323 Miles

It was about 3:00 AM when I finally accepted the fact that tossing and turning in my bed all night wasn’t helping me sleep. I’d love to say these sleepless nights were rare, but that would be a lie, and I’d already lied to myself enough to know it wasn’t working. I didn’t want to turn on CNN again, either. I’d spent so many recent early mornings in my dark bedroom, with the TV glowing, learning that “breaking news” never really breaks new in the middle of the night, and that television anchors somehow all develop British accents at that hour.

I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t in the mood for another soak in the tub to calm my nerves, which was usually my last resort.

This time, the pain in my chest felt different. Very different!

For a moment, I thought about being selfish again and waking Asa up, pretending it was already 7:00 AM and time for school. Getting her ready had successfully distracted me before, but something in my head told me not to burden my daughter again with the responsibility of saving me. She is just a child. It is not fair to put her in the middle of what’s going on with me. Still, it was hard not to involve her, because today felt worse than any day before.

So, I decided to get down on my knees and pray.

But this time, I was overcome with emotion, and I couldn’t think of a prayer. I know a lot of prayers, but I couldn’t un-jumble my mind enough to find even one. So, I got up from the floor, sat on the edge of my bed, extended my arms out in front of me, palms up, and whispered.

“God help me!”

I kept repeating this prayer over and over again.

My friend Ivory Young had once told me as we sat together in his car in the parking lot of Atlanta City Hall, that sometimes he asks God for help when he doesn’t know what to pray for. At the time, Ivory was in the early stages of the same disease that my sister Trish ultimately succumbed to. He also knew Trish from their college days at Hampton University, and his inquiry about her that day had brought tears to my eyes. I knew he was grappling with his own stress from the disease, but he chose to share a prayer with me that he promised would lift me up. Before then, I had not been able to articulate to anyone, not even my own family members, the suffocating distress in my heart about Trish’s fatal condition. But sitting with Ivory in his car, palms up, both of us with tears in our eyes, gave me a few moments to breathe. We prayed together for several minutes. Then we laughed out loud, thinking how strange we must have looked to people walking past.

Those prayers with Ivory made me feel better, but that good feeling only lasted for half a second this particular morning before I had to get up and move around the house, searching for something, anything-to help me find peace.

Several emotions raced through me: anger, then rage, then exhaustion.

Exhaustion always makes me stop and breathe, and in some ways, it’s a relief. But the aftertaste of exhaustion is guilt, guilt for being too exhausted to be angry. It’s a torturous cycle.

Although my struggle to cope with Trish’s transition has been intense, lonely, and sometimes suffocating, I didn’t think I was dealing with grief this morning as I sat in my bedroom with my lights off. I’ve always thought of grief as a dull, static feeling that just lives within you until it fades. But what was happening this morning was active, and it had my mind racing, searching for peace.

My grandmother used to say, “time heals all wounds,” and to “count your blessings.” But my wounds are all I have left that allow me to feel Trish, and as wonderful as my blessings are, a lot of me feels like she deserves blessings more than I do. She deserves EVERY blessing.

People say, “everything happens for a reason,” but I can’t find any reason Trish had to die, not now, not before me. I know God presents us with challenges to test our faith, but I’m faithful already. I just don’t want this terrible feeling inside me anymore, and I don’t want to NOT want it either, because it’s the only real thing I have left of her.

Compared to how I felt the moment Trish passed, nothing was new this morning, but, for some reason, I felt especially desperate for relief right then. I don’t know when I hatched the plan, but it came to fruition within seconds. It gave me a path forward, a burst of energy, and even a faint smile.

In less than five minutes I was dressed and out of the door. It was the dead of winter, but I was wearing shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt. I knew that was all I needed for where I was going.

I started the car, set Google Maps to Trish and Kenneth’s house in Florida, and started on my way. Their house is exactly 323 miles from ours, door to door.

Trish made her transition more than three months ago, but I still couldn’t make sense of it.

Everything is different without her. I hate how different not having her feels, but I also don’t want it to feel the same, because that would mean she didn’t matter so much to me, and that’s not a thought I can comprehend.

