Naomi - Memorial

My eldest child passed away about 5 weeks ago. Those words are hard to say. This week a friend told me that the pain will never go away and for some strange reason I find that comforting. I don’t want it to be gone. I don’t want to move on. I can distract myself for a short time, but those distractions are punctuated by moments of reality when I remember that this isn’t temporary. Naomi isn’t just on vacation, or working too hard to visit. She will simply never come back and that’s… permanent. In those moments I realize certain things that drive this home.

For instance:

• I will never have a new memory about Naomi - something funny she did, something she said…
• There will be a day when each one of my children will be older than their oldest sibling ever reached.
• When we are all traveling together I always count my children to make sure that they are all in the car or on the plane - I don’t care how old they are. But that number will never be four again.
• Every single time that Mandy or I say: do we have everybody…? We stop and share a long thoughtful moment.
• There was an empty seat at the table on Father’s day this year. There will always be an empty seat at the table on Father’s day.
• Naomi will never monopolize the karaoke “mic” on my birthday again.

Thank you for coming today. For those who don’t know, my name is Roger and I am Naomi’s father. Naomi’s sudden and unexpected passing was a shock to us all. But seeing you here today fills us with love and support. I am reminded of something that Amanda recently said: Naomi always loved being the center of attention. In fact, if she were here with us, Naomi would be standing where I am now… only she would be dancing with joyous abandon.

I  should start with a quick discussion on names. You see, remembering Naomi can be confusing. She is my first born son that I held swaddled in my arms, that peed on the curtains when I changed a diaper - that I took to little league and boy scouts. She is my beautiful daughter who was searching for her look, experimenting with makeup and was excited when she found a pair of pumps that fit. Gender roles aside I experienced her and loved her by different names at different times. Some of you only knew her by her birth name, or never met her after she took her new name and pronouns. And just to keep it real: that makes talking about Naomi complicated sometimes. Many of you in this room may feel the same way. It’s ok. She is Naomi. She was always Naomi. You can love her as she is, and you can love her as she was, you can love her as you imagined her to be. It’s all ok. Today is for us, and while I will refrain from using her birth name and gender - what you do is up to you. It’s all ok.

On Thursday, June 9th we buried our baby. At the funeral I shared some of my thoughts and memories about Naomi then invited anyone who wanted to come up to do the same. So many friends stood up and spoke that day that we had to cut them off to keep on schedule. They shared funny stories, what they will miss the most about her - and many things that I had no idea ever happened. Many tears were shed, but we also laughed. That day was rock bottom for us. But hearing how many lives were touched by my child was uplifting - it was a lifeline when I really needed it. Some of you were there with us, most of you couldn’t be. Today is not that day and we don’t have a conga line of Naomi’s sweet, tattooed friends to speak for her. But I thought I would share some of what I shared that day and give each of you an opportunity to share anything you like, to help us remember her.So let us celebrate Naomi together today. We can cry together, we can laugh together - we can even get angry together. It’s all ok. If there is one thing that Naomi taught me it’s that friends and family need to support and accept one another - as they are, in this moment.

Naomi was not a good driver. This is not a criticism. I just mean, objectively, she had a lot of traffic accidents. I prefer to think that this is because Naomi lived in the present, in the now. She didn’t dwell too much on the past nor fret about the future. Every moment was a gift. And because of this, she didn’t always see what was coming ahead. As parents we found a simple solution: two cars. One that she drove and another that we kept ready at all times so that when she had an accident we could just swap out one car while the other was in the shop. This played out a few times actually. I relate this story not to poke fun at Naomi, but rather to remember how when faced with a struggle we focused on what mattered and then we adapted. Cars are not important, but growing up is, and it’s darn hard to grow up and be independent in California without a car - so that was where we put our focus. Looking back I would do many things differently but not that.

