Gerry M. Tate: October 12, 1974 ~ March 9, 1997
I remember that surreal March in 1997 when I got the news that you had passed away. You were 22 years old and I was stunned speechless. You had so much life ahead of you. I have often wondered over the years what your life would have been like had you lived. Today you would have turned 40 and I find that I have been thinking a lot lately about the what-ifs. What if you hadn't died? What if you were still alive out there somewhere? Would you be married? Have children? A dog and/or cat? Where would you live? Where would you work and what kind of work would you be doing? Would you have finished college? Would we be friends, have kept in touch or maybe reconnected through Facebook as I have with so many other cherished friends? Would you have had the opportunity to travel, to experience all the things that I know you wanted but hadn't yet at 22? Now that you would be 40 I find myself reflecting on our time together and feeling sad again that there is so much you did not have the chance to see, songs you've never heard, dances you've never perfected, so many things I wish you hadn't missed. Now that you would be turning 40 I realize you have been gone almost as long as you were here with us. I have often felt that it was such a shame for you to lose out on all the opportunities because I remember you loving to try everything. Fearless. Which was something I was most definitely not at that age - if I'm honest I'm still not, although I think I've relaxed some with age. I was so envious of your ability and desire to try anything and everyting without reservation or anxiety. You just jumped right in, confident that you could handle it. I am sad that there are so many things you never go to do or experience, see or hear or touch. It seems almost unfair for me to have been given the gift of continued life when I have spent so much of my life afraid to try things, of failure or physical injury, when your years were stolen away. It was devastating and something I realize now I will never "get over". I will heal in a way and move on, but I will always miss you, always be sad when I think of you, always wish things had turned out differently. And I'll probably always have that same demanding question floating to the front of mind from time to time - WHY?!
I remember that surreal March in 1997 when I got the news that you had passed away. You were 22 years old and I was stunned speechless. You had so much life ahead of you. I have often wondered over the years what your life would have been like had you lived. Today you would have turned 40 and I find that I have been thinking a lot lately about the what-ifs. What if you hadn't died? What if you were still alive out there somewhere? Would you be married? Have children? A dog and/or cat? Where would you live? Where would you work and what kind of work would you be doing? Would you have finished college? Would we be friends, have kept in touch or maybe reconnected through Facebook as I have with so many other cherished friends? Would you have had the opportunity to travel, to experience all the things that I know you wanted but hadn't yet at 22? Now that you would be 40 I find myself reflecting on our time together and feeling sad again that there is so much you did not have the chance to see, songs you've never heard, dances you've never perfected, so many things I wish you hadn't missed. Now that you would be turning 40 I realize you have been gone almost as long as you were here with us. I have often felt that it was such a shame for you to lose out on all the opportunities because I remember you loving to try everything. Fearless. Which was something I was most definitely not at that age - if I'm honest I'm still not, although I think I've relaxed some with age. I was so envious of your ability and desire to try anything and everyting without reservation or anxiety. You just jumped right in, confident that you could handle it. I am sad that there are so many things you never go to do or experience, see or hear or touch. It seems almost unfair for me to have been given the gift of continued life when I have spent so much of my life afraid to try things, of failure or physical injury, when your years were stolen away. It was devastating and something I realize now I will never "get over". I will heal in a way and move on, but I will always miss you, always be sad when I think of you, always wish things had turned out differently. And I'll probably always have that same demanding question floating to the front of mind from time to time - WHY?!
All these years and I still dream about him. I see him somewhere and I nearly go straight to my knees because I realize he's actually still ALIVE. All these years, all this time I have suffered and he's actually still alive! And I can see him, talk to him, touch him, hear him, smell him. He is so REAL. And while I may be crying, I feel calm and whole for a moment, understanding that he is, in fact, out there somewhere still enjoying life. And then I wake up. As I rise into consciousness I fight the fading happiness because I am slowly coming to the realization that this was all just a dream. He is gone again. Still. He really is gone. Sometimes I can't believe he's gone, like it just happened yesterday. And then I can't believe it's been so many years he's been gone and I am still dreaming about him. I used to get really upset, angry even, wishing the dreams would stop because it would hurt so badly to have to go through waking up, the dawning realization for the thousandth time that yes, he truly is gone. Now I at least feel a little bit of relief. Even though the dreams and eventual waking leave me feeling like he's left us all over again, at least I get to see him, talk to him, touch him, smell him, bask in his presence. If I'm lucky I get to hold his hand or be the recipient of one of his world class hugs. At least I still have that. Even if it means I cry a little (or a lot, depends on the day) after I wake. Now that I am almost 40 too, I can appreciate a little pain if it means I get a few minutes with him once in a while. Even if he is a figment of my very active imagination, I don't give a dang. It feels real in that moment and I am choosing to relish that feeling.
Gerry, you have been gone for 18 long years. That is so much life, love, and laughter to miss. And I still miss you. On this day of your birth, I am making a conscious effort to focus on all my happy memories - how it felt to hug you and hold your hand, how you smelled, watching you dance and especially dancing with you, listening to you sing, watching you draw, summers with you at my grandma's house, celebrations with my family that sometimes included the men wearing bows on the head (and I have the pics to prove it), the scary yet exhilarating experience of being a passenger in your car, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, vacations, Disneyland, the Ukiah fair.
Happy 40th Gerry. I wish you were here to celebrate with us and make some more happy memories.
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