Reflecting on Loss
In recent days, I found myself reflecting deeply on the profound relationship I had with my father, Steve Lazerus, particularly during the tumultuous moments encompassing his passing. The initial loss had me grappling with his absence as I flew to Florida, a journey ironically meant for a family spring break that instead became a solitary mission to deal with his affairs. As I soared high above the clouds, the weight of my grief anchored me to the seat, leaving me unable to process much beyond the quiet chaos of my thoughts.
Moments of Connection
I had previously experienced the heart-stopping terror of my father’s health scare, when he suffered a massive heart attack followed by a quintuple-bypass surgery that doctors deemed almost insurmountable. That time, through strength, sentiment, and a touch of modern medicine, I was blessed with an additional three years with him. We shared so many moments where I expressed my love and appreciation, which he reciprocated with tender vulnerability as he grasped the magnitude of his feelings for my mother. Those years allowed us to hone a deeper connection, filled with laughter, poignant conversations, and the unspoken acknowledgment of love.
The Void of Absence
However, his passing marked an end to what I once believed was a second chance. As I once again boarded a flight—this time to address the aftermath of his death—the reality of my father’s absence plunged me into an insurmountable void. This subsequent journey lacked the hopeful promise of recovery or reinvention. Instead, it led me toward the administratively burdensome task of settling accounts and the bittersweet act of recounting memories with my mother as we navigated the uncertain future ahead.
Shared Passions
Sports, an aspect that my dad cherished deeply, often punctuated our conversations and seemed to encapsulate the essence of our shared moments. I’m reminded of the quirky way he’d jovially yell out during a Mets game, the countless quirky sayings he had while watching Islanders games, and how he would playfully tease my mom during our family interactions. His enthusiasm embedded itself within me, igniting a lifelong passion for sports that extended well beyond mere fandom, forming my career as a sports columnist.
A Lasting Legacy
My father was the silent supporter who reveled in the pieces I wrote, always sending me encouraging texts about my work. His pride was a constant reminder of the bond we shared, and the thought that he would never read my words again stings more than I could articulate. The absence of his support looms heavy as I step into this new reality of life without my dad—a sentiment shared by countless others who have navigated similar losses.
Finding Joy in Grief
Despite the deep despair that accompanies grief, I cling to the humor and joy that my father instilled in me. The playful puns and lighthearted jokes reflect his spirit, echoing through my interactions with my children—a living legacy of the laughter we shared. Even in the last texts I sent him, overflowing with silly observations about sports, there’s an undeniable tapestry of our relationship woven into those exchanges. They carry the weight of love, not in elaborate declarations but in everyday absurdities unique to our shared experiences.
Moving Forward
As I face the daunting prospect of moving forward, I must remember this balance: the heartbreaks of loss and the rich tapestry of memories contribute to an enduring connection. My father may no longer be physically present, but the essence of who he was and the lessons he imparted fuel my existence.
With every tease I direct at my kids, I am reminded he remains with me in spirit—ever the dad, ever the sports fan. Although my heart aches, I take comfort in knowing how fortunate I was to have those three additional years. As I navigate this intense sorrow, I strive to carry forward the humor and love he cultivated in me. In so many ways, I resonate with what he represented: love, family, and a sense of humor that melded the beauty of life and its unpredictable quirks.