In April, Naomi wrote this in her journal: “I’m proud of where I am.” She was proud. She was contrasting where she had been - alone and unemployed in San Jose - with where she was now: she had a job that she loved and she lived in Santa Cruz - a town that she loved. She was happy, optimistic and looking toward the future.

Naomi brought a certain amount of energy to a party and she always made friends wherever she went. I recall a Disney Cruise when she was 14 or 15. After a long day I just wanted to sleep - but my baby was not in her bed. A Disney cruise ship is not a small thing for a Dad to search by himself at two am. I was scared, a little bit angry - but mostly scared. What if she fell overboard? What if she is hurt? Deck after deck, restaurant after restaurant I was getting more frantic by the minute. But then I found her: Surrounded by a gaggle of new friends, huddled together around a forgotten table, talking away the night - safe. I took a deep breath and to my credit I was actually pretty chill about it. I just asked her to come back to the cabin soon and left her with those friends to decide on her own - which she eventually did.

Over the past several weeks I have been reminded of how important Naomi’s friends were to her, and how important Naomi was to them. Dozens of her friends came to the funeral to remember and honor her memory. Several of them reached out to me before and after. I heard stories of how Naomi helped them through a rough patch. Over the years I saw them do the same for her. Whether you knew her for 21 years or 21 days: Thank you. She loved you.

Loving Naomi in return has always been, for me, full of goodbyes. Naomi was a rebel. She often zigged when I wanted her to zag and this caused… friction. The first goodbye I made was when I had to part with the “ideal life” that every parent dreams up for their child. That ideal was just an unfair version of myself that is gifted with perfect hindsight and never makes mistakes. I had to let that go and learn to accept my child’s life as it unfolded. The second goodbye was when she went through some troubling times as a teen and I had to focus just on the essentials such as her well-being - nothing else was important. The third goodbye was when I let go of my first born son. That was difficult to accept at first, but it came with a new daughter who was so overcome by our recognition that she just beamed. I said what I thought was my final goodbye at her funeral last month. Since then I realized that saying goodbye to Naomi is a process, maybe a new permanent state of reality. I will try again today with you.

I  admit that a part of me is still rejecting reality and thinks that Naomi will pop around the corner at any moment, or walk in the door at any moment to surprise us with her amazing “Hi, Dad!”. Like this whole thing was some elaborate joke. But it’s not. I keep seeing her in the face or profile of a stranger, only to be devastated again and again when I realize that it is not her. This week at the Rolla Lions Club carnival I saw Naomi in the crowd a dozen times and had my heart broken anew each time.

We shouldn’t be here. Instead of a memorial, we should be raising a glass at her wedding, making a toast at her anniversary, at her birthday, at the birth of her first child. We should be doing anything but this. We should all be singing along to her songs as she performs on stage. I just imagined so many different futures for Naomi - but not this one. We shouldn’t be here.

Like you, I thought that I had more time. Naomi was reaching out to me over the past few months: she wanted to spend more time with me, go to a concert together, get to know each other better. I wanted this. But not now. A little bit later, I thought. There will be time for us to connect once she has grown up a bit more. I wanted to drink Scotch with her - to share my hobby with her. When she came up for my birthday just a few days before she died, I almost offered to share a glass - to share that experience. But I stopped myself. I don’t know why. I was going to teach her to drive a clutch. But not quite now - someday later. She called me during the day sometimes. Sometimes I didn’t pick up - I thought I was too busy. To my everlasting shame sometimes I didn’t call her back. I thought that I had more time. I thought that time would bring us together. Naomi was in the present, but I was preoccupied with the future. Now the only thing we have is the past.

There was a time when I thought that Naomi was confused about what she was doing in life, her role in the world and just about everything. But I was wrong. She was not confused. She was only twenty-one and she didn’t have everything figured out, but Naomi knew exactly who she was and where she was going. She had a plan. She was investing in herself and she was proud of that. For Naomi, coming to Santa Cruz was a pivot point - an optimistic transition to a new life. She was searching for a trade, a career - maybe phlebotomy, maybe nursing. She was changing her outside to match her inside. She was longing to find love and to be loved. Some day she even wanted to raise children of her own. No. It turns out that Naomi was not confused. I was the one that was confused.

