before graduation, she kissed me goodbye and said, ‘three more weeks and we’ll never have to say goodbye again.’

Those were the last words Dana ever said to me. The next morning, just outside of our hometown of Bakersfield, a car took a left turn too carelessly. It clipped the back of Dana’s car, spinning her out of control. Her tiny car was then swallowed by an 18-wheeler coming from the opposite direction.

At almost twenty-nine years in, it’s with me. Always.

Over time I have better understood that there’s no real fighting the way it ebbs and flows without any true predictability. I’ve learned that it’s best to let the happiness, sadness and even the bitterness and anger come and go whenever that particular emotion needs to rear its head.

Two years ago I began writing. By sharing my thoughts and experiences with others I have discovered by the messages of support that I’ve received from all over the world that I am not alone and that I am not odd to feel the way that I do.

Labor Day weekend was an opportunity to personally celebrate my journey, as I’ve finally allowed myself to celebrate my past rather than only mourn it.

Almost thirty years to the day, on September 8th, 1989, Dana and I got dressed in our best black clothes and travelled 2 hours from Bakersfield to Los Angeles to see our favorite band, the wildly popular goth band from England, The Cure. It was the third time we had seen The Cure together in Los Angeles. But this was an especially noteworthy performance as they were headlining my beloved Dodger Stadium, with Love and Rockets and the Pixies as the opening bands.

This night has become etched in my mind forever. The magnitude of our little band reaching such widespread appeal was a goose bump worthy accomplishment. We danced and enthusiastically sang each word to every song The Cure performed that night.

Since Dana’s death, just 14 months after that show, The Cure’s haunting dark lyrics and melodies has been a constant in helping me through those days where I need that extra push.

They’ve managed to do for me what therapy never was able to.

And the Pixies raw angst has always allowed me to realize that it’s okay to feel rage when I am feeling like it’s me against the world.

Last spring it was announced that The Cure would be headlining the Pasadena Daydream Festival at the golf course adjacent to the Rose Bowl, on August 31, 2019. The Pixies were also announced as the top billed supporting act. I knew immediately that my oldest son Dylan and I would be there, wearing our best black.

Dylan shares my passion for alternative music. What other father-son duo do you know that has done an alternative music radio show together? Our show, The Hole Enchilada, was on 89.1 KHOL in Jackson, Wyoming for several years. Our bond through music is so unique and so special. We’ve even gone to the Coachella Music Festival ten times together over the past twelve years! This was to be our third time seeing The Cure together.

Dylan flew from Phoenix to Los Angeles to visit a friend living in LA, and to see another band the night before. I drove over the day of the concert with Shelly.

With Shelly’s traumatic brain injury and PTSD a concert is the last place she would be. We checked her into a nearby hotel where she could have a nice, quiet and relaxing evening.

To say it was a magical night is an understatement. Watching the Pixies and then The Cure perform many of the same songs that Dana and I saw them perform 30 years earlier was surreal. It was one of those cherished times where I could feel one with Dana and not feel any despair about it. To be sharing this special musical night with Dylan was awesome, as my then and my now were perfectly colliding.

As The Cure performed “Pictures of You” a tear rolled down my face as I sang along to the familiar and appropriate lyrics sung by lead singer, Robert Smith.

I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they’re real
I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures
Are all I can feel…

The next day Shelly and I drove two hours north to our hometown of Bakersfield. Shelly’s sister has been sick so this was the perfect weekend to get to Bakersfield to see her.

Shelly and I had become the best of friends after Dana’s death. She would listen to me unconditionally where most others became increasingly uncomfortable around me.

Three years later our relationship surprisingly changed. This was met with outrage from those closest to Dana. Outrage due to the fact that Shelly was a friend of Dana’s. I was told that I was expected to eventually to move forward with my life, but not with Shelly.

Shelly and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary in May. Six years ago her life was forever changed by a freak explosion within our home. I am now Shelly’s caregiver. There are so many things she can no longer do for herself. But being around her every day, I can’t put into words how inspiring she is to me in her courageous daily battle. She deals with the ramifications of her brain injury and PTSD with such positivity and grace. I am in awe of her strength and optimism.

My last trip to Bakersfield I had visited Dana’s parents for the first time in over 23 years. I have written an emotional account of that 2017 visit, which was read by thousands and even shared by the popular site “Love What Matters”.

I have so much gratitude that I have been able to re-establish a strong relationship with them. I wasn’t completely overcome with emotion during this visit. Sure, some tears were shed. But it felt perfectly right and normal to be sitting in the living room where Dana and I shared our first kiss 32 years earlier.

The following day, as we were about to drive out of town, Shelly and I made a stop at Hillcrest Cemetery. Shelly’s step-dad, Ken, passed away last year while we were with him at his home in Utah. We wanted to visit his final resting place as well as visit Dana’s gravesite.

As we passed through the last major intersection approaching the cemetery I unexpectedly started crying. I had spent so many painful, isolating days here over 25 years ago. I hated this place and it had become a prison within my mind.

As the emotion hit me in an instant, Shelly grabbed my hand and I immediately knew that it was going to be okay.

