Metaphor

The top floor of the World Trade Center.  February 2000, the night I got engaged. This photo makes me happy, and sad. 

Like life. Seemed appropriate on a day of remembrance. 

My thoughts are with all who lost loved ones on September 11th.  I hope this anniversary brings you happy memories, peace, and healing.

 

Summer - In Pics

The Next David Sedaris (if he were a woman, also a mom, also not from North Carolina ...)

I have been quiet about these here parts.  I know.  I've missed you.  I've been busy.  I've moved.  I cut bangs.  I made my hair red.  I adopted a dog.  Joined a farmers' co-op.  Bought some new towels.

Also, wrote a book.  That's right, a whole book, with 159 pages to read, full of words.  

I have a "producer" and the next step is publishing.  He is going to work his editing magic, sprinkle the project with unicorn dust, hand it off to some elves, and then I will have an actual book!  After that comes the obvious; fame, fortune, and an appearance on "Ellen" where we will discuss our mutual love of pants and dancing.

Here's the early press blurb for the impatient amongst you:

Always Forward, Never Straight 

The life and times of a directionally challenged mother/lawyer/crazy woman.

A humorous and thought provoking venture into a "not so everyday" life.
 

Description

Jennifer Sebor "is a mess." It is this "mess" that is the joy of knowing her and opens you to the insight of her words and life's adventures.

In the past five years, she has endured a brain tumor diagnosis, forcibly retired from her law career, dealt with a loved one's fatal neurological illness, endured a bitter divorce and custody battle, yet maintained her sanity and sense of humor through it all.

Venturing into Jenny's world provides us not only with a better understanding of who she is, but who we are, and how to face life's challenges with strength, love and amazing humor. Topics include parenting, intellectual masturbation, love, leukemia, terminal brain disease, marriage and divorce, rabies, kittens, law professors, soaking oneself in gasoline without combusting, ghetto life, vaginas after childbirth, Dracula tackling goats, and Chadley Cooper. And, of course, penises.

May result in sudden outbursts of laughter and tears, often simultaneously.

You like the Facebook?  I know you do, that Mark Z. kid is a genius!  

Go here for the Facebook link:  

https://www.facebook.com/AFNSbook

That's it!  He will be allowed to read it when he is eighteen.  Or, twenty-one .... OK, thirty-one.

Brain Tumor Race for Hope 5K

I will be running, crawling, walking ... some combination thereof ... this Sunday to raise money to further brain tumor research. 

My personal link and my (very condensed!) story of my own struggle with brain tumor is below.  If you would consider making a donation to this very worthy cause, I would be most grateful!

http://www.braintumorcommunity.org/site/TR/Events/RFH-DC?px=3333629&pg=personal&fr_id=2021

Thank you

Thank you, Boston Police Department.

The fact that you were able to locate two monsters … sorry, SUSPECTS … less than a week after the bombings is truly astounding. As someone who has had to sift through mountains of evidence for trial, I can appreciate the seemingly insurmountable task of compiling all of the video, photos, witness reports, hard evidence from the crime scene, etc, and narrow it down as quickly as possible.

I am sure this week you have missed not only hours of sleep, but ballet recitals, little league games, and anniversary dinners while working around-the-clock.

Your profession may sometimes be maligned by popular culture, which is something I am intimately familiar with; but just like most attorneys are hard-working good people, in my experience, so are most law enforcement professionals. You work HARD to keep people safe. While the rest of us are refreshing our twitter feeds from the comfort of our own homes, coffee mugs in hand, you are standing in the cold street, strapped into a flack jacket.

Thank you, for restoring my faith in our public safety, and for all that you sacrifice for your jobs.

Shattered

My cousin crossed the finish line at the marathon five minutes before the bombs went off, where my family waited to cheer her on. Another younger cousin was one academic building away at Virginia Tech, my alma mater, and cowering under a desk while the shooter was stalking students with a gun, six years ago today (one might conclude that being related to me is dangerous business). When I got engaged, we celebrated on the top floor of the World Trade Center, one year before the towers fell. Each attack felt personal. There by the grace of God go I.

