It's been said that the pen is mightier than the sword. I was just a boy when I heard it for the first time, but I remember being quite taken with it. The pen is mightier than the sword. Meaning, I assumed that anything you can put down on paper about your enemies is ultimately more "cutting" and enduring than harming them physically. But as I've gotten older, I translate the expression a bit differently. I've expanded it to reflect positivity as well. Because after the year I've had personally, writing is my refuge. Writing is my release. It is how I best communicate the crowds of thoughts, observations and grievances that get lodged in the out door of my brain. So, for those interested, I thought I'd share some of the things I've learned in calendar year 2012, a year that will likely be looked back on as the darkest and most challenging in my family's history.
In 2012, I learned that your life can change instantly, with no warning and whether you're ready or not. You've heard people say it, but until you've experienced it, there's no understanding. Losing my mother in April changed me for the rest of my life. She was only 59 and we'd already begun planning her 60th birthday party. I lost my grandmother the same weekend. The news of my mother's death killed her. I already had a small family. This made it exponentially smaller. The sadness was and is like nothing I could've ever imagined. There are glaring holes at every family gathering and as corny as it sounds, the even bigger hole is in my heart. For a while, when people asked how I was doing with it, I answered, "Taking it one day at a time." Then I moved onto, "I'm okay, I guess." I've run out of cliche answers. But I wouldn't say I'm okay. I still regularly cry about it and Mom is my first thought in the morning and last thought at night. And I not only dread my first Christmas and New Years without her, but the fact that it's likely neither of my children will remember her and how much she loved them breaks my heart every time I think of it.
I've also learned that people move on without you. The hardest moment in my life wasn't the funeral. At that point, I had boat loads of support. It was the Monday after the funeral, sitting at my desk at work while others laughed around me like nothing was wrong. It was months later when my three-year-old son Antonio curiously asked while on our way to school if Grandma was ever coming back. I've also learned that while some people have much larger hearts than I thought, sometimes the one you expect to support you is the first one to let you down. I've lost one of my best childhood friends this year. Sadly, I'm the only one of the two of us aware of it, though.
I've learned that my kids are worth it. I can't even tell you how many times I've come home from work, weary, worn out and downright miserable to have my two boys brighten my mood with simply a smile and hug, as I bury my face in their chests. At that point, the aggressive driver who cut me off and flipped me off or the rude office manager who treated me like a lesser life form don't matter at all.
I've learned that my wife is willing to tolerate me being an intolerant prick sometimes because she knows I'm going through a lot. She's been my rock. Everyone needs one. When they say "for better or worse," this is the "worse" part.
I've come to realize how losing someone so important makes you exponentially more grateful for those you still have. When I see my father playing with my kids and my sister's kids or I call my 86-year-old grandmother just to listen to how her hip is bothering her, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and I hinge on every moment. It breaks my heart that Mom and Grandma won't be at the table on Christmas, but when Antonio gets giddy about seeing his cousins or his grandfather, I smile. Dad, Grandma, my sister, cousins, Aunts, etc. They're a window into my past.
I've learned that it's vitally important for me to have hobbies and interests. Without some combination of my podcast, parent blog, bowling, fantasy football or book project, I'd be a pretty miserable guy. It's hard for non-creative types to understand it, but if people like me aren't creating something, we don't feel useful.
When I look back at this year, I hope not just to remember the horrific scene of finding my mother's body or hearing my grandmother's screams when I broke the news, but I also hope to remember something Sonia told me. One night I was particularly down and she knew it. So she took my hand in hers and told me, "You're stronger than you think. And you're the man I think you are." I've learned that sometimes we need someone else to believe in us, even when we don't believe in ourselves.
It's been said that if I can get through that week in April, I can get through anything. And that's the kind of confidence I intend to carry into 2013 - as a husband, friend, and especially a father.
Here's to a happier 2013.
- Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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