As we pulled through the cemetery gates, The Cure’s “Lovesong” happened to just begin playing on the radio.

After visiting Ken’s resting spot we drove to the other side of the cemetery to visit Dana’s.

It all felt so familiar, yet so different. The trees had all matured. So much time had passed.

It took time for us to find Dana’s site. I started to feel panicked as I was surprised that I had lost the ability to walk right to it. Once we found it, Shelly gave me a big hug as I again was overcome with emotion.

She asked me if I wanted time alone. I told her that I wanted her with me.

It had taken me almost 30 years to feel some peace and harmony.

I felt a sense of freedom to finally be feeling it.

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New Traditions for Getting Through the 4th of July With a TBI and PTSD

by with No Comment blog

I originally posted this last year and it seemed to help others facing similar circumstances, so with a few updates…here it is again….

The Fourth of July always was such a special day at our house.

Shelly loves to entertain and she is so good at it. Each year we would host a fantastic party with friends and family. It was a day that Shelly would look forward to like no other. She’d do so much planning to decorate, cook and bake for this special day. Planning fun, elaborate games that we would play near the pool. She’d go all out in her quest to have such a fun and memorable day.

The day would conclude with watching the nearby fireworks show as well as setting off our own fireworks on our street.

The day became a family tradition that Shelly took a lot pride in establishing for our sons, Dylan and Taylor.

Six years ago this all changed. A day that was so special and so looked forward to, now terrorizes Shelly.

The toughest lasting ramification from Shelly’s life-changing traumatic brain injury is her PTSD.  When it hits it is literally crippling for her. Her brain goes into panic mode and a wave of terror hits and immobilizes her.  When this happens it usually is sudden and unpredictable. It’s caused by many different situations such as the loud banging of a plate in the kitchen; having a close call driving down the highway or the radio being left extra loud when the car is turned on.

The boys and I try to safeguard all that we do to keep these sudden situations from happening. Occasional situations do happen, but they are far less often than in the early days after the accident. As Shelly’s caregiver, one of my most important responsibilities is to protect her and to keep her safe. I feel awful when something I accidentally do causes her to immediately shift into panic.

The Fourth of July is different than these sudden episodes. We know it is coming, and we know what it brings.  The relentless barrage of the crackle and boom of fireworks is more unbearable than any other day of the year for Shelly. A day that once brought such joy, now brings her such tremendous fear.

It frustrates us both as friends trivialize the severity of her panic by not allowing her to finish and taking over the conversation by going into detail to describe their dog’s frightful reaction to fireworks.

One year when we still lived in Idaho, we drove to a tiny potato town and checked into a motel. Our hope was that we wouldn’t hear any fireworks from this remote spot. We were correct, as we had a peaceful night watching the television in our motel room.

But now living again in Phoenix, the sound of fireworks is especially tough to escape. We were at a loss for what to do to evade the chaos.

A few years ago we decided to go to a nice quiet dinner and then a movie. That sounds like a good, safe choice. But it was really a big risk, as going to a movie is something that Shelly couldn’t do anymore after her accident. We had tried it and the loudness of the theatre triggered the PTSD, so we had since stayed away.

Without another viable option, we were calculating that the movie would hopefully be the lesser of two evils. We chose a comedy that would hopefully not have the grisly sounds and scenes of an action movie. As we cautiously took our seats, the previews started. Shot gun blasts and explosions started immediately. To our dismay it was a preview for an upcoming action movie! Shelly went into panic and I quickly grabbed her to head to the lobby. She regained composure as I occasionally peaked into the theatre to see when the previews ended and our movie would begin.

What started with panic and thoughts of regret, turned out to be such a wise choice for the evening. The movie was funny and not traumatic. It ended around 11:30 PM. By time we got home the fireworks were over (except for a few inevitable stragglers).

A new tradition had been born.  A nice low-key day (with some time in our pool), then an evening of a quiet dinner followed by a movie.

Shelly gets sad when she thinks of what the holiday consisted of pre-accident vs. what it is now. But she is also relieved that we found an activity to limit the trauma of the day.

We have found that the key to adapting and adjusting to new realities is to find ways to minimize the pain and discomfort of the situation.

I am grateful that we have found a way to peacefully make it through the Fourth of July.

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A Chance To Talk

by with No Comment blog

A couple of months ago I received an Instagram message from a page called “Snapshots of Life After Loss”.

It simply said, “Hi, I just read your story on your blog. Wow. Thank you for sharing your story”.

From there we began a correspondence. Gracelyn explained that she ran a company called “The Luna Peak Company” with her aunt Melody. Their project interviews grievers across time to help those at the beginning of their grief journey have a sense of hope. Eventually they plan to publish a photography book featuring these stories.

Gracelyn explained that if I was ever in the Los Angeles area they would love to have me stop by for an interview and photo shoot.

As fate would have it, I planned to make a quick same day roundtrip drive to downtown Los Angeles and back (from my home in the Phoenix, Arizona area) the following month. I told Gracelyn about my plans and that I would let her know once I had details.