My heart hurts this morning, as does my head since I had CNN on until 2 a.m. I tried to shield Ethan from some of the news coverage but he had heard about the bombings. “Did someone do that on purpose?” As a parent, what do you do? Do you lie and tell him that it was an accident, nothing to worry about? Or do you embrace the horrible truth that our world is a scary unpredictable place where the most ordinary day can be shattered by violence and mayhem in a split second?

He’s ten, and mature, so I opted for a short version of the truth.

“Yes, it appears at though someone did this on purpose. But the doctors are working hard to help all the people that got hurt. And the police are working hard to search for the criminal to keep people safe. I know it’s a scary thing. Do you have any questions? Do you want to talk about what happened?”

He thought for a moment.

“Jessica and Uncle C and Aunt B are ok?”

“Yes, they are fine.”

He nodded.

“So, what place did Jessica come in during the race? Next time we go up there can I try on her medal? Did she win? It’s awesome she can run that far.”

Yes. It’s awesome. Today I embrace the awesome – my relatives that are safe, those people that can run 26 plus miles (wow), those that ran toward the danger to help out the injured, those that gave blood, the doctors, nurses, cops, FBI, that have been working around-the-clock since this occurred. And my child, who in the light of horrific tragedy, still wants to know who won the race and whether he can try on the medal. Innocence tarnished, but not lost.

Wishing all my friends a gentle day.

Domestic Goddess

How to Spring Clean: 

1) Throw in load of laundry. Ponder how one small child can get everything so dirty. Is there a pair of school pants without mud stains? 

2) Start dishes. Cat breaks three mugs by pushing them off counter. And a vase. Get dustpan/broom. Put down to Google SPCA pick-up. 

3) Dog eating broom. Google extra fee for two pet pick-up? 

4) Cut finger on vase glass. Look for band-aid. Have surgical tape, eye patch, cool burn ointment, Epi-pens -- out of band-aids. Add to shopping list. Wrap finger with clear tape. 

5) Cat in clean laundry basket. Dog pulling dirty laundry out of hamper, eating E's baseball pants. 

6) Open window. Sneeze. Close window. Take Claritin. 

7) Claritin makes me sleepy. Try to make coffee. Favorite mugs broken. Go out for coffee. 

8) While out dog throws up parts of broom and something .... else? Further investigation determines is E's baseball "cup" from sports bag. Not the drinking kind. 

9) Google "cruises to Bermuda no pets leave March." 

10) Call cleaning service. Ask if they can come yesterday. Offer $20 extra plus bonus pet of their choice for kids' Easter basket. 

 11) "MOM! I accidentally flushed a golf ball down the toilet!" 

12) Start packing for cruise. Tell no one.

Ten

Dear Ethan,

You are ten today! But I don’t need to tell you that. Since you said to me, “I’m TEN!!” no less than fifty times while getting ready for school this morning, I think you are fully aware. I get it – double-digits are exciting. Only eight more years until you can get that tattoo!

I’ve written you letters every year on your birthday since you were only a baby. I’ve put these letters in a box for you to read all at once at some date in the future (note to self: remember where I put that damn box). This letter will be the same, I won’t actually share this with you until you are older. I wrote you a more age-appropriate message in your birthday card this morning, and also included a message from the pets, because we all know that Ziggy is the Tolstoy of the family (he’s the only one fluent in Russian).

I looked at you today and tried to remember myself at ten. When I was ten, I wanted to wear a strapless dress to dinner that made it look like I had boobs. My best friend and I went to "the fanciest restaurant” (Phillips) in Baltimore to eat lobsters. I wanted a training bra. None of this applies to you – you do not want to eat lobsters, nor have you requested a training bra, yet much of me at ten shines through. I see a similar sense of humor. I see a caring about others. I see a love of reading. I see a gentleness with animals. I see an obstinate streak. I see strong emotions. I see competitiveness. I see generosity with those that you love. I see glimpses at ten of the adult you will become and I feel like I have done a good job parenting you. I know that some of this is just “you," however, and I know that you have done a good job just being you. I cannot take all the credit.

