Sunday, December 13, my son Jon called me after his
basketball game. He said he was having some severe pains and had taken an Advil
and some GasX and was going to lie down for a bit. We were supposed to have
dinner that night to celebrate my birthday the next day. I suggested we
postpone it, and he asked me if I could change my plans and do it ON my
birthday, the next day. I told him we could postpone it for any time at all.
Just being together was what mattered. We chatted a bit even though he was in
severe pain. His priority was to celebrate with me. When he said the pains were
really bad, he told me that he needed to lie down. We ended our conversation as
we always do with, “I love you” and “I love you, too” Always. Every
conversation. Every day.
Shortly after that conversation Jon drove himself to urgent care. He had his eight-year-old son, Ethan, with him. Danielle, his wife, called me to meet him there.
Ethan was sitting alone in the waiting room sucking on a popsicle, totally
alone. When I tried to talk to Jon, he was in so much pain that he couldn’t
speak. He was hurriedly ambulanced to Holy Cross Hospital, given morphine,
which didn’t at all help. Danielle joined me at the emergency room and we all
thought it was either a hernia or a kidney stone, either of which needed
surgery. I left to take Ethan away from the hospital atmosphere, and
subsequently Danielle called me because Jon was to undergo surgery. I dropped Ethan off with his other grandmother
and joined Danielle in the waiting room. It was still December 13, which turned
into December 14, my birthday. It was not a simple operation.
Jon died on my birthday. Now I will always remember that
day, yes with pain, but also it will act as a reminder that for 45 years every
second of my life was filled with the most wonderful man ever born, a man to be
proud of, to be admired. I raised this sensitive, loving, caring, considerate
and generous man who supported me, loved me and whom I would trust with my life.
To me, December 14 will always be all about him and only him. Our history
started in a hospital because from the moment my beautiful baby was laid in my
arms I was filled with a sense of wonder. That wonder lasted 45 years.
I have learned in the last days that the qualities I so
admired were shared with many of you as he is laid to rest. The hospital
still is talking about all of their waiting rooms filled to capacity with
family and his friends, so very many friends. Though they wanted to kick us out
of the hallways, there were so many people who loved him there that there was
no other room. All day and all night no one left. It was out of love for Jon,
their friend, and every moment in his presence, whether he knew it or not, was
precious.
Danielle and her entire family were there. Of all the
images I will always remember Danielle holding Jon tenderly in
her arms, her hand on his heart, his great big huge heart, as he passed away.
Her love for him, her tender caring was indeed the fairy tale she called it, and
I am grateful that he had such love and respect in his life. Danielle, I know
that he was the man of your dreams; you told me, his mother, that, and nothing
could ever have meant more to me than knowing he shared his life with you.
As much as you loved him, he loved you back. Danielle, you
were his everything, always his beautiful Irish bride. Every moment of every
day was filled with thoughts of what you shared, most especially your two
beautiful boys. I don’t think any father could have loved more fiercely and
protectively, or been more proud of Cameron and Ethan, both so handsome and so
well-mannered and loving. Every thought centered around his family. On a scale
of 1-10, you took at least the first five spots, and the rest of the family and
friends and business friends, happily experienced what remained…and it was
enough. Even five minutes with Jon made him into a friend. There was never a day that he didn’t think
only about getting home to the three of you, his family. He would rather take
red eyes, or drive all night to get to an event, than lose any time with you.
Baseball practices, school meetings…it didn’t matter. Jon often told me that he
couldn’t wait to get home to see them.
He loved his friends, and there are many of you. What a
testament to your friendship that you were there for him, leaving your jobs and
your families to show Jon your love for him. His coworkers, though he had to
act like “a boss,” were so very much appreciated by him. He always talked of
your talents and capabilities with great respect. And worried that he would not
be considered part of “the gang” when he had to act like a boss. He really
needed to be liked. And in the last days, you’ve all shown me how much he
really did affect your lives. Thank you. He wanted so much not to be your boss,
but your friend.
I want to thank all of you for enriching his life. I believe
he enriched the life of everyone he encountered.
I will miss the twinkling of those beautiful blue eyes which
was usually followed by a slightly teasing comment and then that Jon-smirk. I
imagine most of you know exactly what I mean. But beside that twinkle and smirk
was an ethical, honest and articulate man with great business acumen, a sense
of fair play and a tremendous desire to always make things right, even in the
most trying of circumstances.
I loved my son with all my heart. I will miss him forever. And
right now forever seems like a very long time. I have lost not only my son, but
my partner and my very best friend.
When my mother, his grandmother, died, Jon wrote something
for her funeral that I had not remembered at the time. Jon had spent many
Friday nights with her, and it was traditional that they watched The Love
Boat and then Fantasy Island. When that show was over his grandmother would
say "Fantasy Island is over, Jon. It’s time to turn out the lights."
Jon, my beloved, beloved son… Fantasy Island is over. It’s
time to turn out the lights.
Andrea Michaels, Founder and President of Extraordinary Events, gave this speech at her son's funeral on December 17, 2015.