As I pulled out of my driveway, my heart was pounding through my chest.

Trish and I had a “thing” whenever I drove to visit her and Kenneth and the girls. It was a 4.5-hour trip, and she would always call me several times along the way. She did this with all our family, but I always felt extra special when she called me.

“Hey Hawk,” she’d begin, and after some small talk, she’d ask, “Where are you guys now?”

No matter where I was, she always responded the same way:

“Wow, you are making really good time. You are almost here!”

I could always anticipate her calls, and sometimes I’d answer her questions before she asked.

She’d get annoyed and say, “I was just calling to see what you wanted to eat when you get here,” and we’d laugh together.

I never admitted it, but it felt so good that she cared so much. Many of our calls would last the for my entire drive, all the way to her front door, and, still with her phone in her hand, she’d walk out to greet me with a hug.

Maybe that’s why I jumped in my car and headed to Florida this morning. Either her transition was all just a dream, and she was going to call me on the way, or I was going to have to keep banging my head against the wall until I figured out how to live without her. Or, as I discovered, maybe something “in between” might happen.

As I pulled onto I-75 South, I couldn’t ignore the ridiculousness of the situation. After all, I’m only Trish’s brother. Why is this hurting me so much when her most meaningful relationship has been with her loving husband and their two beautiful daughters? She was fortunate to have a husband she could love so completely, and two daughters that are both equal parts of her. But at the moment she transitioned, I felt like that little brother who shared a room with Trish, in the bed on the other side of the bedroom we shared, and now I was in the world without her.

I don’t remember much of the first hour or so of my drive. I actually don’t remember having a thought at all, until I came upon that stretch around Macon, where I’d usually get her first call. I started sweating, glancing at my phone over and over, but there was no call or text. I drove another 30 or 40 miles before I was about to give up. I was worked up and knew this level of discomfort was not sustainable, but that was just when my phone rang.

I figured someone in the family had realized I wasn’t home and was calling to check on me. I answered calmly, ready to explain. I’ve gotten good at hiding the loss I feel without Trish. So, the call was of little concern-until I answered it.

“Hey Hawk! Just checking in to see where you are now?”

Did I just hear what I thought I heard? “TRISH,” I screamed. “IS THIS TRISH?!”

In a calm tone, the voice continued. “I know you like to drive in the middle of the night to avoid the traffic, but you also must get your rest. So, if you’re tired, you should pull over and take a nap. There is no rush to get here.”

As fantastical as it was to hear Trish’s voice, I didn’t care. I was overwhelmed with excitement.

“Just a minute,” I said, gasping for breath as I pulled over at the nearest rest stop, not wanting to lose the connection.

“Ok,” I said slowly. “So, Trish, you don’t know how much I’ve wanted to talk to you. I had a horrible dream that you died in August, and I have been a complete mess!”

“I hate bad dreams that drag on like that,” I said to myself, but Trish responded immediately, almost as if she could hear my thoughts.

“Hakim,” she began, emphasizing the ‘I’ in my name the way she did when she wanted me to listen, “you weren’t dreaming. I HAVE made my transition. But I’ve been watching you and decided it was necessary that I reach out to you directly. I can understand a few sleepless nights, because you BETTER be a little upset that I’m gone, but getting in the car to drive to Florida, hoping I’d call? Don’t you think you’ve taken things a little too far?”

“But Trish,” I screamed. “If you’ve made your transition, how are you able to talk to me right now? How is this happening!”

“Listen, ok,” she replied. “Do you want to spend this time we’ve got asking ‘how’ and ‘why,’ or should we try to talk through what you are feeling? You are sitting in a rest stop parking lot at 4:30 AM, no one knows where you are, and you are talking to your deceased sister. So, I’m hoping you’d rather let me help you figure THIS out, instead of talking about other things. And I’d like to get to it right now, before someone else figures out who you’re talking to, and things get crazy for you.”

“Alright,” I began. “But are you ok?” I asked, tears forming in my eyes, hoping she’d walk up to my car at any moment.