Maternal tendency as time passes is to lament the early years and wish that you were still younger, and not growing up so quickly. I feel the opposite; I want the years to pass, I want to see you grow up. I am happy that I get to know you at ten, and I hope that I get to know you at sixty.

You don’t remember this, but when you were just four, I received a life-altering diagnosis. I had life all figured out (on paper, at least). I was your mom, you were in preschool, I was married to your dad, we had a lovely home, and I worked as a litigation attorney at a private firm. All was well and good in our white-picket fence suburban life. Then one day, I couldn’t remember the names of my witnesses, or walk up the stairs, or press the button on my dictaphone. The day before Thanksgiving, I learned I had a brain tumor. Some very smart doctors projected that I would be dead in six months. My first thought was you. That you would grow up without a mom. My second thought was that I would not see you grow up. I could not decide which was more unfair.

Things have changed since then, I no longer practice law. Your father and I could not endure the stress of my illness, and we separated after a decade of marriage. You and I have moved. Being sick has knocked me down, but it has not destroyed me. Through sheer luck (and stubbornness), I am still here. I am still your mom. I still get to celebrate birthdays. I still get to frost a poorly-baked cake and surprise you by having a heart-shaped pizza delivered to your school and buy you too many presents that you don’t need.

I know each day that maybe I am living on borrowed time. At first, my instinct was to do big things – we should go to Fiji and swim with sharks!, I need to take you to Australia!, definitely the Super Bowl!, we should commission the Cirque de Soleil troupe to perform in our living room for your birthday! Of course, there are time, money, and energy constraints to living each minute like it is your last, and so eventually you just settle in to normal life. The fabric of life is not made up of firework marching band memories, but of those moments you don’t even realize are happening. Every night at dinner, I light a candle, and put the fireplace on, and set the Sirius station to Coffee House. These are things you don’t consciously recognize now, but perhaps in your review of your life, you will recall that I tried to introduce some specialness into each day, even the mundane moments.

I want to share a few things with you that I think are important. I don’t have all the answers. Some days, I am still trying to figure out the questions, so you may take the following with a grain of salt. As you grow and become older, here is what I wish for you:

Be kind. Not a pushover, there is a difference; there are times in life where it is not only important to stand up for yourself or something you believe in, but necessary. Being kind doesn’t mean being spineless, but it means being thoughtful of other people. Say hello, say please and thank you, tell people to have a nice day, hold doors, smile, buy that homeless guy a bagel. It will make others' days brighter and yours, too.

Do something that you want to do. I don’t know what that will be. Maybe you will end up being a pro football player, like you aspire to be. If that happens, I will be in the front row, cheering you on manically, with my face painted and hair dyed your team colors. I am sure that will not be embarrassing for you. Say you decide in the next decade that pro football is not for you? That may happen. You may be an investment banker, a judge, a bus driver, a hairdresser, a veterinarian, a ballet dancer, a painter, a bank teller, an engineer … you may be a ballet-dancing bus-driving judge who paints on weekends. The sky is the limit. Here is what I want you to know: I am proud of you. “Whatever” you become, I am proud of you. Because you are my son, and that is enough. Whatever your path in life, I will always brag to neighbors/relatives/random baristas at the coffee shop that I am the mom to the most awesome ballet-dancing bus-driving judge who paints on weekends in the world.