Upon looking at their website and Instagram page, I was impressed with the simplicity and candor of each snapshot. The participant is featured in two consecutive posts. One consisting of a written quote followed by a quick one-minute video of the interviewed responding to a specific question pertaining to their journey, truly capturing the essence of what grief looks like. I immediately knew that I needed to become involved with this project.

My plans to travel to Los Angeles started to take shape. My son Dylan is a graphic designer/artist. He had entered a contest to design artwork on a recycling bin to be displayed and featured at the Coachella Music and Arts Festival. Out of thousands of applicants, his “Juicy Fruit” piece was one of less than 50 to be selected.

Being the proud and supportive dad that I am, I told Dylan that once he completed his piece I would be happy to drive it to Los Angeles. It needed to be delivered to the L. A. Arts District where it was to be exhibited prior to being displayed at the music festival.

I reached out to Gracelyn to tell her of my plans. She cleared her schedule for me and gave me the address to a park in Sierra Madre, which was conveniently right along my path back home.

I explained that I only had a couple of hours to spend with her before I’d need to get back on the freeway (hopefully ahead of the notorious L.A. rush hour traffic).

Two days prior to our meeting, Gracelyn sent me the list of questions that she would be asking me. I decided not to look at the questions as I wanted my answers to be organic rather than rehearsed.

Gracelyn had suddenly lost her dad 3 years ago. She had started this project as a way to work through her own grief as well as a way of helping others.

First came the interview, followed by a photo shoot. The photo shoot consisted of several head shots, a handful of Polaroid shots, as well as some photos holding the one special memento that I was asked to bring. In my case I brought a special picture of Dana and I.

Being part of the same community and speaking the same grief language, Gracelyn immediately made me feel safe and comfortable to be candid and raw in my response to her questions.

Some of the questions were;

-Were there any turning points in your grief?

-What is something helpful or unhelpful that someone said to you?

-How do you celebrate her life?

-What do you wish others understood about your grief?

When I look at the complete list of questions that were asked, I can’t remember how I answered any of them. What I do remember is that with each answer Gracelyn nodded her head as if she understood exactly what I was saying. We were talking as survivor to survivor. A candid conversation between two people who deeply understand grief.

On the long drive home to Phoenix I thought a lot about how I know more about grief than I know about any other subject. More than the mortgage business, the grocery business, Dodgers baseball or alternative music. More than anything.

I have all this knowledge, but this session was truly the first time I had felt free enough to talk about it in such an honest, unrestricted way. Twenty-eight years and I had never had a conversation such as this. When I told Gracelyn this, she found it both sad and hard to believe.

The focus of others is instinctively to not bring up our loss or say the name of the person we lost because they don’t want to make us sad. But the opposite is true; when we are able to say or hear their name, there’s a sudden spark inside of our heart that only us survivors are able to understand.

It was only a few years ago that I started writing about my journey. Up until then, all this knowledge just sat there as daily conversations inside of my head.

It bothers me that I didn’t really help anybody during the first quarter century of my journey.

I can’t quite explain the magnitude of how fulfilling it is to finally be doing my part to help others facing a path similar to mine. Twenty-eight years ago I would have appreciated the opportunity to learn perspective from a journey such as mine. Back then I felt as if I was in a silo, with no support or community to be part of. Thankfully times have changed and we’re in an age where we have access to those who have become comfortable to share more freely. I am hopeful that with projects such as Snapshots of Life After Loss, we are getting closer to a time where talking about grief becomes normal, accepted and encouraged.

I was the 75th interview for Snapshots of Life After Loss. Thus far 5 have been featured on their Instagram page. So it may be a little while before any of my snapshots are shared. But whenever they are, I look forward to sharing them with all of you.

 

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My Wife’s Mask for the Unmasking Brain Injury Project

by with No Comment blog

March is brain injury awareness month. The goal this month is to make people more aware of the causes, symptoms and prevention of traumatic brain injuries.

I recently read that over 3.5 million Americans sustain a traumatic brain injury each year.

My wife Shelly just surpassed the 6-year anniversary of her injury. Her life has been forever changed by this. I can’t stress enough how life changing a TBI can be for the survivor and their family.

People like to focus on freakish nature of how Shelly received her injury. A bottle of homemade ginger ale fermented and became a bomb that exploded in her face, knocking her out for over twenty minutes. The cognitive symptoms were slow to develop but within two weeks she was unable to walk or talk. The recovery since has been a slow road of patience, determination and hard work. She has come so far, but she still has so far to go.

We constantly find that people want to focus on how crazy the circumstances were that led to her injury. It’s almost as if they are trivializing and finding humor in how rare and freakish a story this accident was. The focus is on the novelty of the story. Whereas I wish the focus could be on her and how difficult her daily life has become.

The Unmasking Brain Injury project is an amazing international project that Shelly was recently asked to become involved in. Its objective is to have each person living with a brain injury create a mask depicting the hidden feelings behind their brain injury, in an effort to raise awareness throughout the world and to give survivors a voice. The goal of the project is to identify the feelings associated with the survivor’s brain injury, using the mask to help develop and describe their story. Translating these feelings into shapes, colors, images and words to develop and create their particular mask.

This project is increasing awareness and educating our communities about the impact and prevalence of brain injury.

