The first time I remember my father actually telling me he loved me was a moment in 1989ish. I was living in New York City at the time, and it was the beginning of my dad's impending failing health. I had come home for a visit and because my dad was in the hospital. Most of the details of that particular trip home are no longer a memory, but I distinctly remember my father laying in his hospital bed, hooked up to dozens of tubes and machines and IV's. Visiting hours were ending for the night and I leaned down to say goodby and give him a kiss on the cheek and he kissed my cheek too and just said it, "I love you". Just like that. Like it was no big deal. My head exploded. I was angry. The only possible reason I could think of why he would say that to me was because he thought he was going to die and that scared the hell out of me. Growing up, I never questioned my father's love. He didn't need to say it for me to know it was there. Or so I thought.
You never think of a loved one's terminal illness as being something to be thankful for, for any reason, until you meet or hear about someone, who lost a person they desperately loved, suddenly. X's dad just died in his sleep one night. X had spoken to him on the phone the day before, but rushed off because he was busy at work. Many year's later, he still hasn't forgiven himself. Jack's paternal grandfather choked to death in a restaurant while on a business trip. Jack's father never had the chance to say goodbye. People die in accidents and unceremoniously in their sleep every single moment of every single day. Amidst the devastatingly horrific events that unfolded in Newtown two days ago, among all the discussions concerning mental illness and gun control and random violence clamoring for attention in my head, the one thought I could not shake was the desperate hope that when those children and teachers left for school on Friday morning, that someone they loved who loved them right back said out loud to them, "I love you." Not just so they heard it, but also so the one's who love them, who now have to live without them, had had the opportunity to say it to them.
Calm and I were in the car one day awhile ago and he got a call from a friend. They had some business stuff and some friend stuff to discuss so spoke for a few minutes and at the end of the call, he said to his friend, "Great to talk to you, I love you, (insert name of friend here)." Simple, right? It was so effortless and so warm and so sincere and just, lovely. I was awestruck. I remember thinking at that moment, I could never say that, like that.
I had an overwhelming urge last Friday to call everyone I know and love to tell them, "I love you, (insert name here)," but I didn't make a single call. Except to my son. I tell Jack "I love you" all the time. Every chance I get. He though, is the exception to my "I love you" embargo. My entire life, I have, well to say I've struggled would be putting it mildly, it's practically a phobia, but struggled with saying those three little, yet powerful words, out loud to anyone. My family, my friends, or my significant others. Maybe the not hearing it made the sentiment too precious. Too important. Too scary, even. I'm not sure yet, what I'm afraid of exactly. Maybe it's as simple as being afraid of not hearing it back. But, the hearing it back isn't what's important, is it? I mean, hearing it back is wonderful, but it's the saying it out loud and meaning it. To tell someone "I love you" is indeed precious and important and yes, even a little scary.
My 2013 New Year's resolution will be to say those three little, yet powerful words, linked together, to make that one perfectly wonderful statement, as many times, to as many of the people I love, as I possibly can.
I could start today, I guess, and probably should, but like all good phobias, baby steps, people. Baby steps.
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