Richie

Three years.  1,095 days.  26,280 hours.  But it doesn’t seem that long…  Maybe because as adults, we didn’t have “Sundays at Grandma & Poppops’” anymore.  Maybe because despite all the promises that “we’ll definitely get together soon,” lives just became too busy, and best-laid plans tended to fall apart.  Maybe because even holidays became something we would read about on facebook, instead of spending together, since Grandma & Poppops weren’t around anymore.

It seemed that the only times the family was together anymore were at weddings and funerals.  Ironically, three years ago we were preparing for your funeral.

Sometimes I catch myself thinking, “I wonder how Richie is doing,” or “I should call Kris and see if Rich can take us out on the boat,” and then I remember.  Which is funny.  Because there are times I find myself forgetting that you are really gone, and it seems surreal to have to remember all over again. 

As kids, you were the elusive older cousin, the one whose room we used to snoop in when you weren’t around, peering through the hanging beads to see what cool stuff you had stashed in your sanctuary.  You never had a lot to say to me in those days, so I would just watch you in your coolness and think that when I grew up, I would collect TV Guides too…  and I would get those beads.  I learned to love the Beatles, and when I got a little older, I knew who to call when my car needed work. 

As a young adult, I was able to talk you without getting nervous, because even as a teenager you just seemed so intimidating with your laid-back confidence.  I was always afraid I’d do or say something stupid, or immature, and you’d look at me with disgust or disdain.  But you never did, because that’s who you were.  You may have chuckled and shaken your head at me more times than I can count – even as an adult – but you never made me feel like I was silly or “uncool.”

And then you got sick.

Which seemed ridiculous.  Because you were Richie Drexler, for God’s sake.  You were the cool cousin with the beautiful wife and the awesome son who was always there if you needed him.  You enjoyed life, and worked hard, and loved harder – we all knew it.  Kris started the Caring Bridge, and I came to both love and hate the update alerts I would get.  I was so scared, because if something like this could happen to you – it could happen to anyone.  And I felt like I just didn’t have enough time with you.  We were blood, but suddenly there was so much more I wanted to know, so much more I wanted YOU to know. 

I remember Bagfest at the Boehm’s – and how much fun we had.  And as evidenced in the picture, it looks like I definitely got to explain SOMETHING to you that day.  Possibly something a little bizarre due to the vodka, based on the expression on your face.  It may have been that day that I told you that you reminded me of Thor, from “Adventures in Babysitting.”  With your long blonde hair, total coolness, and ability to fix cars.  You laughed and told me you had never seen that movie, and I insisted you see it.  Because it was so awesome, and all filmed in Chicago, the city you loved so much. 

We had Rich Drexler Day at Wrigley Field, and as sick as you were, you were there cheering the Cubs on to a win even through rain delays.  The love and camaraderie I felt that day with everyone there was overwhelming.  And we got to talk again.  You shared memories I had never been privy to before, and I loved it.  I felt I was finally getting to know you so much better as a person than I ever had before.

The last time I saw you was when you were in the hospital.  I had bought you a copy of the script of “A Hard Day’s Night” while I was in Seattle, and you loved it.  Although you informed me, not unkindly, that you already knew the whole movie by heart.  I told you that you could let other people run lines with you and they could use the script.  And you laughed.  You told me you finally watched “Adventures in Babysitting,” that I was right, you did love it, and I made you laugh again when I insisted you were Thor. 

Then we took a walk.  You asked about my brother’s new house, you asked about my mom, you asked about my life.  You got tired, and we sat down.  And that’s when I lost it.  I had promised myself I wouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop the tears.  And YOU consoled ME. You hugged me, and I hugged back - but carefully because you were so thin, you were so sick... and you were only forty-nine. You told me it was ok, that you weren’t dead yet, and to just concentrate on the present.  And I tried.  But it all seemed so damned unfair.  I was finally getting closer to you, finally really enjoying talking to you, and you were dying.  But you looked me in the eye and told me something I will never forget.

You told me to never take anything for granted.  To not waste time worrying about the small stuff.  To be grateful for my health, each and every day, because that was the most important thing.  You told me when you heard about people complaining about bullshit, it upset you – because none of it really mattered.  That people had a tendency to waste so much time not seeing the big picture.  That people should stop thinking about only themselves, and concentrate on the people they love.  Because, as you now realized, life is way too short. 

I try, Richie.  I honestly do.  Sometimes I ask myself what you would think about this situation or that situation, and I even try to ask you.  I don’t know if you hear me or not, but I like to think that you do.  I like to think that in between jamming with some of your favorite artists and chatting up your dad and Grandma and Poppops, you take a quick look down here and send us little signs.  And nod and smile and know that all the people you love are doing what you wanted – living.  Loving.  And taking nothing for granted.

I miss you, Richie.