In Memoriam: Tony Schackman

 

I hear the clock making a faint click-click sound while it counts off the seconds. The ceiling fan rotates so fast it makes a noise because the weight of the blades isn’t balanced--I'm just trying to keep air circulating during the current persistent heat, so I kicked up the speed. Traffic passes by quickly outside my front door--back and forth, to and fro. I sit quietly in my rocker, hearing the sounds but not listening. A state of silence comes over me as I listen to my inner thoughts and note my feelings, rather than sounds.

Tomorrow morning at 1 a.m. marks one year since the passing of my partner of six years. A family member asked me a couple of months ago if I had anything special planned. “No. I hadn’t thought of anything.”

This past week has brought forth memories of his final days in a hospice facility. Tears enveloped me when I realized he won't be at my grandgirl's September wedding. The last words he spoke were to her when he said, "I love you," as she said goodby. That was just a day before he passed.

Blessings come in many sizes, shapes, and forms. Mine came in an unexpected, unplanned relationship with a former high school classmate from fifty-five years ago. I didn’t know him then, though he always said he knew me. Silly guy.

At a recent grief support group, the facilitator suggested we describe the person we grieved for. I responded, “Tony was the most real person I’ve ever known. He had zero pretense, no ego, and he accepted me without trying to change me.” I don’t think those qualities can be applied to many who walk this earth.

One year ago today, I sat beside a bed, awaiting the inevitable—the passing of my very dear friend. He was in a place of quiet; he had no requests for pain medicine or cold compresses. He was on his own solitary journey, and all I could do was watch. . . and wait.

I slept in a chair beside the bed that night. Around 10:00 p.m., I awakened with a start. His breathing had changed. I told him how much he was loved, how much he would be missed, and let him know we (all of us left behind) were going to be OK—even though he would no longer be with us. Within three hours, he quietly took his last breath and left.

“We’ve only been together six years,” I told my daughter. "We didn’t have a family together or create decades of family history."

“It’s not the years, it’s the memories,” she so wisely said.

Some days in the calendar year are never forgotten. For me, this is one of those. One year ago today, I was holding the hand of my partner and friend while he was on his way to new adventures in another place. I told him he better be waiting for me when it’s my turn.

 

Death. Grief. Life.

Death: July 17, 2023, I experienced the death and the loss of a loved one.

Grief: Since then, a multitudinous number of emotions, peppered throughout with grief, have taken over my life and my being.

Life: One year later, living with that loss is getting easier.

 

Tony Schackman, you became part of my life—and of my family. You are missed, Tony. We feel your loss and are thankful we had you for as long as we did. And personally, I thank God you were gifted to me. It was the memories, not the years.

I will listen to the silence as the day turns into night. And as the midnight hour approaches, I will quietly wait--just as I did one year ago.

As he faced his final days, Tony asked me if I was going to be OK. I told him I was going to miss him. “You’ll never forget me,” he responded. He was correct on that one.

In Memoriam: Carl Anthony “Tony” Schackman

December 16, 1943--July 17, 2023