Several months back Naomi was visiting us in San Jose and she kept singing “The Girl From Ipanema” - the Frank Sinatra version. At the time I didn’t think much about it - Naomi has always had eclectic tastes in music and it’s a pretty song.
She sang that song like a mantra though.
It wasn’t until after she passed that I understood where she was coming from. I had to think about those lyrics from a different point of view:

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes
Each one she passes goes “ah”
When she walks, she’s like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes goes “ooh”

When I hear that song I imagine myself watching a pretty, young woman walking down the street. But looking back, I now realize that Naomi saw herself as that desirable woman that turns heads: tall and tan and young and lovely - a showstopper. She saw herself as a person that is the object of not just attention, but romantic Love. That was a change for me. A change I needed to make. I needed to understand how Naomi saw herself, and Naomi guided me there through music.

My child’s name is Naomi. When Mandy and I hold each other in agony, that is the name we cry out for. That is the person we long for. That is who we are here to commemorate today. Even so, I think that it’s important to acknowledge that at birth Naomi was named after two people who were influential in our lives: Amanda’s grandfather Jack Koch, and my grandfather Donald Bradley. Grandpa “Jack” was a towering figure in Amanda’s childhood, providing her with so many sweet memories and experiences. He took the time to invest in his grandchildren and set an example of excellence and passion through his hobbies. Grandpa Jack always accepted you as you are. I think Naomi inherited this same outlook and a touch of Grandpa Jack’s biting wit and humor. Similarly, Grandpa “Bradley” gave a young and sometimes troubled boy the time and experiences that he needed in order to grow up. He had a way of including me, of reaching me - somehow never talking down to me despite my young age. He gave so much of himself that in retrospect I feel unworthy. I see that same compassion for others in Naomi. From both she inherited a thirst for knowledge and a strong sense of self-confidence. Long before our first child came into the world Amanda and I already knew that we would name that child after these two grandfathers. Neither of those two selfless and beautiful people are with us today. They live in our hearts. Neither of those two selfless and beautiful people are here today. Instead Naomi is with them.

I  want to tell you so much more about Naomi: her pets, her art, our family. Let’s save some of that for discussions as we all grieve and celebrate Naomi’s life together. And let’s be sure to do that soon. There’s not always more time for later. I also want to thank the dozens of people that have reached out to my family with pictures, videos, food, flowers, your time and sometimes a listening ear - even fly fishing on the Current River. I want to thank you for coming today. Your support has meant the world to us and has sustained us through the unsustainable. As I said at the beginning, Naomi taught us how important it is to support friends and family - and you have honored her memory by simply being here for us when we needed it.

I  want to close my remarks with that final goodbye. When I delivered them at the funeral I thought that it would be the last time. However I find myself coming back to them and repeating them and I will do so again today with you.

Naomi, I love you. I miss you so much. You deserved more time. You deserved more than I gave. You mean the world to me.
When you were born my life changed. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry not just for telling you that ants tasted like Sweet Tarts when you were six — but for not being there when you needed me.
I shouldn’t have sent you away to College. I should have insisted that you live with a roommate.
I should have let you take your dog to Santa Cruz. I should have called you every day and checked in on you.
I should have said “I love you” more. I’m sorry for every word I ever said in anger.
You are special. You are beautiful. You are kind. You are loved. You will never be forgotten.
I don’t know if we will see each other again. But if we do, I will go to a concert with you and return your phone calls every time.
I will teach you to drive a clutch. And I will listen to you, Naomi.
I will listen to every word you say, every song you sing.
I will love you for who you are in that moment, not who you might become. I love you, baby. Goodbye.

Now, if anyone else would like to share - a story, an experience, even just to say goodbye or to cry with us in the microphone - please do that now. We all need it.