I was really excited for Shelly to become involved in this project because she is unbelievably artistic and creative. I knew that for her to be able to express her new reality through art would be very powerful, therapeutic and helpful for others.

But I was not prepared to be as impacted by what I saw once her mask was complete. The tears rolled down my face as I saw her perfectly express the description of her life since the injury. It’s such a poignant presentation of her journey.

 

Inside vs. outside.

The thoughts she has, but forgetting the words before she can say them.

The many forgotten memories of her past.

Once great at math, now unable to multiply in her head.

Very few friends coming around anymore, which has led her to feel frustrated and alone.

The brick wall is a symbol of the barrier she feels between what is inside her brain and what she can actually do. She tries to push through the barrier, but it is strong and won’t budge.

She feels disconnected from her emotions and feels dumb because she can’t do the things she once could. The way the world around her makes her feel stupid at times is like a dark cloud hanging over her head.

The cross symbolizes how she has continued to stand strong in her faith.

At times she feels empty and sad on the inside because people don’t understand.

They say, “You look fine, you’re 100% better”.

She wants to scream “I am NOT!”

She is not who she was before. She struggles each day to do things. She puts on a smile and looks ok, but she is not. She is broken.

She wants to tell people to please shut up and quit whining about the trivial stuff.

She doesn’t believe she’s strong, she’s just made the choice to stay positive and keep moving forward.

I have said it before, and I am going to say it many times again; Shelly is truly my hero.

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This Time of Year

by with No Comment blog

It always starts in October. I can smell and taste it in the air. The dread, anxiety and anticipation of early November starts to loom. The older I get I am always amazed how quickly it seems to come around.

It’s been 28 years now. Twenty-eight years since my life was turned upside down by the sudden death of my fiancée and soulmate, Dana. The night prior to heading back to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo for her final weeks before graduation, she kissed me goodbye and said “three more weeks and we’ll never have to say good-bye again”.

Those were the last words Dana ever said to me. The next morning, November 13th, 1990, just outside of our hometown of Bakersfield, a car took a left turn too carelessly. It clipped the back of Dana’s car, spinning her out of control. Her tiny car was then swallowed by an 18 wheeler coming from the opposite direction. She died instantly with her car and the truck resting in flames on an elementary school playground.

Every year I replay what Dana and I were doing in those final weeks and days before her death. As painful as these upcoming days can be for me each year; I also find them to be necessary. If it wasn’t for the memories, what is left?

So in early November I always feel both a strong comfort and an intense, eternal pain. It’s a type of mental torture that is hard to explain. But I am sure that those that have experienced what I am describing can totally relate.

It intensifies on November 8th. That is the day that Dana came home to Bakersfield for Veterans Day weekend. It was a Thursday evening, as it is this year. It always seems to add the depth of a bit more reality in those rare years where the days of the week coincide with the calendar of 1990.

That final weekend was epic. Beginning on the evening of November 8th at Ching Yen on Columbus Street, each day was packed with memories and details that I have managed to hold on to. We had so much fun doing so many different things. For me, the final weekend is perfect symbolism for the life we had together for almost 4 years.
There was a celebratory feel to the weekend, as her graduation was just a few short weeks away. Then she’d be moving back to Bakersfield to start our happily ever after. On Friday I closed escrow on what would be our first home together. The rest of the weekend was primarily focused on our first steps of turning this house into a home.
I hate that time takes so many memories away. The month of October, 1990 has faded more than I would like for it to have. But those five days from November 8th through November 12th are etched in my mind like it was not very many years ago. For that I am grateful.
It all seems to be both a blessing and a curse. But starting on Thursday, in real time I will be playing out the details of that final weekend in my head. Strong comforting memories will be battling in my mind with raw pain for five days, until the morning of Tuesday, November 13th.

Then I will be struck by how quickly it was all over.

Just like that she was gone. Gone forever.

091018miked

An Amazing Story of Baseball, Beer and Friendship on 9/11

by with No Comment blog

Every year I share my personal 9/11 story.   It’s an amazing story that really does deserve to be shared.

It involves Mike, my best friend since 2nd grade.

In 2016 our story was told by Mike Rowe on his “The Way I Heard It” podcast. The episode was called “You Don’t Know Mike”.  It went viral and was seen and heard by millions of people.

This year I re-wrote our story for the popular website “Love What Matters“. I have posted my updated version below….

 

Seventeen years ago this past week I travelled to the East Coast on business with Wild Oats Markets. It was a fast-paced trip that was to cover a lot of ground. I started in Florida for two days, then flew to Boston for a day before driving to visit a couple of stores in Connecticut.

On September 10, 2001 my co-worker/friend Simon and I finished our work several hours early at the Wild Oats in Westport, CT.  It was noon and we realized that we suddenly had a free afternoon and evening.  We weren’t scheduled to fly back home until more than twenty-four hours later, on September 11th from La Guardia Airport in New York City.

We decided to check out of our hotel and head down to New York City. We heard that the Yankees were home and that Roger Clemens was going for his 20th win vs. the Red Sox that evening.  We headed straight for Yankee Stadium.
After we bought our tickets, it started raining like crazy.  The game was delayed, so Simon and I headed to a bar adjacent to the stadium to have a couple of beers and wait for the rain to let up. After an hour or so we headed into the stadium and got situated into our prime seats near the field between home plate and first base.

