For Tom (July 7, 1958 - June 30, 2002)
When we see or read news stories about families suffering tragedy and loss, a modern term for dealing with those losses is often
used: "closure."
Closure. A nice, convenient word to describe what some believe other people achieve after a devastating loss. What's apparent to me
is that those people never knew what it means personally to suffer a loss such as the one we all experienced this past Sunday morning.
There is no closure. Closure implies that some day, all the sorrow and pain will be forgotten, and along with it, the feeling of
emptiness created by the loss of one who we love so much. And also the memories of the good and the bad, the triumphs and the failures, the
joys and the redemptions. Closure implies finality, something ending or in completion.
I challenge those of you who have lost a loved one to tell me if a single day passes when that person hasn't been in your thoughts,
even if only for the briefest moment.
Closure never occurs, because as long as all of us here today live, we will carry a part of this man in our hearts and our souls.
During these times, it's easy for us to get angry or to question why some things happen as they do. Why, in this day of scientific
marvels and technological advances, could not more be done to extend Tom's full and passionate life, or even to cure his disease? Can we lay
blame somewhere? Was there something in his lifestyle that caused this, did he do something unhealthy, was there something in his work that
led to this? As we consider these questions, we discover that we may never completely understand why my brother's life -- a life filled with
diligence, adventure, marvel, and love -- why his life was cut so short, so abruptly. And this is why we'll never have closure.
Perhaps, more importantly, we need not try to answer these questions. Maybe the answer is as simple as this -- we are all part of the
natural order of things in the physical world. Other forms of life deteriorate and die all around us, all the time, and we barely notice.
Since we humans have the distinct privilege of a higher position in the order of the world, we notice more closely when one of us gets sick
and dies. We react, we suffer, and we mourn. Perhaps the answer is that simple -- that this is the natural order of the world. Yet, our
sorrow and our despair continue, because, as rational, thinking beings who can reason and understand, we know that a young, vibrant person
shouldn't leave this life this soon. And that's why we never have closure.
I don't desire closure when it comes to remembering my brother and his life. I'm grateful for the most recent memory I have of him,
before his illness. Tom came to Florida in early February to attend the confirmation of my daughter Kaitie, his niece and god-daughter. In
the brief time he spent in my home, we saw the Tom we all knew and loved, as he relaxed and talked and laughed with my families. Even
Kaitie's friends found him to be funny and very cool, especially after learning of his love for SpongeBob. His visit was short, and I begged
him to stay on an extra day, but he wanted to get home to Marie as quickly as possible. I don't desire closure, because that's the Tom I will
always remember.
As my family and I endured the days and weeks of Tom's illness, I discovered something about him that will remain with me for the
rest of my days. I take great joy and comfort as I discover all the wonderful friends he made over the years and in experiencing how many
lives he touched with his friendship. During his recent hospital stay, I had to opportunity to renew old friendships and make new ones with
those of you I met for the first time. I personally owe many of you a debt of gratitude for the kindness and compassion you've shown Marie,
my mother and father, my sisters, and me. I am especially grateful to those of you who patiently sat with me and listened as I rambled on,
talking about Tom and attempting to understand my grief over his illness. When Kelly, Kaitie and I return to Florida in a few days, I want
you all to know that my door is always open to you, and that you have a special place in our home and in our hearts. You all carry a part of
Tom with you, and that part of him that we share is something that will endure always.
Tom's work here with us is finished. He's completed his tasks of loving husband, son, brother, uncle and friend. What he's left with
us is now our responsibility to carry on for him -- his passion for life, his desire to be the best in his work, and his unending love for
his family and friends.
Joseph M Dougherty
July 2, 2002