An Empty Chair
On Grief, Companionship, and the Gifts They Leave Us
I have breakfast on Tuesday mornings at 9:00 AM with a group of men I respect a lot. We call it “Old Man Breakfast.” Everyone but me had worn a badge in patrol. I came from probation. But we were all sworn, all shaped by the same work.
There are usually ten to twenty of us there.
The day already carried some additional weight for me. I will get to that.
When I got to the breakfast, I sat down and noticed the chair near the head of the long table where we met was empty. I was the seventh person to arrive at the main table. Another of us sat at a nearby table with his daughters and granddaughters. For the next few minutes, noticing the more somber mood but saying nothing, I saw another half dozen or so of our group join the table. Shortly after they sat down the man next to me broke the news. Gary had died since our last breakfast meeting. The words landed quietly, the way news does when experience has taught us hard lessons about loss, yet still manages to surprise. The empty chair was in his memory. Gary was in his eighties. His heart gave out. His was, as most are, a life filled with many things. He was honorable. Diligent. Conscientious. Funny. He liked to travel. I knew him for a couple years. Some at the table had known him for twenty or thirty years – had worked shifts with him on duty and had seen his bravery and dedication to the public good while working alongside him. Still, I was honored to know him. And as is always the case, honored to sit at the table with so fine a collection of human beings. I left the table carrying the quiet weight of that empty chair with me.
I didn’t eat breakfast. Not because of that news. But because I had a brunch meeting with someone else, a client, at 10:30 AM, at a different restaurant. This wasn’t a regular client meeting. We weren’t discussing which house he wanted to see, or what he hoped to find. We weren’t talking about marketing strategy or how I would best position his home to get top dollar in the current market. No. We were talking about him. About the challenges of his wife having been in hospice care for some time. About the emotional gravity of watching her slowly fade away. About the ever more rare and precious moments of clarity when she might look him in the eye, say something meaningful to him, or smile and say his name. About the pain. The loneliness. But also, the beauty of love. Of his grandchildren, and mine. Of all the things that bring joy and meaning to our lives. And about the pain and emotional dizziness of lifting his gaze to the far horizon and being able to see a point in his life beyond which he will, at least for a time, be alone. A time he knows will be filled with the agonizing beauty of all the memories of over sixty years together.
We talked about her. We talked about their life together. About moments shared. About the little objects in their home that represented some of those moments. A piggy bank he bought her at the very beginning of their time together, before they were married, when they had first begun dating. About when he handed it to her. “Why did you buy me a piggy bank?” she asked with a smile. “So we can start saving early for our life together,” he answered with a wink. That piggy bank still sits, along with other such items, on the mantle above their fireplace. Each a reminder of a very special place and time. Of love shared. Of their life together.
Over the more than two hours we talked, there were tears and there was laughter. When there were commonalities in our experience, we commiserated. When things differed, we learned from one another. We talked about my book, “Gifts They Leave Us,” and about the experiences that brought me to write it as well as the lessons I shared that I hope may companion others as they wrestle with their own terrible losses.
At some point, as we talked, I shared that the day carried its own weight for me. It happened to be the date, some years back, that my late wife was given a terminal cancer diagnosis. And that life continues to remind us, even when we are doing well, even if we are gloriously happy, of the beautiful people who are no longer a part of our day-to-day life. And that allowed me to offer him what I consider one of the core tenets of the book – if we allow it, we can move with them through each day, carrying all the wonderful gifts they leave us to everyone who remains, for the rest of our lives.
Like so many days in this life, it held both heartache and joy. Still, my eyes remain on the horizon. My steps continue forward, toward whatever new challenges, opportunities, and joys await.
May it be so for you as well.
I stand with you.