The next one is important; not at the age of ten, but later -- your resume does not matter. Let me rephrase that -- your resume does not matter, much. You come from a long line of people with impressive resumes … your collective grandparents have a lot of letters after their names, your dad was first in his class at Johns Hopkins in engineering, he and I both have graduate degrees ... you come from smart people, and you are a smart kid. Because of this, as you get older, you may feel pressure to achieve academic and professional “things.” I would be dishonest if I said that these things were not important in life, they were to me, and they may be to you as well, however, they are not everything. They are not even most of the things. Your resume is not what will bring you chicken soup when you are sick, or take your calls at 2 AM, or drive with you to a funeral three states over. Nuture your family and friends. Your life is not your accomplishments, but the people who love you.

One more: Live life the best you can. Even when it knocks you down. Get up. And get up again. Repeat as necessary. Remember you are my son, and therefore, made of titanium.

I hope your tenth year is, as you would say “totally epic”, in all the right ways. I love you.

XO,
Mommy

Number One Lovah: A Useful Gift Guide

I’ve had a couple of guy friends ask me recently about the appropriate thing to buy their significant others for Valentine’s Day.  I think that is a tough call, it depends on said significant other.  However, I can give you useful parameters on what NOT to buy to celebrate this most important Day of Love.

She does not want perfume, because if she does want perfume, she will select it for herself.  The perfume aisle is fraught with opportunities for a misstep, and you may be lured into thinking that she wants to smell like Britney Spears.  I can assure you she does not.  Even Britney Spears does not want to smell like Britney Spears.  Nor does she want to smell like Kim Kardashian, who I bet smells like money, Spanx, and soulless dead shark eyes.  A good one to avoid, as well. 

You may think traditional: Chocolates, roses, giant teddy bears.  Chocolates are good for your mom, get your mom those.  She will appreciate your thoughtfulness.  Your significant other, however, will do one of two things with chocolates.  She will eat ALL of them within four minutes, thereby inciting a next day gym-binge and self-loathing, which may or may not be passive-aggressively transferred on to you.  Or she will eat NONE of them.  She will either throw them in the trash once you leave or take them in to her office, thereby wasting your money and effort in picking them out, and also, making her assistant fat.  This is not fair to her assistant.

Roses die and if you buy the $11.99 special from Proflowers, you will be in trouble.  You just will.  If you buy the $140.00 arrangement from Calyx & Corolla, you could have bought jewelry.  As for the giant teddy bear, nobody over the age of twelve wants a giant teddy bear (if you are shopping for a twelve-year-old, please call Dateline.  Immediately.  Chris Hansen wants to speak with you).

Lingerie is a minefield.  You need to be careful.  Unless your significant other is actually a Victoria’s Secret model, she probably does not want to model lingerie for you. Case in point:  First year of law school, ex gives me a Valentine’s gift of lingerie.  Very black, very sheer, the size of an anorexic cocktail napkin, with a picture on the box of Heidi Klum demonstrating what the lingerie will look like when filled with woman (Caution: Objects on box may be larger than they appear).  I had just recovered from a bad cold and was in the throes of working on my Moot Court competition appellate brief.  I had subsisted on nothing but 3 am pizza, Mallomars, Adderall, and instant coffee packets for the past month.  While I could provide a semi-intelligent discourse on Amalgamated Food Employees Union Local 590 v. Logan Valley Plaza, Inc., 391 U.S. 308 (1968), if you had asked me how to spell the word “gym”, I would have looked at you blankly and drooled. 

Heidi sent me over the edge.  I locked myself in the bathroom with the box, stared deeply into her judgmental boobs, and started crying.  Probably not the desired reaction. (Note: This was not the sole reason this person eventually became an ex, but when I was doing the cost-benefit analysis, this would have gone on the “con” list). Consider the context.  I would have been much happier with a pair of Pajama Jeans and matching faux-denim scrunchie.

So far, I have been using the feminine gender. Perhaps you are a male shopping for a male significant other?  I live with three males – one human, two furry – and in my experience, males enjoy rearranging their … stuff.  And I don’t think they sell gift cards for that.  Forget it; you’re on your own here.

