Dec 18 2009
Four years
The energy level of the entire class dropped as if a collective “oh” of realization had been sighed–the teacher remained poised with his pen hovering over that place in the attendance sheet where Liad’s name was printed. Without looking up he said, “I can’t cross it off.” I told him to mark him as here because he most definitely was with us at that moment. Evidently someone in the main office felt the same way and that’s why Liad’s name still appears on our attendance printouts.
The attendance roster of life
How much time has to go by before we erase the memory of those who have passed on before us? I guess that depends on their closeness to us, or on the profundity of their passing. Who among those alive at the time will ever forget the death of John Kennedy? I’ll remember Liad because of that moment in our class.
Four years since…what?
On December 9th, I auditioned to attend The Berklee College of Music. I think that this is one of my more important milestones and the results will substantially influence the direction my life will take over the coming years. So it comes as no surprise that I was intensely focused on the preparation and, one week before the audition, on completely changing everything I had prepared to better present myself. So when December 3rd rolled around, it registered only as the sixth day in the countdown to that defining moment. It was some days after the audition that I noticed that I had let the forth anniversary of Ray’s death pass unnoticed. This was definitely a huge and significant occurrence for me.
Lady Grief–she who will not be ignored.
Grief is a fickle bedmate. She will poke you hard when you least expect it, and in the first years following the death of someone you love, might make you think you’re going crazy with the burden of it all. When Ray died, even though we knew it was coming for over two years, I was hurled, tumbling, into a dark pit of grief that I had never before experienced (remember, both my parents had died, as well as most of my aunts and uncles, and my brother as well.) As I remember it now, images of skydiving without a parachute, being catapulted into outer space or being part of an avalanche come to mind. I sought the help of an experienced grief counselor because the emotions were so intense. She explained that everything I was feeling was normal (including the fear that I might be going crazy) and assured me that, indeed, I was not going crazy…I was just suffering the normal grief that people experience when they loose someone they love intensely. It was a huge relief to hear her say that. She went on to explain that, from the moment Ray died, my life became like a walk through a land-mine field. The first month or so has me walking in an area where there are mines every few inches, and each time I touch one the explosion engulfs me with intense grief. The first year is similar, only there are fewer mines and they are farther apart. Each consecutive year finds the mines fewer and farther apart until they are almost non existent. She advised me neither avoid nor seek out the mines, which I did. Now, just past the four-year mark, I find myself almost never involved in thinking about Ray’s death or the fact that he’s no longer in this realm. Instead, I find him present in my life both as a wonderful and cherished memory and as a constant friend.
Yeah, yeah, I talk to him. I’m working on a project to re-issue some of his recordings, and every time I hear something I love, I tell him how beautiful it is. If I don’t understand something he did or what to do with it, I call out, “Ray, help me out here!” And yes, I do feel guided by him. He was with me every moment in preparation for my Berklee audition. How curious that I didn’t turn my attention, even for a moment, to the annual demarcation of his death. Actually, it’s glorious.
Obviously, I haven’t forgotten that he died, but how wonderful that in my mind, I now embrace his memory and influence on my life and keep him somewhat alive in this way. Have I finished mourning my loss? It does feel that way. Can someone who was a such a huge part of our lives ever stop being so? If we allow it, their life was in vain.
Eventually, we do remove our loved one’s name from our attendance roster, but somewhere, we keep an old copy to remind us that, yes, they were so-very-here. I think this is what is meant when we say, “May her/his memory be for a blessing.” In my life, Ray’s most certainly is.
Forever as ever can be, Ray.
In seriously loving memory of Ray Charles Scudero, June 21, 1946-December 3, 2005.
Dear Joanna, Thank you for so beautifully expressing what is so difficult for so many of us to even acknowledge. I still have my friend Bev’s number on my mobile phone, I just can’t bring myself to remove it. We wish you all the best at Berklee — and Vernon has a small gift for you (a music chart that his mother made) if you could send us your address. All the best, Sherry Whetstone
I know what that’s like Sherry, and I know that Bev was a very special person though I never had the privelege to know her. She is missed by so many.
And thank you for your good wishes, and in advance for the gift.