Please welcome our newest contributor, Rich Grady:

The Measure of Love

By Rich Grady

My wife, Lauren, and I grew up in the same town – Braintree, MA – with many of the same friends. We were planning to make the rounds of family and friends in other parts of the country and explore the backroads of America during the “golden years” of our retirement. We never got to make the trip, first due to COVID in 2020 and 2021; and second, because of the cancer that attacked and killed her in 2022. Lauren’s death took the wind out of my sails, but the trip stayed on my mind as something we both wanted to do; and somehow, I knew I would measure myself by it.

The other motivational factor, which is what prompted the current timing, was the condition of a childhood friend, Greg. He lives in Chicago, and is dealing with advanced stage Parkinson’s disease; and like me, he lost his wife. His twin brother, Mark, is great about keeping people connected, and he had organized a Zoom call in late 2023, during a Celtics game. There were six of us on the call – all friends since childhood, growing up in close proximity to one another – and three of six were dealing with terminal disease. John was battling Stage 4 esophageal cancer; Ken was 7 years into a battle with a type of blood cancer that has no cure, multiple myeloma; and then there was Greg, our friend with Parkinson’s. During the call, knowing that he and John were in the poorest condition, Greg, in his raspy voice, said, “Well, John, the race is on.” John died in February of this year, 2024. After that, Mark, myself, and the other “healthy” friend, Matt, made a plan to visit Greg. My plan was to drive, but Matt and Mark were going to fly.

When I got to Chicago, I picked up Matt at Midway Airport – he flew in from Santa Fe on a one-way ticket, and would ride shotgun with me for his return trip. We rented an Airbnb for our time in Chicago. The next day, we went to O’Hare Airport to pick up Mark, who was going to stay at Greg’s while Matt and I visited during the day. Mark lives in Braintree, MA, in the house that he grew up in. Next year, we’ll all be 70 years old – born in 1955 – and have already lost a number of our homies, so I was glad we were doing this trip while we still could.

We spent a couple of full days and a morning hanging out at Greg’s. We met his 24/7 home care person and his humongous Great Dane, Archer, who was like having a small horse in the house. When Greg used his “Archer voice,” you could hear him loud and clear – otherwise, his voice was very soft and hard to hear, enfeebled by Parkinson’s. We’ve all known each other since elementary school, through junior high, high school, and college – a lot of formative years together. At Greg’s, we didn’t miss a beat as the mischievous glint of youth returned for a couple of days, suspending the implacable advance of age and infirmities while we swapped stories and laughed and laughed some more – good medicine and a special tincture of camaraderie to cherish. To see the way Greg lit up when we were reminiscing about how the only homerun he ever hit was on a pitch served-up during a Little League game by none other than yours truly, well that was life-affirming.

We hung out with Greg for a few special days when tales of past glories brought flashes of vigor; and then it was time to go. Matt and I brought Mark back to O’Hare for his flight home, then we were on our way to Santa Fe. He was to be my navigator and radio tune-meister for the next 8 days on the road to Santa Fe, to get him home to his wife.

We stopped at a funky grocery store to pick up some cheese, bread, and water to sustain us for a few days, supplementing the supply of Cortland Apples that I had brought from home – they were one of Lauren’s two favorites, the other one being Macoun. My favorite used to be MacIntosh, and I still like them; but I find myself often opting for things that Lauren liked, or listening to music that she liked, and even reading books that she liked. We were married for 45 years, and together as a couple for longer than that, but I still want to get to know her better. She would have enjoyed this trip, and the apples!

We drove north to Wisconsin, then west to the Mississippi River. We crossed into Iowa and visited Effigy Mounds National Park, adjacent to the Mississippi on the west bank. We took a walk through the hilly and wooded park to see the earthen mounds constructed by indigenous people 750 to 1400 years ago as burial mounds and ceremonial sites mostly in the shape of bears, who they saw as protectors of the earth, but also other animals and shapes – connections between the natural world and the spirit world.

At the crest of the hilly trail was a beautiful overlook of the Mississippi River where we ate our lunch and soaked up the spirituality of the place. Matt and I talked a bit about how our respective spirituality evolved over the years, both starting with a Catholic upbringing, and then gaining awareness of other faiths and their respective beliefs and common themes. After Lauren died, I read a bunch of books on theology and philosophy, trying to better understand life and death. I think the one that resonated the most was written 700 years ago by an anonymous author pondering the nature and existence of God, concluding that it was an unfathomable mystery. I think death is like that, too, and there are moments when our spirits might not distinguish between the living and the dead and exist in a continuum. Sitting on a rock, watching the Mississippi River flow south, I felt Lauren’s spiritual presence, even with the reality of her physical absence.

I was on the road for 30 days, visited 22 states and 11 friends, and logged 7200 miles – that’s one way to take measure. But the measurement that matters most – the infinity of love – is boundless and timeless, glimpsed in the glow of “the light I hold before me.”

Now the song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
Still there’s a light I hold before me
You’re the measure of my dreams
The measure of my dreams

(From “Rainy Night in Soho,” by Shane MacGowan, 1986)