We hadn’t been in our seats for five minutes and right in front of me I see my lifelong best friend Mike and his wife Elena walking by.  We were all in disbelief, such a wild coincidence.   Baseball was everything to Mike and I as kids growing up together three thousand miles away in Bakersfield, California. We started going to Los Angeles Dodgers games together at 9 years old in 1976.  Over the next 18 years we went to at least 100 games together at Dodger Stadium. Amazingly, here we were running into each other at Yankee Stadium.  What are the odds of running into each other the first time either of us had been to this historic stadium?

I traveled weekly for Wild Oats at that time and would often stop to see Mike when I was in the area. But on this particular hectic trip I had not let him know I was nearby.

The rain started again and the game was eventually cancelled.  We headed to the exits with Mike and Elena.  They didn’t have a vehicle at the game, and we didn’t have a hotel booked for the night.  So they jumped into our rental car and we headed to their apartment in Hoboken, NJ.  This was directly across the Hudson River from lower Manhattan. We could see all of Manhattan and the World Trade Center perfectly from their neighborhood.  Energized by the sight, we came up with the idea to go to Mike’s office the next morning to see the amazing view on our way to the airport.  Throughout the night I called my parents, my wife and a few people that I worked with.  I told each of them how unbelievable it was that we ran into Mike and Elena and that we were going to spend the evening at their apartment. I also shared my idea of going into work with Mike on our way to the airport in the morning.

Quickly after arriving in Hoboken Mike, Simon and I headed to this cool little Irish Pub in Mike’s neighborhood.  The Harp’s and Guinness’s started flowing.  We listened to music on a great jukebox and had a lively, beer-fueled conversation as Mike and Simon had hit it off really well. Mike kept saying he needed to get to bed, but we kept insisting “one more beer”.

We closed down the bar and headed to Mike’s apartment.

At the bar the three of us had been having a passionate discussion about music. The Pixies place in modern music’s evolution came up and created great debate. So at the apartment we proceeded to loudly put on their classic Doolittle album and have more beer and impassioned debate.

Extremely irritated, Elena got up and told us to turn the music and our voices down now. It took her a few more visits to the living room for us to retire for the night. After 3AM we finally went to bed with the obvious agreement that we would not be getting up early to go to work with Mike. We said our good-byes as Mike said he’d be up early for work.

When I woke up not many hours later, I heard the shower going.  Then I heard someone leave the apartment. A bit later I finally salvaged enough energy to get up. I told Simon to get off the couch and jump in the shower.  I turned the TV on.  I immediately saw that a tower had been hit.  I opened the curtain and could see the smoke as I looked at lower Manhattan out the window.

I assumed I had heard Mike in the shower earlier, but I rushed to Mike and Elena’s bedroom and hollered for him.  No response at first, so I kept hollering “Mike, Mike are you in there?”. Finally, Mike responded with an attitude that he was still in bed because he was so hungover.

I told him his tower had been hit. He looked out the window and said that was not his tower. Then moments later, as we watched the TV, his tower was hit. We looked out the window and could see the smoke and flames coming from the monumental structure.

Mike worked for the small investment banking firm Sandler O’Neill. His office was on the 104th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.  Mike was not at his desk that morning because for the first time ever, a hangover kept him from going to work on time.

There were eighty-two of Mike’s co-workers in the office that morning. Despite the reassurance over the loud-speakers to stay put, sixteen of Mike’s co-workers took the elevator down to vacate the building after the first plane hit. The remaining sixty-six stayed and continued working. They did not survive.

It was Elena that I had heard in the shower earlier. Her daily destination was the train station in the basement of the World Trade Center. She worked adjacent to the World Trade Center at One Liberty Plaza and had been alerted to the first tower being hit just prior to departing the train station in Hoboken. She turned around and headed back to the apartment. I will never forget how extreme the emotion was as she rushed in and thanked us for keeping Mike up so late.

With Manhattan being in chaos, many of the injured were being sent on ferries across the Hudson River to Hoboken. They were then put into ambulances and rushed to nearby New Jersey hospitals. This scene played out into the evening.

The reality of the day started to take over as the shock made way to Mike coming to the over-whelming realization and confirmation that so many friends and colleagues did not make it.

With the airports closed, Simon and I stayed with Mike and Elena for three more days. On the 12th Simon and I took the train into Manhattan to show our support for the staff at the Wild Oats owned store at 89th and Broadway. We visited the store and then walked the relatively empty streets of New York. I was blown away by how kind, unified and helpful everyone was in the aftermath of this tragedy. People were solely focused on helping people. It was the best I have ever seen in humanity. The image and feeling of this has stayed with me ever since.

Seventeen years later Mike is still living in New Jersey and taking the train into Manhattan each day. We talk often throughout the year and have never missed having a conversation each September 11th.

We will never forget 9/11/01.

