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On this day in 1975, a few minutes past 11 a.m. in Pittsburgh, PA, George Schnakenberg III was born. This singular event, along with his departure exactly 38 years and 7 months later, would alter the lives of many in beautiful, profound, and heartbreaking ways. He would have been 47 years old today. Because 4+7=11, and 11x2=22, and today’s date is 12/22/22 (we all know how much George loved the numbers 11 + 22), it feels like an especially special birthday. But this year, I am not making a cake. Nova is making a cake. Nova, our girl who has somehow grown into a human who can research recipes and create shopping lists and follow step by step instructions is making her dad a decadent chocolate layer cake with pretzels, chocolate ganache, and peanut butter frosting - from scratch. All I get to do is grease the pans. Time is an amazing thing. As I look back on our year, I am flooded with gratitude, and I am flooded with loss. So many have left us this year. Every time I hear of another soul departed, the familiar weight of grief rushes to greet me. I remember those early days all too well. I wish there were words, a shortcut, a magic wand. A balm for the injustice. I am still learning about this thing called grief. While it may be universal, it is also deeply personal, and no two experiences will ever be the same. My grief for George is very different from my grief for my mom, and my grief for each of them over time takes on varying textures, colors, forms. I can’t say that it gets easier, because sometimes I feel that it gets more complex. The layers of who I am becoming in relationship to what they have become for me continue to morph and stretch me in ways I’m not always comfortable with. Their departure is a paradox, for they have not left me at all. We are constantly integrating. We are more connected than ever. There is one known fact, and I have held onto this since the moment I kissed his body goodbye. The insurmountable grief, the injustice, the anger, the exhaustion - these pale in comparison to the immeasurable blessings he has bestowed on my life. The simple gift of his life, and the lives of those lost, is enough to hold me through the darkest days. Happy Solstice + Happy 47th Birthday, George. We love you with everything.  Every year on July 22, I write to honor George, and I make the writing public. Every year Nova and I do something to remember him, like have grilled cheese and Sapporo beer, or have a special outing, or make art and bike and snuggle and dance. Every year feels beautiful and hard. Every year I am filled with gratitude and dread. There will never be a way to honor him enough. He has reached a place of infinite wonder and oneness and not my words, nor my actions, nor my thoughts, carry the right translation. The only thing that comes close are my tears. And when I look into the eyes of that girl of ours. Last night, on July 21, I sat across from Nova at dinner and thought about the dinner I’d had with George 8 years ago, our last dinner together. We’d gone out for burgers and we’d talked about the work he had left on his plate that night, how it would be a late night, but by this time tomorrow he’d be on paternity leave. This time tomorrow. It was a fantasy. And I wondered how it is that we choose to commemorate the day that someone leaves us instead of the day we last spent with them. I’d rather remember the happy day, the day of innocence and contentment. Maybe it would feel less dreadful. Maybe it would feel more luminous to celebrate his last day on Earth than the one that mysteriously landed him in the ER, with all of the heartache that ensued. This of course is a selfish idea, for George’s experience was vastly different from mine. Perhaps for him, returning to the infinite is all the reason to celebrate. Perhaps what we are honoring is not his life on Earth, but his transcendence. Then I looked at Nova, and said, “8 years ago today was the last day I spent with your dad.” And when I said that, while looking at this beautiful creature of ours, a new truth emerged. “They have been the best 8 years of my life.” She looked at me, and I looked at her, and we smiled a knowing smile. And in that spontaneous moment we glimpsed perfection in our nonconforming little family. There would be no Nova without George, and there would be no George without Nova. It is as though his dying made way for her living. And her living transforms his dying into enormous waves of awe and gratitude, and the physical manifestation of love. She is our love in motion. She is his spirit, animated in space and time. Her life honors him, and it is more than enough. 8 years ago, Nova and I became a team. 8 years ago, George empowered me to become a single mother, gifted Nova the virtues of courage and resilience, and set us out to create something beautiful out of something hard. They have been the most amazing, crushing, inspiring, heartbreaking, heart-opening, transformative years. They have been the best 8 years of my life.   “Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks. “It’s the day that George became spirit.” “Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers. “July 22. That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.” A fact she will never forget. “It really is a special day,” she declares. “What are we going to do for him?” We begin to list off the possibilities.
I woke this morning to Nova, climbing into my arms to snuggle, as she does most mornings. Tony stirred soon after, and we lay there, the three of us together, resting contentedly with our arms intertwined.
“Are you awake?” I asked Nova. “Yes, I’m awake,” she replied, her crisp yet delicate five-year old voice slicing through the morning air. I kissed her head, squeezed her a little tighter. One at a time, we rose from the bed. Tony headed downstairs to make breakfast and coffee, as he does most mornings. Nova picked out a dress her daddy might like. “He liked red, didn’t he mama?” “Oh yes, he loved all the colors.”  One year ago this January 1, from the mountains of Colorado, I made the decision to move to Denver. What began as our annual family Christmas vacation resulted in a major life transformation -- easily one of the most dramatic decisions I’ve ever made -- landing me, my 2-year old daughter, and a trailer full of boxes in the place we now call home. I couldn’t have known then, that Nova would get a spot at our neighborhood’s full-time preschool in the fall. I couldn’t have known that this would afford me the opportunity to resume school and finish my degree in Chinese medicine and acupuncture. I couldn’t have known that I would fall in love with a man and experience the depth of connection* that had vanished from my life years ago. I knew only that there was a home waiting for us in Denver, and that despite the 18 years of roots laid in the Bay Area, it was time for me to move forward, plant new roots, begin again. |
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