Tony, we still miss you
For any of my readers who don't check my blog on MySpace...
Jahrzeit. That's a Yiddish word for the annual anniversary of a person's death (technically according to the date on the Hebrew calendar---we did not start renumbering years when Jesus was born). I don't know a word in common English usage for that. Death anniversary? You never hear people talking about a "death anniversary." Probably because talking about death, loss, grief, mourning, so taboo in modern middle America. But in Jewish circles it's not uncommon to hear things like, "Tomorrow is my cousin's jahrzeit." And Jews know what that means. There are rituals for remembering and honoring your lost loved one, special candles to light, ancient prayers that can only be recited in the company of others... Are theresimilar traditions in other western religions? If so, I am unaware.
Well, Tony wasn't family, and he most definitely was not Jewish, and I don't know his death date on the Hebrew calendar, but I considered yesterday to be his jahrzeit. This world has gone on nine years without Tony Went walking around on its surface, and more's the pity. Tony was a fine young man, and his death is only one of a handful of really tragic losses I had to suffer in the mid-90s. The reason I think early 20s is the best age of life is because in my early 20s I had not yet ever known such deep, dark, cold, thorough sorrow as I went through starting in 1996. So, if you don't want to read about sorrow, stop here.
I met Tony not long after I moved to Washington, D.C. I was living near the Ballston Metro stop in Arlington, Va., where most all the streets are alphabetical and on a grid. We both sang in the Paul Hill Chorale, and I noticed his address on our group address list: I lived at 1215 Vermont, and Tony was at 1225 Utah, exactly one block over. At our first weekend marathon chorale practice, I found his picture on the seating chart and then went up and introduced myself to him at lunch. He said, "Oh, you probably meant to introduce yourself to my roommate Richard, not me. He's the popular one. He's the one who makes announcements about which bar we're going to after practice each week. He's not here today." Tony was very unassuming. I hadn't even noticed Richard on the list (though he and I later became great friends); I really did mean to introduce myself to Tony. Before too long my housemates & I moved and his housemates & he moved, but we still lived close, and we were still close friends.
Tony was a thin, wiry guy with curly black hair and wide, curious eyes. He was both intense (as a musician, as a Foo Fighters fan) and mellow (as someone who could watch an entire evening of Major League Baseball with the sound on mute. He was a great singer, and I had the privilege of standing in a quartet with him sometimes. He had met Richard (and my husband Matt) while at University of Maryland, and his group of friends was, for years, my group of friends.
Tony wasn't a complete health nut, but he was a runner for most of his life. He drank beer, sure, because we were in our early 20s and all drank a hell of a lot. But Tony never smoked. Not even once. Not ever, ever, ever in his life. One spring or summer day he went for a run and realized he couldn't breathe all that well. And then he started to have a cough. He went to the doctor and soon received the news that made all of us wide-eyed with disbelief. Tony had lung cancer.
Tony was a trooper. He went through chemo, lost his appetite and his hair. Doug Paul shaved his head in solidarity, I remember. Tony's parents came down from Connecticut to spend time with him. I got to be quite close with his mom and dad and brother and grandmother. My own mother (a lifelong smoker) had been diagnosed with a lung-type cancer just months before Tony's diagnosis, so we would matter-of-factly discuss what had gone on with her. He just wanted to know what to expect, and it was cathartic for me to be able to talk to him about my mom. It was exceedingly hard though to call him and let her know that my mother had died. Tony was convinced he would live. He always told me about his dreams for the future. About his someday-wife and someday-kids. He knew he could beat the cancer.
If I didn't see Tony every day, I talked to him on the phone. Often we were the last people either of us would speak to at night before going to sleep. I would ask how his day was, and sometimes it was good ("I got a surprise in the mail: somebody sent me a photo of Fenway Park!") but sometimes it was bad ("I tried to take a shower on my own tonight, but I got dizzy and I fell and had to yell for somebody to come in and help me up."), but either way I was there to listen. And he listened a lot too. I was feeling very alienated from a lot of my friends at that time, but he understood. Tony was also the first person I called when I came home from my first date with Matt. Tony said, "Good, we always thought you would make a good couple."