———————–

From 2016, here is Mike Rowe telling our story….

http://mikerowe.com/2016/09/twihi-you-dont-know-mike/

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The Truth About Time

by with No Comment blog

I have been asked to be a recurring contributing writer for Love What Matters, a widely followed site that shares inspiring stories daily. Their editor asked me to write an updated combination of my blog pieces My Story and The Reality of Time. It was published yesterday to a big response.

I thought I would share it here too, as it has really resonated with a lot of people….

“Later this year will be the 28-year anniversary of Dana’s death. I was 23 years old then, now I am 51. It blows my mind I will be 79 years old 28 years from now. But it also gives me comfort in realizing how far I have made it. I look at it now as somehow having made it approximately halfway through this journey of loss.

We were that couple everyone looked up to. Always together, laughing and having fun. We knew we were blessed to have met each other. So thankful we had each found such a soul mate to spend the rest of our lives with. It truly was a fairytale; a one in a million relationship.

Being a year older than Dana, I graduated two quarters before she was supposed to. Once Dana graduated in December, we would be closer to living happily ever after. I moved back into my parent’s house while Dana was finishing school. During that time, we decided I should buy a house. A house I would live in by myself until we got married in a year or so. Then it would become our first home.

Monday night of Veterans Day weekend in 1990, we stood out in front of Dana’s house to say goodnight. We hugged, kissed and talked for thirty minutes or so. We had so much to talk about. The new house, the wedding we had just gone to, what our wedding was going to be like. Life was perfect, and we knew it. As I was about to drive off Dana said, ‘Three more weeks and we will never have to say goodbye again.’ I smiled, kissed her again and said, ‘I love you.’ That’s the last time I saw Dana.

The next morning she was just outside of Bakersfield, driving toward Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. The details are so hard to talk about. A car took a left turn too carelessly. It clipped the back of Dana’s car, spinning her out of control. Her tiny car was then swallowed by an 18 wheeler coming from the opposite direction. She died instantly with her car and the truck finally resting in flames on an elementary school playground.

The memory of the phone call from her dad to tell me that Dana died is etched in my head in slow motion like it was yesterday. The next days, months and years blend together with such a painful fog. I have a lot of memories of how I was told that time would go. I vividly remember many older people telling me I would be fine. They would speak to me as if they had the answers since they had lived longer than me. It was a consistent narrative that went something like this; ‘In time you will look back fondly at your first love, but a new life will begin and take the place of that.’ Several people told me the story of their ‘first love’ and how they still sometimes happily thought about him/her. It was so frustrating to me at the time. Being marginalized because of my young age and the fact we were not yet married was so hard for me to tolerate.

Many people my age wanted to compare my loss to their particularly tough break up. This was ridiculous to me. Of course she did not become my ‘ex’ in death, why couldn’t others understand that? I suppose it’s because most have no other way to relate to the loss of a significant other. In their mind a loss is a loss that you eventually ‘get over.’

I married Shelly three and a half years after Dana died. I am so blessed that we have an amazing relationship in which she makes me extremely happy. But the two relationships are mutually exclusive of each other. People struggle to understand that. Society believes that once you fall in love again you have moved on and replaced the one that has died. This is such a fallacy. What actually happens is the heart opens up to love two people. The love for the person lost does not diminish. But the ability to deeply love and have a great relationship with the new love can flourish in an amazing way. I consider myself very fortunate that this is what has happened for me.

I can’t imagine making it to this point without Shelly and our two sons, Dylan and Taylor. My love for Shelly has such a depth and complexity to it due to what I have been through. I am able to love in a way I don’t think would be possible without my loss. Shelly is remarkable in how accepting and embracing she is of what I have been through. Maybe it is because Shelly and I were such good friends prior to us falling in love, and that she also knew Dana. Whatever the reason is, I am truly grateful she handles this in the secure, loving way that she does.

If people could understand the way the widowed heart really reacts and moves forward, it would ease a lot of pain and misunderstanding.

I moved forward; I did not move on. There is a big difference between these two terms. We have no choice but to move forward. The challenge is how to do it most productively. For me, moving logistically was the key to moving forward. The rest of it started to fall into place once I moved 2,000 miles away. Upon moving I was able to finally put the pieces in place to start seeing some hope and excitement with life again.

It was important that I was able to find those handful of things I was passionate about and could put my head and heart into. This focus seemed to help in my battle with both anger and depression. Those ugly demons really take work in fighting. After decades of work, I have gotten good at not worrying about things that aren’t really important. When you go through the tragedy of loss, perspective certainly is gained on what really matters. But this took so many years to sort through. In my case, the anger and rage were my toughest obstacles to overcome.

I have also noticed that I love change. Without change I become stagnant, enabling the demons of the pain to steadily take a bigger toll on me again. Whereas change occupies and distracts my mind. The need for change has at times hurt my career and financial situation, but I am at peace with that. Change has become a friend that has enabled me to better deal with the time and the pain.

I love music. I am a fanatic for alternative music and punk rock. My oldest son shares this passion. With his help I stay up on new bands and new music. We have gone to the Coachella Music Festival together 9 times. We had a weekly radio show called ‘The Hole Enchilada’ on KHOL 89.1 FM in Jackson, Wyoming, for nearly 5 years. I both connect and escape through music. The saying, ‘music is my therapy’ is so true for me. I am a firm believer that by discovering these joys in life (whatever they may be) the days, months and years start to pass in a more manageable way.

