A hallmark

Years ago, on some 40-something birthday, Dan gave me this card.  Now, anyone who knew Dannoday knew that he was a most generous gifter, bestowing me with vibrant floral bouquets, blingy jewelry, decadent treats, first-rate show tickets, and when directed, an outfit or pair of great boots.  I grew accustomed to being called “spoiled” by friends and family, who knew that if a special occasion or sometimes even just a regular day was coming up, I’d be tearing through ribbons and wrapping paper to get to the good stuff.   What most don’t know is that he was also a most discerning and sentimental card-giver.  Unlike me, who would prefer to write my feelings rather than pore over a Hallmark selection looking for a version of those words, Dan would read each and every card in the designated occasion section until he found just the sentiment that matched his.  And so, when I opened and read this card all those years ago, I was moved more than ever before by his saying that I inspired him because since I’d known him, I surely felt it was the other way around. I also knew there could be no deeper expression of love than to celebrate the being of another human.

From the first time I met Dan O’Day, years before he became Dannoday, I was completely drawn to his brilliant mind, his ability to rapidly size up a situation to offer both opinions and conclusions, and his usually unbending certainty in decision-making and actions.  He read everything and I believed he knew everything—and if there were something he didn’t know, he’d find out immediately.  He had a quick wit, he made me laugh, and I loved him from the start.  He often told me in the beginning and again and again over the years that he felt the same way about me for the same reasons.  And so, when he proposed after only knowing me for 6 weeks, I said yes.  I had no doubts about our ability to build a life and I knew that he must be certain too; because that was the way he rolled. 

On September 13, 2018, Dannoday passed away from us, accepting a final certainty in much the same way he accepted all facts in his life.  He asked a few questions, determined what was to be, and then went about the rest.   What followed for me was a time of not only devastating and body-numbing grief, with all its known and unknown symptoms and nuances, but also a great selfishness.  Accustomed to mostly taking care of others, I was plunged into this deafening and relentless list of daily needs, new and intense personal needs, which ranged from physical self-care to emotional repair and maintenance.  Some days, by the time I was able to function in any way, the day would be done.  Tasks and activities that were once second nature for me took me hours and days to prepare for and to carry out. I went from being fiercely independent and credible and confident and strong to some shadowy and elusive version of myself.  The qualities I’d always been so sure of, the ones that Dan had loved so, were irregular and undependable and on top of everything else bearing on my heart and mind, I feared that in addition to losing Dan, I might also be losing my self.   

Then one morning I awoke thinking about the most peculiar thing.  I remembered a college philosophy course, a course that I hated because I needed more certainty than it could offer, which included the proverbial discussion of George Berkeley’s question: If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?  I hated that question when I was 19.  I thought it was not worthy of any discussion and certainly not worthy of the attention of scholars.  With all of the trees in the forest, did it really matter if one made a sound when it fell?  Who really cared? Who would ever know?  But all these years later, on this particular morning, I got it.  I felt as if I were the falling tree and the only person who could hear me, who would ever be able to hear me, was gone.  I was terrified.  What if Dannoday never heard me again? Would it matter ever again what I thought, what I felt, what I knew, what I did?  Would he ever feel as proud of me as he did when he picked the perfect Hallmark card for my birthday?  As I said, this has been a most selfish trip and I was bound and gagged by the fear and wonder of a life without Dannoday. My fear wasn’t about not having a man, a partner, a mate.  It was about not having my PERSON.  Dan was the one who provided me with constant feedback and validation, whether it be frivolous and silly, critical and thought-provoking, spoken or unspoken, solicited or simply offered up.  Now, without him, that validation was gone.   And so, on that morning, I knew with certainty, the certainty that I thought was lost to me that it does indeed matter if a tree makes a sound.  It’s simply about validation: acceptance, affirmation, acknowledgement, honor, and love from the one who is meant to hear it.  

As we reach The Date, the one I have both dreaded and wished for, I am relieved to find the selfishness has subsided somewhat and that I can now sometimes see beyond today and even think a bit about tomorrow.  I still practice great self-care and I continue to gratefully accept (and return) love, care, and validation from my cherished family and friends.  With time and a whole lot of good/bad/ugly moments, I have come to know that Dannoday will always hear me and see me and validate me and that I’m still standing, that this tree hasn’t fallen completely. The love we shared and the life we built is empowering me to feel affirmed every time I remember a past moment, appreciate a current moment, or contemplate a future moment.  I see and feel Dan’s hands in the minds and hearts of our girls and their guys and in our beautiful baby grands.  And so, to honor this date, I’m sending a self-written thank-you card to Dannoday, which would make him roll his eyes and shake his head.  The man hated thank you cards, only slightly more than he hated a reveal party but much less than he hated a misplaced apostrophe.  In my card, I would simply tell Dannoday “thank you.” Thank you for giving me the very best gift of our lifetime.  Thank you for being the one who was meant to hear me. Thank you for being the one to show me how much a life could matter.