Ok – so we’ve covered the basics on what NOT to gift.  What TO gift?  Here is a simple flow chart:

Is she a woman?  YES!  Does she have children?  NO! Then get her something sparkly.  This could be a unicorn, a bedazzled t-shirt that reads “Number One Lovah”, or perhaps jewelry.  The sky is the limit.  Use your discretion.

Is he a man?  YES!  Ok then, he wants balls.  Interpret as you see fit.

Is she a woman!  YES!  Does she have children?  YES!  Then she wants thirty minutes, alone, in the bathroom, with nobody knocking on the door, barking, or asking “What are those called?” That is all.  If feeling ambitious, you may also want to throw in a meal prepared not-by-her that does not include the words “cheez”, “nugget”, or “dog.” 

So, there you go.  Thank me and Heidi Klum for our no-fail gift guide for the holiday!  Go forth and shop.  I wish you well.  

 PS She’d LOVE the unicorn!

Patience

Eavesdropping at coffee shop on a three-year-old boy asking copious questions. 

"Why can't I touch that?" (It's very, very old and if too many people touch it, it will break.) 

"Why do they use chocolate?' (Because it's yummy and many people like the flavor.) 

"Caramel vanilla and cream makes orange?" (Not quite, but there is an orange flavored coffee.)

"It's melting! Why is it melting?" (Hot chocolate is hot, whipped cream is cold, that is why it melts. When hot things touch cold things, they melt.) 

"Why can't I drink coffee?" (Children drink hot chocolate, not coffee. When you are an adult, you can drink hot coffee.) 

And so on and so forth.  I had to look up to see the uber-mom who was responding to all of these questions with exquisite patience and well-thought out answers. 

 Ah, yes ... she's the nanny. Makes sense now.

Only The Great Die Young

As many of you know, my dear friend passed away recently from leukemia. Even though he had fighting the disease for a long time, his passing – the finality of it – still shocked me. If you ever had the pleasure to meet him, you would agree that Matt seemed like the last person on the planet who would ever die young. If I had to describe the physicality of him, a former college football player, the most apt words would be “strong like ox.” As affectionately acted out by one of his rec league sport teammates at his wake, hugging him was akin to trying to throw your arms around a bear.

I am not a writer. I am someone who likes to write things down and share that with people. There is a distinction. Matt, was, among his many talents, a writer’s writer -- he knew the difference between the Oxford comma and the regular kind, he used words like “aplomb” and “yeoman” in regular person emails and somehow managed to not sound pretentious in doing so, every word he ever wrote was something worth reading, and then reading again. In looking for a photo to share with his family, I came across a box of letters and cards, some dating back to 1998, and I was so happy to have saved them (My personal favorite was his note inscribed in my engagement card in 2000, "I asked the sales clerk for the "I-can't-believe-you-found-someone-who-would-actually-marry-you section" and she just stared at me.")

Matt, as you know, wrote my foreword, and was to be the first reader of my book draft. He was the one who read all of my important things first. He took all of my words, then made them much, much better. He read my law school application essays, my Law Review competition note, my first year Moot Court brief, he wrote one of my recommendations, my first judicial opinion drafted as a law clerk, and he wrote one of my character reference letters for bar admission. He was never too busy. I told him he needed to stick around, that I had literally never written anything important that he had not read first.

About his own self-drafted eulogy: It is surprisingly modest. Matt was the son you wish you had so you could brag about him to lesser parents at cocktail parties and in Christmas card letters. Ivy League undergrad and Master’s degrees, graduation from Georgetown Law, the best part-time law program in the country, employment with a prestigious judge, admission to the nation’s toughest Bar, a celebrated career with a blue-chip New York law firm. Matt was objectively brilliant -- his self-described “second places” are what most people only dream of accomplishing. He, in a professional and academic sense, was super-human.