The significant dates all remain significant. Some years they hit me harder than other years. The memories are still there. I do still think about Dana every single day. Most days it’s with smiles and happy thoughts. Some days it’s with tears. Then there are days where it’s with anger. Thankfully those days are not as often for me anymore. The anger can be so destructive, but I also found it to be an agent that helped with the passing of time. As weird as it sounds, in the years that I had such anger it became a distraction that got me through those years.

Thankfully now I realize that time is much better passed with positive distractions rather than the hateful, negative stuff. For so long I kept all of this inside, which became a devastating burden to carry. I recently began writing, which has helped tremendously. I am humbled to have found a platform where I can use my experiences to help those that are facing similar circumstances. It seems to have given a purpose to the pain.

I hate the term ‘time heals all wounds.’ Sure it heals and numbs many of the open, gaping wounds. But the reality is that the constant of pain is there no matter how much time has passed. It’s just there, a part of me. Being almost 28 years into this journey of loss, I guess I can say that I have become okay with not quite being okay. The grief of such a loss is a life sentence. My wish is that society could accept and embrace that with the empathy it deserves.”

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Making New Traditions on the 4th of July with PTSD

by with No Comment blog

The 4th of July always was such a special day at our house.

Shelly loves to entertain and she is so good at it. Each year we would host a fantastic party with friends and family. It was a day that Shelly would look forward to like no other. She would do so much planning to decorate, cook and bake for this special day. She would plan fun, elaborate games that we would play near the pool. She would go all out in her quest to have such a fun and memorable day.

The day would conclude with watching the nearby fireworks show as well as setting off our own fireworks on our street.

The day became a family tradition that Shelly took a lot pride in establishing for our boys, Dylan and Taylor.

Five years ago this all changed. A day that was so special and so looked forward to, now terrorizes Shelly tremendously.

The toughest lasting ramification from Shelly’s life-changing traumatic brain injury is her PTSD.  When it hits it is literally crippling for her. Her brain goes into panic mode and a wave of terror hits and immobilizes her.  When this happens it usually is sudden and unpredictable. It’s caused by situations such as dropping a plate in the kitchen; having a near miss driving down the highway or the radio being left extra loud when the car is turned on.

The boys and I try to safeguard all that we do to keep these sudden situations from happening. Occasional situations do happen, but they are far less often than in the early days after the accident. As Shelly’s caregiver, one of my most important responsibilities is to protect her and to keep her safe. I feel awful when something I accidentally do causes her to immediately shift into panic.

The 4th of July is different than these sudden episodes. We know it is coming, and we know what it brings.  The relentless barrage of the crackle and boom of fireworks is more unbearable than any other day of the year for Shelly. A day that brought such joy, now brings her such tremendous fear.

We have worked to be proactive and remove ourselves from the situation.  Three years ago, when we still lived in Idaho, we drove to a tiny potato town and checked into a motel. Our hope was that we wouldn’t hear any fireworks from this remote spot. We were correct, as the four of us had a peaceful night watching the television in our motel room.

Now living again in Phoenix, the sound of fireworks is especially tough to escape. We were at a loss for what to do to evade the chaotic sounds. We decided to go to a nice quiet dinner and then a movie. That sounds like a good, safe choice. But it was really a big risk, as going to a movie is something that Shelly could not do anymore after her accident. We had tried it and the loudness of the theatre triggered the PTSD, so we had since stayed away.

 

Without another viable option, we were calculating that the movie would hopefully be the lesser of two evils. We chose a family comedy that would hopefully not have the grisly sounds and scenes of an action movie. As we cautiously took our seats, the previews started. Shot gun blasts and explosions started immediately. To our dismay it was a preview for an upcoming action movie! Shelly and I quickly headed to the lobby. She regained composure and I occasionally peaked into the theatre to see when the previews ended and our movie would begin.

What started with panic and thoughts of regret, turned out to be such a wise choice for the evening. The movie was funny and not traumatic. It ended at 11:30 PM. By time we got home the fireworks were over (except for a few inevitable stragglers).

A new tradition has been born.  A nice low-key day (with some time at our pool), then an evening of a quiet dinner followed by a movie. Shelly gets sad when she thinks of what the holiday consisted of pre-accident vs. what it is now. But she is also relieved that we found an activity to limit the trauma of the day.

The key to adapting and adjusting to a new normal is to find ways to minimize the pain and discomfort of the situation.

I am grateful that we have found a way to make it through the 4th of July.

 

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The Upstairs Room

by with No Comment blog

In a few weeks it will be 25 years since I moved away from Bakersfield, California to Western Kentucky.

One of the most difficult things was saying goodbye to Dana’s parents. I had become very close with them in the 2 and a half years since Dana had died. But I knew to move forward; I needed to move away. I promised that I would keep in close touch and continue to see them whenever I headed back to visit Bakersfield.