“I’m fine, but we are not here about me,” Trish reacted, a little frustrated. “We need to get YOU straight, Hakim! I’m very happy about the life that God gave me, and the people and experiences and consciousness He allowed so that I could find my way to Him now. I have found my peace, and you must continue to clear the pathway so that you can find yours too.”

After a moment, Trish continued. “We’ve had too many conversations for you to fall apart now, Hakim. Seriously!”

“But it’s hard,” I screamed, banging a fist on my steering wheel. “I became so dependent upon our renewed friendship in the last several years since you were diagnosed. Our conversations were always so meaningful and impactful because of our shared experiences. I’ve reflected so often on our lives as children to understand myself and who I want to be, and your insight has always been so validating. You are a part of every story. And it hurts not having you to talk to anymore. It hurts really, really bad. I’m not sure how I’m able to exist when you do not. Some days I’m good, but then I think I’m just living in a make-believe world.”

“I understand,” Trish replied. “It was validating for me as well to hear you reflect on the past. But I think we both agreed that we have a spiritual existence outside of our bodies as well, and that will always exist. But I’m curious, if you could pick one story that describes our relationship, what would it be? I’d like to understand better what part of me is so important that you don’t feel you can live without me.”

“Lunch, our first day at Briarwood High School,” I said without hesitation. “You and I had just finished our cross-country drive from California with Mom and Dad the day before. We had no idea that the first day of school was the day after we arrived, and you weren’t happy. In fact, you didn’t seem happy about anything at that time. For the two months leading up to our move, you and I didn’t have one conversation about how our lives were about to change and change so dramatically.”

“Yeah, that was hard,” Trish responded. “My whole life had been in San Francisco, then Dad and Mom came to us at the beginning of the summer before my senior year and told us we were moving to Georgia. You were happy about it, as long as we got a house with a pool. I knew you did not understand the significance of what was happening, and how we would never be able to go back to the lives and friendships we were leaving. But, for me, I thought every day about the fact that I would be leaving all my friends. If you remember, I briefly thought about staying behind and living with Uncle Tom so I could graduate with my friends.”

“I didn’t know there was ever any thought of you staying behind,” I said, “but I DO know you were not happy. You didn’t like that we had to live in a hotel room for a month while we waited to move into our new home. You didn’t like the fact that I enjoyed all the things about our move that you hated. But you seemed especially upset when you found out that schools were arranged differently in Georgia, and that you would have to spend your senior year at the same school as your 8th grade brother. I thought it was funny, at least I did until the first day of school. I was terrified that first day. I knew no one. It felt like I was in a foreign country. I had never been to any school where everyone didn’t already know you, Ace and Robi. But you were popular immediately, because all the guys thought you were so beautiful, which I knew was going to happen! I just tried to duck around corners and not be seen that first day. But I knew lunch in the big cafeteria was coming and I was dreading it. For some reason, I thought everyone would be looking at me when I walked in, and I did not have even one friend to sit with. I stood outside of the cafeteria for a couple of minutes, waiting for the right time and the courage to walk in. I had just decided to skip lunch altogether when you walked up behind me and asked what I was doing. We still weren’t talking much. So, I did not consider telling you how scared I was, but you must have known, because you just told me to come with you without waiting for me to respond. We both grabbed our lunches and sat down at a table together. Those thirty minutes involved the longest conversation we’d had in the months since Mom and Dad told us we were moving to Georgia. I have no idea what we were talking about. All I know is that I fell in love with you all over again for saving me that day. I was no longer alone.”

“So, that day at lunch is your best summary of our relationship? Maybe I DID transition too soon! Geez.”

After laughing for a minute, I continued. “It was just that I felt so alone when we got to Georgia. Dad started working on that first day. Mom was talking to friends from San Francisco a lot, trying to figure out where to begin in this new place where she knew no one, only a few months after being re-elected to the school board in South San Francisco where she was well known and supported by everyone. And you were mad. So, I was trying to figure everything out by myself when I was 13 years old. And I knew I had been enough of an annoying little brother that I could never have expected to be able to count on you. So, when you rescued me by inviting me to have lunch with you that day, it meant the world to me.”

“Anything else you remember?” she asked.