And, yet, at his Irish wake, the focus was not on his vast accomplishments or his gilt-edged resume. There were stories of life, the time in Maine he had a plumbing disaster, the bar of soap that his mom carefully wrapped in a special “O’Connell” way for use during the three weeks of Boy Scout camp that ended up returning home, still pristine in its wrapping, the five dollars he gave to a then-stranger with no expectation of repayment, the trademark L-shaped hand gesture he would make when being particularly emphatic about his position, the time he spoke German to a cabdriver in Russia, the bouncy pitches during grown-up Hoboken kick-ball games, the time he baked a blue pen in a dish meant to be served to friends at a dinner party. In short, the stories that made him human. The stories that made him loved.

I still remember what Matt told me after what seemed like 400 drafts of my law school application essay. He approved! It was good enough (finally!) to be mailed. He something to this effect, “I say this so rarely, because I consider a pretty good writer, but this is something that I wish I had written myself.” I feel the same about his eulogy. And so I share it, because it is beautifully powerful, and because in his own words, Matt loved an audience.

Goodbye, my friend.

TO BE READ AT MY FUNERAL:

Good morning. Or, I hope, good afternoon. As of most of you here probably know, there is nothing I dislike more than having to get up early in the morning, so I am hoping that the last event I’ll ever invite any of you to hasn’t made you all get up at some ungodly early hour. Although, I suppose I enjoy the irony.

In every movie or book that I have ever seen or read where the hero dies and leaves a note, it always starts with “If you’re reading this, then. . . .” and some form of “I have passed on.” Until recently, I thought this was silly -- the writer knew his note wouldn’t be read until after his or her death, and the reader, presumably, didn’t receive it or knew not to read it until after the writer was gone, so why waste the words?

Recently, it occurred to me that, aside from signaling dumb people that the hero did, in fact, die, there was another purpose to those words: to emphasize the “IF.” The writer wants the reader to know that he or she still intends to live, still intends to fight, and plans on being around. IF the note is read, then those plans have failed, but at the time the note is written, the writer still believes, and hopes that the note will linger in a dusty drawer for years to come. And I want you all to know that that’s how I feel today -- I don’t know when this message will get read, if ever, but I intend that it will be read by one of my nieces or my nephew in 2062, and not a day sooner.

Today it is nearly June in 2012. It is a beautiful day in NY -- I have a trip to Maine with my cousins, and a day in Philadelphia with my beautiful nieces and handsome nephew scheduled for the weeks ahead. And I plan on much more than that.

I didn’t do any research -- OK, I didn’t do MUCH research -- but I suspect it isn’t too common to write one’s own eulogy. Ben Franklin, as I recall, wrote his own epitaph, so perhaps I am simply following in fine Penn tradition. Also, this type of maneuver appeals to three obviously “Matt O’Connell” characteristics: l) I love to tell a story and capture an audience; 2) I love to have the last word; and 3) I never, ever do anything until the last possible minute. With this one little note from beyond, I have, I hope, managed to make this moment distinctly “me.” But I didn’t write this just to crack a few jokes. That’s just a side benefit.

I actually have a few things that I want to say, and now is my last shot. Many of you who are close to me, particularly my family and closest friends, will recall that there have been a number of times in my life when I have complained that I often felt like I finished second at everything -- like I never quite managed to achieve exactly what I wanted. I distinctly remember telling some of you that the worst of it was that I never really failed -- that I
always managed to find the spot where I had done well enough that complaining seemed petty, but poorly enough that I could feel like I had failed. 

 

As I have gone through the last year, though, fighting this disease, and seeing how rich my life has been with friends, colleagues and family -- I have realized that every one of those second place finishes brought me a unique experience, or gave me something I love and cherish.

Yes, it’s true that as a high school senior I thought that I wanted to attend Dartmouth, but Penn gave me teammates and classmates that became lifelong friends, and experiences that I never would have had in New Hampshire. There are, probably, several young ladies here who I met and hoped would be “the one,” and, instead, became close, dear and important friends that my life would have been so much diminished without (and I am still hoping that one or two of you will come around). I haven’t made partner or become a law professor, but my professional journey has introduced me to brilliant colleagues and remarkable friends.