Less than a year later that all changed when Shelly and I became a couple. As I have previously mentioned, Shelly and I had become the best of friends after Dana’s death. Shelly was part of Dana’s circle of high school friends, but I did not know her very well. Shelly got an apartment with one of Dana’s best friends in the months after Dana’s death, then I began to get to know Shelly. Over the next few years she became a person that I could easily talk to about the despair I was dealing with. She would listen when I felt that nobody else would.

Shelly came to visit me in Kentucky and our relationship surprisingly changed during that visit.

This sent shock-waves to Bakersfield. Her parents reacted as if we were disrespecting Dana’s memory in the worst possible way; because Shelly was a friend of Dana’s. My Mom even received a call telling her how disgraceful it all was.

This reaction by her parents and by a few of Dana’s friends hurt Shelly and I tremendously. We moved forward and regretfully my relationship with her parents ended. I hated this, but I felt they were so upset with me that they wanted nothing to do with me anymore. They had no idea that Dana would always be such a major part of my being and that I would deal with the anguish of losing her daily. I wish I would have attempted to salvage our relationship back then. But I didn’t, as the pain was too intense, instead I let anger and rage manifest.

Then in 2013 Shelly had her life-changing freak accident. Her remarkable positive attitude dealing with a situation that almost took her life and forced her to relearn to walk and talk again surprisingly created a big change in myself too. I was finding peace in so many areas of my life as I was washing the years of rage away.

I decided to write to Dana’s parents. It was twenty years since we had last spoken. I gave a little detail on the past twenty years and told them that I missed them. Her Mom wrote back that they were really happy to hear from me. We continued to occasionally write over the next two years.

November 13, 2015 was the 25th anniversary of Dana’s death. I was taking this particular milestone exceptionally hard. I decided I would call her parents on the 13th. To dial Dana’s phone number again was surreal. Her Mom answered and was so excited to hear from me. She even asked about Shelly’s brain injury and our two boys, Dylan and Taylor. I also talked for a long time to her Dad. I seemed to struggle more than them to keep my emotions in check, but it was all so good. From that point we continued to talk regularly.

Late last summer my uncle passed away in Hanford, California, which is an hour and a half past my hometown of Bakersfield. I was asked by my cousins to be a pall bearer. My parents could not make the trip due to my Dad’s frail health. So I decided to make a quick turn-around driving trip by myself. I left my home in Arizona around 4 AM, needing to be in Hanford for the rosary at 5 PM.

The night prior I called her Mom and asked her if they would be home that next day around noon. She was excited and said they would make sure that they were home. This had all happened so quickly that I did not really have time to be nervous. But it felt good to realize that I was about to see them after all this time.

Upon arriving in Bakersfield I first drove to the house that I had bought just four days prior to Dana’s death. Our last weekend together had primarily focused on the excitement of doing fun stuff for what was to be our first house. I never moved in and sold it a few months after her death. As I drove up to the cute 1950s California ranch house, the emotion of our shattered future hit me hard.

The tears flowed down my face.

I then made the quick half mile drive to Dana’s house. Her parents still lived in the same house. I pulled up and parked at the spot that I had parked to see Dana so many times before. It quickly hit me that it was the first time I parked there in over 24 years. It sure did not feel like it had been so long. I sat for a minute or two as I attempted to regain some sort of composure.

I rang the doorbell and they both quickly answered. We hugged and I cried. They looked great. She was now 74 years old and he was 79. It was crazy to think that the last time I had seen them they were around my current age.

Like myself, Dana had been an only child.

They gave me a tour of the bottom floor of the house. I think I expected to be stepping back into 1990. But I was not, they had done a lot of upgrades and remodeling over the years. But pictures of Dana and I were still throughout the house.

We then sat in the family room and talked for 45 minutes or so. We talked so much about Dana. It felt really good to be reminiscing of memories that were so clear and vivid for me, but I rarely had the opportunity to discuss.

I finally said, “I need to go upstairs”.

As I entered Dana’s bedroom, now it was as if I was stepping back into 1990. As it did then, her room still centered around me. The realization of this engulfed me with emotion. Pictures of us, many in the frames I had bought her. My 8×10 college graduation picture. So many of the gifts I had given her. Wow, such overwhelming pain and joy simultaneously took over me as I absorbed it all. I then went through all of the drawers, cabinets as well as her closet. So many items, keepsakes and little mementos. There were many reminders of things I had not thought of in so long. As well as other reminders of things that had been at the forefront of my mind for all of this time.

Her clothes were all gone, as they had fallen apart many years ago, but much of her room was still intact.

I had gathered my composure pretty well until I saw something on her bulletin board. It was a half folded piece of paper with a drawing of the cartoon puppy that she would so often doodle when she was bored. But it also had her signature. Then underneath that was another signature, this time of her full name. Then lastly she had written Dana Millsap. I had forgotten how she often would practice signing the name that she was so anxious to have one day. A day that never came. I felt such a powerful surge of sadness upon seeing this.

I wanted to stay and spend much more time with them, but I needed to get back on the road. For me, these two hours were more meaningful than I could have ever possibly imagined them to be.

For Dana’s parents, I believe it finally gave them the understanding of how much I love their daughter.

An understanding of how she is never forgotten.

As well as an understanding that I never moved on, I simply moved forward.

It means so much to me that they finally are aware of this.