Three Years

Sunday will be the third anniversary of the airplane crash that killed P, his beautiful bride, his best friend, and his bride.

July 26.

I remember that day so vividly.

I remember the sounds.

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember what he was wearing.

I remember our entire conversation.

I remember how I had begged him for five straight days not to get into that plane.

I remember that the last thing he had on his iPad was me flipping him off that day.

That day.

I saw him.

He said, "Love ya, Sis. See ya Monday!"

But, I didn't see him Monday.

Less than 30 minutes later, he was no longer here.

He was dead.

They were all dead.

And, I knew it.

We knew it.

I remember wailing, almost howling with grief and tears for hours.

Until Kay and Bill and Keith could get me out of the office around the media and home.

I took 2 1/2 hours to get me home.

The freeway was closed because the plane was on it.

What was left of the plane.

Their bodies were on the freeway.

And that freeway was the last thing on earth I wanted to see.

For days, I would drive the back roads to get to work.

I would sit on the floor against his closed door.

NO ONE was to open that door.

I was sit on the floor and cry.

Stare.

Work on my laptop.

Drink my soda.

And cry.

No one made me move.

The Chief called me the next morning.

He said, "Sis, I want you to know that when you see his casket, his body is in there... in tact."

Jimi, the minister, came and sat with me in my office.

The guys would take turns sitting in my office at lunch to make sure I ate.

My heart was shattered.

My best friend was gone.

The person who believed in me, and my children, and every single crew member here was gone.

There was the City memorial.

The viewing.

The funeral.

The burial.

They were all beautiful.

There were sacred moments at each.

Moments that I knew were God winks.

Then, life was supposed to go on... move forward.

The stroke came five months later.

All 43 guys were in the waiting room in the ICU.

They had been taught by P that if he was ever not here, they were to take care of me and my boys.

They have taken that very seriously since that day.

He would have been so proud of them during those months of paralysis, re-learning everything, therapy, hospitalizations, and consequent permanent FMLA.

There was the day one year later when his sister, whom I'd never met, came to see me at the office.

It was one of the most spiritual experiences of my life.

An experience like that is rare.

I am grateful.

There were the times when my boys had major things happening in their lives and afterwards, they would come and say, "Mom. P was here."

I'd nod my head and tell them I knew.

Grief really is like an ocean.

It doesn't ever go away.

Some days, however, it is in the forefront far more than other days.

This weekend will include those days.

We will celebrate him somehow on Sunday.

I will most likely cry.

And laugh.

And remember how blessed I am to have such a dear friend and big brother who can be with us all the time, not just when the flesh allows.