Tony's final birthday was his 25th. We weren't sure it would be his last or not, but we threw a huge party at his house regardless. My housemate & I made him a kick-ass gourmet chocolate cake with bittersweet ganache and crystallized pansies. Gretchen von I. made an awesome cake too. I don't think I ever saw so may birthday cakes at one party before. His birthday was in March. His cancer metastasized into his brain and he started having seizures. We had another party at his house for Bastille Day, for no good reason. The lot of us who were there couldn't pry ourselves away. We just sat around Tony's bed for hours, telling stories, listening to music, talking... He was weak, but he was still OK.
The next morning he turned blue. He went to the emergency room and then to ICU and survived only one more day. He died on July 16th, 1997. I still remember every little thing about when Richard called me to tell me the news. I told my supervisor I had to go home and promptly left work to go be at Tony's house. Throughout the day more and more friends started showing up there, because we and his family all needed the support of being together. It was a sad, sad, really fucking sad day. And the funeral was even sadder. A group of us from the Chorale sang at the memorial service and again at the interment. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. The song "Set me as a seal" still makes me tear up, and hearing or singing the song "Sing Me To Heaven" will make me come completely undone to this day. You can listen to another choir (not mine) perform it on NPR's Performance Today (http://www.npr.org/programs/pt/4a/stolaf.html); it is in one track with a song called "Evening Meal," but SMTH begins at about 5:15.
I think I would like this song performed at my funeral as well.
I usually try to eat a piece of rhubarb pie on his jahrzeit because it was one of his favorite things that last summer, but I couldn't find any yesterday. Maybe I'll look for some again today.
Tony, man, we miss the fuck out of you, brother. What more can I say? The dead live on in the lives they touch before their passing. Tony Went, RIP.
Jahrzeit. That's a Yiddish word for the annual anniversary of a person's death (technically according to the date on the Hebrew calendar---we did not start renumbering years when Jesus was born). I don't know a word in common English usage for that. Death anniversary? You never hear people talking about a "death anniversary." Probably because talking about death, loss, grief, mourning, so taboo in modern middle America. But in Jewish circles it's not uncommon to hear things like, "Tomorrow is my cousin's jahrzeit." And Jews know what that means. There are rituals for remembering and honoring your lost loved one, special candles to light, ancient prayers that can only be recited in the company of others... Are theresimilar traditions in other western religions? If so, I am unaware.
Well, Tony wasn't family, and he most definitely was not Jewish, and I don't know his death date on the Hebrew calendar, but I considered yesterday to be his jahrzeit. This world has gone on nine years without Tony Went walking around on its surface, and more's the pity. Tony was a fine young man, and his death is only one of a handful of really tragic losses I had to suffer in the mid-90s. The reason I think early 20s is the best age of life is because in my early 20s I had not yet ever known such deep, dark, cold, thorough sorrow as I went through starting in 1996. So, if you don't want to read about sorrow, stop here.
I met Tony not long after I moved to Washington, D.C. I was living near the Ballston Metro stop in Arlington, Va., where most all the streets are alphabetical and on a grid. We both sang in the Paul Hill Chorale, and I noticed his address on our group address list: I lived at 1215 Vermont, and Tony was at 1225 Utah, exactly one block over. At our first weekend marathon chorale practice, I found his picture on the seating chart and then went up and introduced myself to him at lunch. He said, "Oh, you probably meant to introduce yourself to my roommate Richard, not me. He's the popular one. He's the one who makes announcements about which bar we're going to after practice each week. He's not here today." Tony was very unassuming. I hadn't even noticed Richard on the list (though he and I later became great friends); I really did mean to introduce myself to Tony. Before too long my housemates & I moved and his housemates & he moved, but we still lived close, and we were still close friends.
