It's Hard to Say Goodbye - June 26, 2011

I asked Gina to write something for the blog the other day, as I've just been unable to write anything myself. Here's what she sent me:

It's hard to say goodbye.

Still, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be to commit Pete's ashes to the Atlantic Ocean during his final memorial service June 18. He grew up with a fishing pole in his hand and spent many summers out on boats - first our grandpa's boat, then headboats and party boats, and finally, his own - so I can't think of a more fitting final resting place for him than in the place he loved best.

I have to admit, I was a bit uneasy about this trip. Since Pete's cancer, trips home were awkward and uncomfortable for me. Living in California, I had some distance from the reality of his illness, but having to face it was really hard for me. I never knew what to say or do for Pete and my mom, and inevitably, I would say or do the wrong thing. This time, I would have to deal with the added reality that my baby brother wouldn't be there, and even worse, never would again.

Shortly after arriving, I went down to the basement where Pete's things are packed (mostly cartons and boxes full of clothes, fishing gear, books, and some mementos). I cried. Two days later, I went down to pick out a shirt of his to wear out on the boat for the memorial. I chose a blue T-shirt Pete bought in Dana Point one spring when he came out to visit me and Doug, a year or two before he got sick. When Pete was broke, my mom would buy his ticket to California during my spring break from teaching so he could come out and visit us. Pete had been so excited to go sportfishing in California, but the spring before, it rained almost every day and he never got to go. This time, he had great weather, so he researched the different fishing boats and chose one in Dana Point, a little over an hour away from where I live.

I got us a hotel room and we drove out the night before; then, I got up with him at 4 a.m. to drive him the mile or so from the hotel to the boat. We both got to do what we loved: Pete spent the day fishing, and I took the opportunity to go shopping at my favorite mall. When I returned from my outing, I headed back to the harbor and anxiously looked for Pete. About a half hour later, the boat pulled in and I saw Pete. He wasn't smiling. Not only did Pete not catch any fish, apparently, nobody did. He was not a very happy camper. He did leave with a hat, a shirt, and a pen from the gift shop - and some memories - but that was about it.

Last Christmas, I came home for a visit. I don't remember who sent it, but I think a friend (friends?) of his from Costco gave him a small framed three-dimensional "picture" of a small fishing boat heading out to sea. At the top of the frame is a clear glass piece that allows light to come in, giving the boat and the waves added dimension and life. It was beautiful, but its title "Last Catch" gave me a chill. I thought it was prophetic, and I really hoped Pete would beat the sarcoma so he could have many more catches and many more boat trips in his future. Sadly, Pete left us two months later.

So, on June 18, a boat full of about 90 of Pete's family, friends, and coworkers set out to say our last goodbye and take Pete on his final fishing trip. Three miles from the dock, the boat stopped and we took turns scattering his ashes and tossing flowers into the ocean. At the same time, somebody called our attention to the large school of fish breaking the surface not far from the boat. Afterwards, we all headed over to Farrell's for food, drinks, and friendship. It truly was a celebration of Pete's life. I was sad, yes, but what surprised me was the tremendous sense of peace that I felt. People who Pete loved and who loved him in return were there, and we were surrounded by that love. I knew that this is what Pete would have wanted. I knew that after two-plus years of fighting this disease, he was at peace. I will miss Petey forever, but I also know that he is home.