Three Times the Pain and Sadness
Note: I’ve fallen behind again in these final days to 40. I’m working on getting caught up before my birthday on Tuesday.
Saturday, October 17–3 Days to 40
They say death/tragedies/bad news comes in threes. I don’t know who they are but I feel like this anonymous group of people is mostly wrong, just look at what 2020 has brought us — far more than three tragedies. But for me, in 1996, they were right. Three loved ones in one year. I was 15.
In the early part of that year, I lost my maternal grandmother. I spent much of my childhood in her home, as she often watched me and my brother after school. She and I watched a lot of daytime game shows together. My afterschool sessions with grandma included a whole lot of “no whammies, no whammies, no whammies” yelled at the TV. I’d be playing on the floor with my toys, while she sat on the couch, often smoking a cigarette, and the two of us would watch and play along as some lucky contestant would go home with a new appliance, an RV or trip to somewhere fun.
As the years went on, her smoking would take a toll on her health. She coughed very frequently and had many visits to the hospital. I remember spending many hours with her sitting by her bed side at the hospital.
There are two things my grandmother was known for: her bright red hair that always looked like she had just come from a salon, even if she was in the hospital for several days, and she never revealed her age. Never. I honestly have no idea how old she was when she passed away. The family actually made the decision to not include the year she was born in her obituary. It was a nice touch and fitting tribute.
While my grandmother’s death was incredibly sad, considering how close we were and how much time we spent together, I was fortunate enough to be a bit prepared for it. She was sick for quite some time. We all were keeping our spirts high, but we knew it was an uphill battle for her. People close to me helped prepare me for the fact that she might not make it. That preparation didn’t stop it from hurting to see her go, but it may have made the pain a bit more manageable for me.
The same is not true for the second loved one lost in 1996, when a teammate and friend took his own life. It happened on an evening towards the end of the school year. Most of the students in my school did not learn this shocking news until the next morning as we arrived on the school property to start our day.
Pulling into the school parking lot that morning, it was clear that something awful happened before I even got out of my mother’s car. It was rare to see so many students outside of the building, even in a warm day like this one. Before the first bell to start the day, kids would usually be socializing in the halls near their lockers or in the cafeteria. On this day, it seemed like every member of the student body was outside. That was the first sign from afar that something was not right.
As I got closer I could see tears were rolling down the faces of so many students. And then a fellow basketball teammate approached my mother’s car and gave us the horrible news.
Knowing what I know now about my own battles with mental health, I hate to say these words, but everyone was saying “he was the last person you’d think would do this.” In high school, when so many people are looking for ways to fit in and be accepted, he stood out for being an original. There was no one else in the entire school like him, and he was universally beloved for those qualities that made him so unique.
Each day that passed after his death, I kept thinking this was somehow all just one really long, awful nightmare that would eventually come to an end, he’d show up to school and everything would go back to normal. Sadly, that did not happen.
Things in the halls of the school or on the basketball court never really felt the same without him around. He was that much of a presence in the school community and on the team.
Similarly, the third loss I experienced in 1996 was someone who loomed large in a place that was nearly second home for me, the gym/community center. On Sundays in the winter from grades four through eight, there was a very good chance you’d find me here playing in a junior varsity or varsity basketball game against a fellow Catholic elementary school. The center served as our high school’s home court because the gym located at the school was basically a shoebox. A typical day after school during basketball season found me there for nearly six to seven hours straight, beginning with shooting around and warming up before practice started, then two and a half hours of practice, then three hours of work as a score keeper for the grammar school basketball games that started right after our practices ended.
But that was only a fraction of the amount of time the small but mighty staff of people who worked there spent at the center. They dedicated their lives to ensuring the place was a safe environment for kids in Bridgeport and beyond to become better basketball players and more importantly, better people. Many of the staff members served multiple roles, working as administrators, gym teachers, referees, and league organizers. One such staff member served as a ref in many of my games from the fourth grade into high school, he was also my gym teacher from sixth to eighth grade, and he was one of my first bosses — he hired me for the score keeper’s job. He was a massive part of the center, and a big part of my own life.
I remember as a kid being intimidated by his tough, no nonsense teaching style. But as I got to know him better over the years, I gained so much respect for him. There was a time and place for letting loose and having a laugh, but it was important to him that you knew when and where that time and place were.
In junior high school, athletic ability played was way too important for me and many of my classmates. We were all so incredibly competitive in gym class and recess. Kickball, basketball, baseball, tag, whatever we were playing, it didn’t matter, every boy tried way too hard at winning. I remember in 7th grade gym class we were in the weight room working on body weight exercises — push-ups, pull-ups, etc. We were doing the pull-ups individually because there was only one bar to use, so he’d call us up one-by-one and we’d go while the rest of the class counted in unison. When my turn came, there was no counting necessary. I couldn’t do one pull-up. Instead of counting, there was laughter from some of my classmates. I got off the bar with a tear in my eye, doing everything possible to suck that tear back into my eyeball before I turned around and added salt to the wound of my embarrassment. He saw the tear in my eye, and acted quickly, asking the class to go do something else. It was just me and him, and he used this opportunity to tell me it was okay that I couldn’t do a pull-up, and it was okay to come up short, but it was not okay to let the people laughing get the best of me.
In the early fall of 1996, our high school basketball team was playing in a fall league to get ready for the upcoming season in December. It was an unusually hot September day outside, which meant the no air-conditioned gym was sweltering. These were not ideal conditions for high school kids to be running around and playing a game, and even less ideal conditions for the adults who were refereeing the game. Like so many evenings before, he was there doing multiple jobs including refereeing our game.
Sadly, he was unable to make it through our game. He was experiencing pains in chest. Our game ended early. And an ambulance was called. We found out the next day that he passed away.
In one year, I lost a grandparent, a friend/teammate, and boss/mentor.
“Those we love don’t go away, they walk beside us every day.
Unseen, unheard, but always near; still loved, still missed and very dear.” — Anonymous
Tim Hammill is a communications professional in the nonprofit sector. He’s turning 40 on October 20, 2020. He’s writing about the final stretch to this milestone age in 40 Days to 40, a collection of stories, thoughts, reflections and whatever else comes to mind each day. In addition to writing a blog, Tim has also decided to donate his birthday to This Is My Brave, an organization he very recently learned about that brings stories of mental illness and addiction out of the shadows and into the spotlight. If you’d like to support Tim’s birthday fundraiser, go here.
Additionally, there are three other organizations that are close to Tim’s heart: Save the Children, Stand Up To Cancer and the Bridgeport YMCA. Click on each to learn more and to support their work.