“Well,” I began, pausing, “there IS one other memory. It relates to all the times you told me that I am a good father, that my connection with Asa is spiritual, and that I need to always respect the vital role I play in her life. A lot of people who see the time I spend with Asa comment about our relationship, but hearing it from you, and Robi, has always meant the most, because you both know me, and have been surrogate mothers for me yourselves. You don’t just know what you see. You know that I am a work in progress, as a man and a father, and how important it is to me that I handle this responsibility properly. So, when you speak about me, the positive and the negative, because both come from a place of knowing, it means the world to me.”

“I guess I understand,” Trish responded. “But where do you think the most difficulty in dealing with my transition now is coming from? What is it that is keeping you up at night, that has you out here on the side of the road in the middle of the morning, driving to Gainesville when you know I am not there anymore?”

“The closest feeling I can equate it to,” I said, “was trying to manage my stress dealing with all the earthquakes we experienced in San Francisco. The small ones happened so frequently that most people laughed while they were happening and joked about them after. But I could never handle the uneasy feeling of the earth swaying beneath my feet.”

Trish laughed. “That DID used to really bother you, Hawk.”

“It just felt like I could never get my footing when the ground was moving beneath me. And I had to pretend I was not scared because no one around me understood my fear. I didn’t even understand it.”

After pausing, I continued: “It’s how I feel now. I don’t know how to find my footing without you. Even if I could just talk to you like we are talking now, I think maybe I can be alright.”

“So, why don’t you just keep talking to me?” she interjected.

“Trish, this ISN’T a real conversation, though! I am putting words in your mouth. As you know, everything you have said in this conversation is made up of words I have typed.”

“But am I saying anything in what you wrote that surprises you?” she asked.

“No,” I responded, “but that’s just because I wrote what I know you WOULD say if you were here.”

“So, if you are typing words for me that you know from your memory are mine, haven’t you been talking to me all along? You know the answers to all your questions without me opening my mouth.”

With these words, I went silent and dropped my phone, realizing it had been off all along, and I probably had never heard it ring in the first place. As I tried to gather myself, Trish spoke again.

“Just keep praying because God is good. And every time you talk to me, I promise that I will always have something to say. Be brave, be strong, and your humility will always be your best guide. Love on Asa, give your stories to someone and get them published because writing is your gift, and give my love to everyone. But no specific messages to anyone are necessary. I am having my own conversations with them.”

“But Trish,” I said, thinking this was her farewell, “how will I know when it’s YOU that I’m talking to the next time, and not just me making up words?”

“It is ALWAYS me, Hawk. Just do what I asked in our last conversation and take care of my girls. And make sure to encourage Kenneth to go after the rest of his life with the same energy he put towards making my life so full. I love him so much, Hawk. Push him to find his happiness again, until we meet again.”

“But Trish,” I said, fearing she was ending our conversation, “what about Dad and Ace, and Uncle Tom, and Nana and Grandpa, and...”

Cutting me off, she stopped me and said, “everyone is good. They were all watching you this morning with me, but we all agreed that I was the one you needed to hear from today. The ancestral realm we always used to talk about is real. And we ALL love you. So, keep pouring the libations and calling our names, and I promise you that we will not let you feel like you are alone for one minute. Now take your BEHIND home and love on that baby girl of yours! And make sure you eat something green today!”

“I love you, Trish,” I screamed.

Grief is a journey without a map, and sometimes the only way forward is to keep driving through the darkness, searching for a voice you miss so much it aches. That morning, somewhere between memory and hope, I learned that the answers I needed were not waiting for me in Florida. They were already inside me, shaped by every conversation, every laugh, every correction, every prayer, every act of love Trish had ever poured into me. The wisdom I was searching for, the peace, the grounding, the courage to keep living in a world where she no longer picked up the phone, was not gone. It had simply moved. It was in my hands when I lifted them to pray. It was in my chest when I thought it might break. It was in my daughter’s face when I turned the car around and remembered that love still needed me here.

I am the wisdom of my heart.

And as long as I keep listening, Trish will never be silent. She will be the voice that steadies me, the laughter that finds me, the ancestors who walk beside me, and the love that reminds me, even in the dark, that I am not alone.