Derek Gray - When We Were Five: The Diary of an American Family

I n the blink of an eye. Thats how they all went. I never had the chance to say good-bye to my parents or my brother, not a single word. Perhaps death, quick and unfair, was better than a slow decline. A life well-travelled, and all the wonders that came with it, were not meant for us. Weddings, grandkids, or even a game of catch with your Dad, were nothing but fairy tales for us. People died early and often in our fairy tales. Of course, I had witnessed both up close and personal (Grandpa John, and Papa Dominguez), but now felt strangely satisfied grabbing a silver lining. I really have no other way to look at it.

Just the other day, I spoke with my best friend of almost forty years, David Pulido, about the deaths of our fathers.

Derek, when your Dad died I cried like a baby, said David. I remember driving down to pick you up the night it happened, and sobbing the entire car ride. Just before I arrived I dried my eyes, because I didnt want to make you feel worse.

I never knew that, I answered. I guess I am kind of surprised at your reaction to my Dads death. I mean, we had only been friends about five years.

Your Dad was a special man, a very young, special man who left a lasting impression on me, he went on. I am almost embarrassed to say it, but I hardly cried when my Dad died.

Do you think thats because you knew it was coming? I replied. Or maybe you figured your Dad had lived a good, long life?

Knowing was better than not knowing, and I knew it was coming, he continued. My father lived to eighty-seven, and lived five years with cancer when the doctors gave him six months. Mine was acceptable, and yours was not. Thats the truth. But in the end, with most people, it doesnt matter the age we die, because you are always going to want more. Call me selfish, but even at eighty-seven, I wanted more for him and me.

Life-jarring death happened so often to us, it should have been given a name, our name. Since it was our cross to bear, our name, used in the proper context, would universally tell everyone what you meant. Kind of like the husband who deadpans after getting into an argument with his wife, Maybe I should just pull an O.J. Now and forever more, when you see a thirty or forty something year old person, overweight and unhealthy, or maybe some pre-fifty-year-old flushed and sweating profusely, your mind will automatically say to you, I hope like hell the poor son-of-a-bitch doesnt do a Gray. Hell, they could even make it a law, a sort of way to pay homage to my grandfather, father, and brother (and let us not forget my uncle).

There is no blueprint for life. Maybe if there was some Cliff Notes , or What to Expect if Everybody in your Family Dies Suddenly books, I would have welcomed it. But, I just winged it. I tried to do the best that I could. I thought death was one size fits all, not customized just for the Grays. Dad never really spoke about losing his father when he was seventeen, so I didnt have much to draw on there either.

I remember the first time I visited my father at the cemetery. It had been almost three years since Dad died, and I felt a little guilty because I hadnt gotten it out of the way yet. I struggled with idea of seeing him amongst the dead. I didnt want to go visit my Dad in a dead place, when my Dad was still alive inside me. But, I did want to see Dads plaque we had ordered, if only for curiositys sake.

Strangely, as I got out of the car, my heart was thumping like I was expecting to meet Dad for lunch. Walking through the boneyard, I immediately took notice of all the tombstones and plaques documenting the dead. I started reading them one by one, maybe a hundred of them, paying close attention to the words, born and died. Each one I read had lived a much longer life than Dad. This guy was seventy-two, this woman was eighty-three, the guy next to her was seventy-nine, and the guy next to him was fucking ninety-five when he died. The family of the fallen ninety-five-year-old man stood before his grave, crying out loud, like some sort of injustice to the world had taken place. I wanted to interrupt their little family moment and shake the shit out of them, and jolt them back to reality. Maybe they had forgotten their great grandpa had lived to the absurd age of ninety-five. Hell, if they wanted to cry about death, maybe I should tell them my story. Sorry, I still cant find anything tragic about living to ninety-five.

I had to get away from them. Their world wasnt my world. I went to find my world and look for Dads plaque, but they all looked the same. In his whole life, Dad had never blended in, and now his 8x11 bronze plaque looked just like the other three hundred on the wall.

And then I caught it.

It was like catching one of Jeffs fastballs, it hit me hard, right in the chest.

Barry Gray, Born 1937, Died 1983, WE LOVE YOU DAD.

Now, all these years later, with my renewed vigor, I finally understood when someone a lot smarter than me once said, What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us, are a tiny matter to what lies within us. Being fourth in line with heart disease hanging over my head doesnt define who I am anymore. We are who we are because of who we were. So be it. Their weaknesses have become my strengths. Sure, I wish Jeff was the first one to defeat the curse; he deserved at least that. He survived the heart attack and triple by-pass at age thirty-one, and yet it is I who must finally cross the finish line first.

I will never be at total peace with my brothers death. You just cant get a worse deal than that. I know his death is on tape at the airport, but Ill never bring myself to watch it. Melissa Rivers, daughter of the late comedian Joan Rivers, sued for millions of dollars and won when the doctors operating on her mother waited to call 9-1-1 for twelve minutes. Poor Jeff was sprawled out on the airport public floor, smack dab in the middle of freeway foot traffic gasping for air, for at least half that time. All the money in the world cannot take that away.

And of course, watching Yankees games are never going to be the same. But Ill watch. Its in my DNA. In fact, its as much a part of my DNA as heart disease. I still have his ashes in my closet, and I hope one day to scatter them in Yankee Stadium. I made a solemn promise to Jeff to get there, and I will. So I learn to take the good with the bad. Like those in-between moments that still make me cry every time. Sometimes Ill catch myself smiling and laughing so hard I get a side ache, and then I think of Jeff, and it all goes away in a flash. The sniffles and tears Jeff flooded down for Dad are mine now for him. Every day of my life there is a moment where I think of them all, but my brother Jeff is constantly with me step for step. Once your heart is broken, it will never be new again. But, thats life I guess, laughing hysterically one moment, drawn to tears the next. I understand now there is no time for feeling guilty because Ive been the one spared, so I keep moving forward and celebrate the wonderful family I have.

Call it fear, call it dedication, call it hardheadedness, but theres something that makes me keep doing it. Being healthy is the only thing I have ever been good at in my life (besides baseball), since the day Alexa was born. There are no secrets to my success. I continue to push myself physically because I know life is nipping at my heels. This plant-based diet Im on sure isnt fun, but it works for me. I have done my research, and believe I will be heart attack proof if I stay the course. Maybe if everybody was still alive I would have never been scared straight into this fit way of life, but I cant complain. I reap the benefits from it every day Im alive. Hopefully, this Gray curse can be broken one day. Maybe the two most odious words in the dictionary, heart disease, will never be spoken of again. My kids try not to pay any attention to it, but they know the score. Hell, their kids probably wont know it even existed, and that would be best of all.