Ryan Hilligoss, October 7, 2023

Dedicated to the memory of Mark R

“I know why we try to keep the dead alive: we try to keep them alive in order to keep them with us. I also know that if we are to live ourselves there comes a point at which we must relinquish the dead, let them go, keep them dead. ”
― Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

Like many working Americans, I have not set foot in my workplace since March of 2020. As Covid became a pandemic, I left work one day for the long drive home, in the cool spring air, not realizing just how long of a journey it would be. This past week, along with a lot of other working Americans who have recently been called back into a formal work setting, I returned not knowing what to expect.

The same granite edifice was there, the same marble tile on the lobby floor, lots of glass. The concrete stairs I have walked a thousand times seemed even more dreary than before. Down a long carpeted hallway into a side entrance I went, opening the door with a swipe of the ever necessary security card. I stepped through the threshold into the same setup as when I left. Same cubicles, same chairs, same desks, same gray carpet, same view of the nearby highways out the north windows.

It struck me as though I’d walked through a time warp back to spring 2020, but yet it was not the same, it never will or could be the same. A great sadness descended on me as it struck me how much I – we, all as Americans and global citizens – have lost in the last few years. A sapling of loss bloomed inside my heart, its roots having been growing for some time, and sprung to life with the sunshine streaming through the floor to ceiling windows a few feet from me.

The idea of loss, of losing someone, has been ever present in my mind for the last few weeks. My mother Madonna Sue Barr Hilligoss passed away August 11, 2017. Six years later I think I am just now fully coming to terms with the fact my mom, the one I knew as a kid and young man, not the one suffering health issues in her last years, is truly gone. My mom is gone. She’s not coming back. That gives me pause and stops me cold in my tracks at moments.

My middle brother Sean passed away two years earlier, on September 22, 2015 at the age of 42. I pause to remember him, offering a tribute and remembrance. Maybe as a way to keep him alive in my memory but also to let others know that such a person existed, to bear witness to him being a very real person who lived and loved – and was loved – but who is no longer present on earth.

Further from my personal experience, the anniversary of the last Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers concert just passed, on September 25. The band last played together in 2017 at the Hollywood Bowl. The last show of the tour, a grueling 40 stop tour that had him playing on a broken hip. Unknown to anyone outside of the organization, he had been diagnosed shortly before the tour started. Being a true musician and utmost professional, not wanting to disappoint the fans, and knowing the band and crew counted on the shows to make a living, Tom toughed it out with the help of opioids which was the eventual cause of his death.

The last song Tom Petty played was American Girl, one he had sung thousands of times, but for some of those fans it was the first and last time they would hear it live. As Tom walked off stage that night, the crowd held the ringing of the last notes in their ears. And Tom had the roar of the crowd in his ears, putting a big smile on his bearded face.

During the pandemic, we collectively lost an extraordinary amount not only in the lives lost, but the loss of basic human decency at times, seeing truly ugly human behavior of the likes unknown to me until now. We saw friends and family ripped apart over differences in politics and differences of opinion on how things were handled during that time. Apparently a deep sense of general anger and atavistic rage bubbled under the surface waiting for the right moment to erupt, splitting our very core. In my 49 years, I have never been as despondent or down about our nation in general, not because of the politics, but just the pure meanness and glee some people have taken poking the bear to get some satisfaction they desperately lack elsewhere.

The sense of loss has been with me for a long time. Most of us live our lives along a general progression: being part of a family, a circle of friends, work acquaintances, etc and then as we get older, one by one, you start peeling back those layers, losing critical mass with each piece that we lose along the way. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, in-laws, friends and loved ones.

Sometimes, the loss isn’t death in the physical sense of a human being, but a relationship you struggled to build over years, only to see it crumble and vanish just like the child’s sandcastle at the shore, ebbing away in the evening tide as the sunlight dances a few more times across the water. It leaves you shaken and wobbly, teetering from side to side with the wind, waiting for the next blow to come at any moment. Without a firm reinforcement of new friends and loved ones, it leaves one in a precarious environment. Can you rebuild and try again or are you left in a state of arrested development as a human being, simply biding your time as one day slides into the next.

The grief comes and goes, sometimes at obvious times such as the anniversary of a passing, or at the oddest times: When you are listening to a song or an artist sing out their soul and a lyric or emotion hits you, knocking you sideways. During a conversation, one topic leads to another and soon, you are standing in the same spot as when you got the phone call that day, telling you the world you knew was over.

The term loss has always bothered me, seeming disingenuous at best. Loss has many meanings obviously. A team can lose a game. You can lose your senses for brief moments of time, hopefully returning soon enough. You can lose your favorite mug while stumbling through the kitchen, dropping the cup to the floor, shattering in a thousand pieces as the coffee quickly spreads across the tile floor.

But to lose someone? Where did they go, will they come back, and will they be the same as before? No, when you lose someone, they’re gone: irreplaceable. I know it’s supposed to soften the blow and take the edge of the word death, but sometimes I wish people would just say, “I’m sorry your mom died”, because then we know she’s not hiding around the corner waiting to surprise me one day. She’s gone and she’s not coming back. If we said that, we’d at least be real for a moment.

When I walked into my office this week, the sadness descended on me and I was reminded of a co-worker I had known for 20 years. He and I weren’t close friends, hanging out on weekends and spending time on the holidays, but we saw each other and talked almost everyday for years. Two years ago after having beaten pancreatic cancer, he went to sleep one day and didn’t wake up.

Unknown to most of us, he had also developed prostate cancer, and because of his terrible experience with chemo on the prior cancer, he had chosen to not seek treatment. Not having been in the same building had made time move slowly, yet quickly, but walking through that door, looking at his old desk space, I knew he was gone, not lost.

In 2015, Lou Reed was posthumously inducted into the the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for his work with the Velvet Underground and his solo work. His partner and love of his life, Laurie Anderson accepted the award on his behalf. During her speech, she said people die three deaths: once when your heart stops beating, secondly when your remains are handled and lastly when your name is spoken for the last time as the years pass and those that knew you slip away and you’re nothing but a memory or a headstone at a cemetery. Laurie implored the crowd to say his name and the audience responded with a loud and resounding, “Looooooouuuuuuuu.”

Most of us are not lucky or talented enough to be enshrined in a museum, honored for our gift and artistry and contributions to the greater world. Most of us live out lives of quiet dignity and grace, building a life and maybe planting a small garden where your favorite plants grow, some have children they raise and leave behind hoping you did your best as a parent, some have life partners and spouses they build an entire universe with, some filled with light and magic, some not so much, but at least you made the effort to the best of your abilities.

At the end of the day, all of us carry the ghosts of our loved ones with us, we carry the burdens we built of our own volition, we carry the scars of the past, we carry our own demons. None of us knows the battles being fought by those around us or those that pass us on the street. As Robin Williams said, “Be kind. Always.” We’ve all suffered losses, but with a little sunlight, some time and love, maybe we can find our way back home again.

Peace and love. Thanks for reading if you’ve gotten this far.