A Sunday at Home, Alone

I awoke before dawn this morning and heard the rain, an early-winter rhythm of pattering drops in a city known for its sunshine.

In a place known for its good times, I was alone, in bed and, other than the drizzle, it was utterly quiet. I did not know then that it was merely the first movement of the day’s contemplative symphony.

Some days, you wake up and you just feel different, your mood perhaps colored by matters unsettled in your subconscious, or because of the weather or the time of year or, just maybe, your time of life.

You’re more vulnerable than usual, and this is not a bad thing, but you somehow are more open to allowing unconnected events to have a profound effect than you would at other times.

Sunday, for me, has been just such a day.

Still in bed, drinking coffee, the rain now gone, the morning light having joined me, I read about the suicide death of arts journalist Scott Timberg, at the age of 50.

I didn’t know Scott when I was at the LA Times, our paths never crossed, but I read his work, especially after he left, when he wrote his 2015 book “Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class,” that bemoaned how digital technology and economic polarization were damaging American cultural life. 

I read another piece he wrote a few years ago about how his dwindling finances as a freelance writer had caused him to make the difficult decision to finally leave LA, which he likened to parting with a lover, a relationship.

And now, to read that he had taken his life, it floored me, put things in perspective: the unseen weight so many of us carry, alone, even with a spouse and family. 

I do not suffer such hopelessness from the heft that I carry. Though I have felt my share of disappointment, of not measuring up professionally and personally, I still have this buoyant belief that things aren’t that bad, that they will get better, no matter what.

I guess it’s the optimism of the American journalist — that all you need is another good story to put a spring in your step, to give you another reason to get back out there.

This sounds like a cry of some existential crisis, but it is not.

It is just a day when, alone with your thoughts, you allow things to penetrate your personal armor.

And you allow yourself to grow from them, if just even a little bit.

Sunday was also a day I had a task marked on my calendar.

Three thousand miles away, in Upstate New York, my nephew Mike, who is in his early 30s, one of two children of my younger sister, Mary, is suffering his own personal malaise.

A few years ago, on this date, a woman Mike was seeing terminated their pregnancy. To my mind, the relationship was already fraught with problems and they were not together, but the event has marked my nephew’s life in such a way that he observes an annual day of mourning over what could have been, but was not.

He takes the day off from his job at the local Home Depot and he contemplates his life.

After reading about Scott, I saw a Facebook post that Mike had left.

It was a letter to the child he did not have, and to the status of fatherhood he believes he will never achieve, a reckoning with a past, present and future somehow denied him.

It read:

“The day I lost you was the worst day of my life. Four years later, it still hurts. I feel like a part of me died that day too. I keep telling myself to be grateful for the people in my life and I am grateful. But today, I can't help but wonder what my life would be like if you were in it. I still have so many questions. Would you have been a boy or a girl? Would you have been beautiful and smart like your mother? Would I have been a good father to you? God willing, I'll get to know the answers to those questions someday. Until then, all I know is that you were my child and I'll always love you. Rest in Peace.”

The words struck like a hammer. I have written here about similar events in my own life. I knew how he felt.

I responded:

“Tough to read. Tougher to write. And brave, too. And your friends and family agree: You are a wonderful father. First proof: you wrote this. Bravo, man.”

A while later, I called.

Mike had driven to his father’s house for the day, and I was glad that he was with family and not alone. We talked about things and he said that maybe 2020 was the year that he would begin again, and put this personal damage behind him.

I told him that only he could make that call, and reminded him that I would be there.

This childless uncle trying to find the right words to offer his childless nephew.

As if on cue, I watched an episode from the third season of The Crown.

In it, Prince Philip faces his own crossroads in seeing men land on the moon, bemoaning his own lack of accomplishment, of feeling trapped by having to forego his own dreams to play second fiddle to the world’s most powerful woman. 

It’s about finding meaning in a world where answers do not come easily.

Tobias Menzies, who plays Philip, is a fine actor and, more than any words, his face shows the disappointment of life as he searches for his version of faith.

It is a breathtaking performance.

Before the show, I spoke with my wife on the phone.

She lives in San Francisco and was on her way to church. My wife has found her own faith later in life and I am happy for her.

And I support her, as I search for my own.

And now, I sit at my computer, trying to find a way to somehow translate the lessons of my day.

Tomorrow, I will interview a woman who has given birth to a severely disabled daughter. As we watch the toddler go through physical therapy, I want to ask her what it means to be a mother but to suffer what must be, deep down inside, such a bitter disappointment.

I want to hear her words, and I’m sure they will inspire me, teach me something about acceptance, and perhaps about faith.

But for now, it’s off to a housewarming party where I will have a few drinks, a few laughs and return home.

That's when I will no doubt thank God for days like this.