Recently, I was ask if I really, honestly, “liked” what I do. And while I haven’t had the career I envisioned, I meant it when I said that I did -- mostly because of the people I have been blessed to know and the pleasure I have taken in what I felt was a job well done. I wrote all of this, though, not to tell you that I have no regrets or praise you -- although I have very few and you deserve it -- but to remind you all to leave here and remember that WE LIVE FOR THE FEELING OF LIFE, NOT ITS TRAPPINGS. 

 
When I think of my days at Penn, I remember the rush of adrenaline and pride that I had running out of the tunnel at Franklin Field on a sunny Saturday morning and slapping Dan Steffeiri’s hand as the Penn Band played, but, honestly, I can barely remember the scores of the games. The satisfying clank of a softball off your bat in Central Park, the soft hiss of a cold beer poured into a pint on the patio of an outdoor bar at Sunday brunch, the moment of anticipation when you step off an airplane in a new city, the lightness in your step walking home alter you’ve kissed your date good-night, and the rush of pride at every family graduation, birthday, sporting event, and wedding -- those feelings are the things t hat matter, even if you sometimes lose the game or the girl along the way.

Focus on loving life’s experiences and not its outcomes, and you’ll learn -- like I did -- that even your defeats are mostly victories. Along those lines, I have left some of you private notes -- assuming I don’t put that off until it is too late. I didn’t write to everyone that mattered to me, or even to those that matter most. If I left you a note, I did it because it has occurred to me to ask you to do something. I am calling in all my favors. If this is being read in 2062, some of them will be impossible or won’t make sense -- unless I keep them up-to-date, which we all know I am not going to do. Sorry about that.

But I mention them here, because, with rare exception, I have not left notes asking people to do something for me. I’ve asked that you do something for someone else. When I think about my life, whether it was as a Boy Scout, a football player, a law student or a lawyer, I always took the most pleasure in moments where I could help my teammates, classmates, colleagues and friends. Your joys have always been my joys, your victories have felt like my victories, and they have often meant more to me than my own.

So, those of you sitting out there today to whom I have not made a specific request, I ask you now -- find someone in this crowd (I hope it is a crowd), or ask someone you already know to help you find someone in the crowd -- meet them, learn about them, and help them in any way you can, whether they ask you to or not. It doesn’t have to be complicated or life-changing: I just want you to carry in your heart a moment where your first thought was of someone else and what they need, because, well, that’s what I’d be doing, if I were there right now.

When I first got sick and first faced cancer, I told someone that more than dying, I feared being forgotten -- of disappearing and the world simply going on as I have never been there. I still fear that -- I suspect I will always have that fear, no matter how long I live. But, as I sit here today, I also fear that my memory will be a burden -- that my family and friends will remember me with sorrow and that life won’t go on, as it should.

So, my last and final statement is: be happy. Embrace joy. Feel the pleasure of life’s individual moments while they are there to be savored. Don’t forget me -- but don’t let my absence devalue life’s pleasure. As I typed this, I thought of my grandfather and namesake who passed away when I was in high school. In 2004, when the Red Sox finally managed to win the World Series, I had just finished playing soccer at Riverbank Park and was in a sports bar on the Upper West Side with a crowd of deliriously happy Sox fans. In the midst of the chaos, I thought of Grandpa O’Connell, and I called my Dad. I didn’t mourn in that moment, and I didn’t cry for my Grandfather’s absence. I simply said quietly, “Grandpa would be so happy right now.”

Remember me the way I remembered him. Pour me a drink at your party, leave me an empty chair at your celebrations -- and then fill that space with the knowledge that even now, I share your joy, I revel in your moments of triumph, and somewhere, I am always laughing with you.  That is all the remembrance I have ever wanted, whether in life or in death. 

 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to outside and enjoy the remainder of this perfect afternoon.

Goodbye.  I love you all, Matt. 

 

Matthew O'Connell