The year 1980 signaled everything that was about to follow. It began with the thrilling “Miracle on Ice” gold medal run of the U.S. Hockey team at the Lake Placid Olympics, and ended with the assassination of John Lennon at the gates of his apartment building in New York City. And that’s the way the rest of the decade played itself out: euphoria and despair, agony and ecstasy.

Now the ‘80s have all but completed their run…and you, Johnny Boy? Well, you’re just weary right down to your bones, aren’t you? Next year you will turn 40, but it feels more like you’re closing in on 90. Ironically, that’s what happens when one works so hard at putting off growing up.

The first personal hammer strike to the heart was the break-up of your marriage, which finally ended for good in a dreary Milwaukee courtroom in November of ‘84. The experience shattered every belief you once held concerning love, destiny and, of course, marriage itself. It will take a while…years in fact…but one day you’ll realize that all those beliefs had been based on an illusion: a toxic blend of Catholic schoolboy guilt and a starry-eyed misinterpretation of nearly everything pop culture had to offer from 1964 on. You initially saw it as a betrayal and you didn’t see it coming. But you should have. You and your wife had met as children and basically grew up together. Which is to say she grew up, while you saw her as your link to perpetual youth. In the end she was simply unwilling to be the Wendy to your Peter Pan, and someday you’ll see how unfair it was of you to expect that of her.

*         *         *

But, there was ecstasy as well as agony, euphoria as well as despair. And the most ecstatic thing of all was finding Kathy. At first she was simply another work associate, then a good friend, and finally the woman who flat-out saved your life. Your courtship was one of the most intense experiences you will ever have. It was as magical as your divorce had been nightmarish, and it eventually led to marriage, a marriage—I am happy to report—that will remain magical and deeply romantic for the rest of your days. And with Kathy came another miracle: the birth of your daughter, Emily. From the very start she has been daddy’s girl, and you will spend the rest of your life shaking your head in disbelief that such an amazing person could have entered your life at all, let alone when she did. She offered you a new beginning, and offered your equally amazing son, Chris, the chance at a family life that was denied him when you and his mother went your separate ways. Seeing how tender, and playful Chris has always been with his sister has been—and will always be—one of the most treasured parts of your life.

*         *         *

But then there was that truly horrible week in November of 1988.

I wish I could report that you will rebound quickly and get on with your life, but the truth is that it will be years before you are finally able to come to terms with Mom’s death on November 15^th. First of all, it was so sudden, and so completely out-of-the-blue, that it literally put you in a state of shock. Secondly, because you worked so hard to relieve Dad from the crushing task of planning her funeral, you still haven’t given yourself the opportunity to grieve. I imagine the same could be said for your brothers and sisters, all of whom stepped up to do their part. You and your brother Jimmy made sure that Mom’s wish to have a closed casket was honored. She wanted to be remembered as a living breathing person, and not as some ghoulish waxy simulacrum. Your brother Mike penned a beautiful homily which prevented the clueless officiate from delivering some boilerplate banality about a parishioner he never really knew. Your sisters, Amy and Kathy, selected Mom’s burial outfit. And all of you made arrangements for the reception that followed the service.

It was therapeutic having something to keep you busy, and you were glad to help Dad in any way you could. But the busyness came between you and the necessary process of grieving. And now—believe me, I remember—you are in a very strange place.

Losing a parent is a life passage through which everyone must eventually travel. It doesn’t make you special or unique. But Mom was special and unique and she was a mystery too. And the memories bombard you in weird, non-linear ways. You remember her abhorrence of heat and humidity and the—well, I’m just going to say it—the insane ways she dealt with it. You remember, for instance, that she insisted on placing the window fan facing outward. This was supposed to draw out all the oppressive heat and envelop the house in a rapidly circulating band of cool and refreshing air. It never worked.

You remember the way she touched her index finger to her tongue before she turned the pages of her magazines. You remember the Pall Mall butts in the ashtrays, all bearing traces of her bright red lipstick. You remember how she absolutely refused learning to drive. And you remember her rocking you as a baby and humming the theme from Moulin Rouge. You remember her great fear of tornadoes, and later of just about everything else. And now (although you only learned of it after she died) you’ll always remember that she fibbed when it came to her age. Evidently she shared a birthday with a neighbor lady who was born a year after Mom. It drove her nuts that her friend was a year younger so she always insisted they were the same age, except that they weren’t. So she was 60 when she died, not 59—still too young, but so typical of Mom to spring that surprise on us even after she was gone.

But remembering is only half the battle. Grieving means a whole lot more. It is a process, and the only process you’ve every really understood, is the process of making images. And it is time for you to do just that. Your storehouse of childhood imagery is vast, and even though you haven’t accessed it in ages it’s still there, and it’s time you went back in. Editing will be tricky, and the images you finally choose won’t always seem logical. But this is something you must do. You need it to say good-bye to Mom. And you need it to say good-bye—at last—to a childhood that seduced you with its joy and magic to such an extent that you’ve never quite been able to let it go. It will mean pouring everything you have as an artist into the process. And it will mean leaving McDill, one of the greatest achievements of your life. But, again, it is something you simply have to do. Love lasts forever, but the same cannot be said for people…or childhoods. So, when all that remains of either is the love, your only recourse is to give that love away. And that’s exactly what you need to do.

John and Rose Marie McCarthy…with the author. Circa 1951

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