Tony was a thin, wiry guy with curly black hair and wide, curious eyes. He was both intense (as a musician, as a Foo Fighters fan) and mellow (as someone who could watch an entire evening of Major League Baseball with the sound on mute. He was a great singer, and I had the privilege of standing in a quartet with him sometimes. He had met Richard (and my husband Matt) while at University of Maryland, and his group of friends was, for years, my group of friends.
Tony wasn't a complete health nut, but he was a runner for most of his life. He drank beer, sure, because we were in our early 20s and all drank a hell of a lot. But Tony never smoked. Not even once. Not ever, ever, ever in his life. One spring or summer day he went for a run and realized he couldn't breathe all that well. And then he started to have a cough. He went to the doctor and soon received the news that made all of us wide-eyed with disbelief. Tony had lung cancer.
Tony was a trooper. He went through chemo, lost his appetite and his hair. Doug Paul shaved his head in solidarity, I remember. Tony's parents came down from Connecticut to spend time with him. I got to be quite close with his mom and dad and brother and grandmother. My own mother (a lifelong smoker) had been diagnosed with a lung-type cancer just months before Tony's diagnosis, so we would matter-of-factly discuss what had gone on with her. He just wanted to know what to expect, and it was cathartic for me to be able to talk to him about my mom. It was exceedingly hard though to call him and let her know that my mother had died. Tony was convinced he would live. He always told me about his dreams for the future. About his someday-wife and someday-kids. He knew he could beat the cancer.
If I didn't see Tony every day, I talked to him on the phone. Often we were the last people either of us would speak to at night before going to sleep. I would ask how his day was, and sometimes it was good ("I got a surprise in the mail: somebody sent me a photo of Fenway Park!") but sometimes it was bad ("I tried to take a shower on my own tonight, but I got dizzy and I fell and had to yell for somebody to come in and help me up."), but either way I was there to listen. And he listened a lot too. I was feeling very alienated from a lot of my friends at that time, but he understood. Tony was also the first person I called when I came home from my first date with Matt. Tony said, "Good, we always thought you would make a good couple."
Tony's final birthday was his 25th. We weren't sure it would be his last or not, but we threw a huge party at his house regardless. My housemate & I made him a kick-ass gourmet chocolate cake with bittersweet ganache and crystallized pansies. Gretchen von I. made an awesome cake too. I don't think I ever saw so may birthday cakes at one party before. His birthday was in March. His cancer metastasized into his brain and he started having seizures. We had another party at his house for Bastille Day, for no good reason. The lot of us who were there couldn't pry ourselves away. We just sat around Tony's bed for hours, telling stories, listening to music, talking... He was weak, but he was still OK.
The next morning he turned blue. He went to the emergency room and then to ICU and survived only one more day. He died on July 16th, 1997. I still remember every little thing about when Richard called me to tell me the news. I told my supervisor I had to go home and promptly left work to go be at Tony's house. Throughout the day more and more friends started showing up there, because we and his family all needed the support of being together. It was a sad, sad, really fucking sad day. And the funeral was even sadder. A group of us from the Chorale sang at the memorial service and again at the interment. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. The song "Set me as a seal" still makes me tear up, and hearing or singing the song "Sing Me To Heaven" will make me come completely undone to this day. You can listen to another choir (not mine) perform it on NPR's Performance Today (http://www.npr.org/programs/pt/4a/stolaf.html); it is in one track with a song called "Evening Meal," but SMTH begins at about 5:15.
I think I would like this song performed at my funeral as well.
I usually try to eat a piece of rhubarb pie on his jahrzeit because it was one of his favorite things that last summer, but I couldn't find any yesterday. Maybe I'll look for some again today.
Tony, man, we miss the fuck out of you, brother. What more can I say? The dead live on in the lives they touch before their passing. Tony Went, RIP.