Tags: Published On: Saturday, March 17th, 2018 Comments: 12
Part 1
As I left the 101 South at Van Nuys, on Wednesday March 6th, at 11:30 am, local radio 88.5 played Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers’ Out In The Cold. I was headed to the Van Nuys County Registrar Office to get Catherine’s birth certificate (I can’t believe it’s been 90 days since her birth).
Everything had seemed normal that morning: I was tired, in a hurry, Catherine had spit on my blouse, and I had used dry shampoo on my hair two days in a row. I wasn’t thinking about this essay, but of one about self-care that had nothing to do with the song 88.5 played at 11:30 am.
Since Tom has passed, I haven’t been able to listen to any of his songs, neither with The Heartbreakers or Mudcrutch. I can’t listen to his voice on radio without crying, and Eddie Vedder’s performance at this year’s Academy Awards made it clear to me: his departure still hurt as if it had happened yesterday.
What had not seemed normal, that morning, had been my reaction to Tom’s voice: I had been able to listen to the entire song without tears. But I wasn’t happy about it. All of a sudden, in fact, a dark cloud heavy with sadness covered the sky; I was scared.
The song ended when the light at the Van Nuys exit turned red. By the side of the street, I noticed the same old homeless man I had seen there a few days before; he was dressed in rags, but his eyes, unlike mine, seemed to be serene. With my hand, I motioned him toward my car and gave him the only change I had in my purse, $2. “God bless you,” he said. “Have a beautiful day,” I responded with a smile on my face. Then I turned left onto Van Nuys Boulevard.
Z Berg’s I Fall For The Same Face played, followed by The Who’s Getting In Tune.
That dark cloud heavy with sadness began pouring rain on me. I cried.
As I drove along the boulevard, I noticed a green wave of traffic lights in the far distance, then all reds. The lights changed so fast that I wasn’t able to see the yellow. Things in life change so fast that I can seldom see the middle ground, the place for slowing down, like the yellow traffic light, or the place for patience and acceptance, the place I often find myself underestimating, complaining about, fighting, and missing out on.
Part 2
“These are becoming loose,” I thought the other day of my maternity jeans. At three months postpartum, I am at that stage when my pregnancy clothes are large, and when I begin to slowly fit back into my old ones.
I opened the fridge and took out some leftover pasta from the night before.
I thought I would be euphoric at the feeling of loose fabric around my waist, but a sense of loss and fear hovered over me instead, a feeling that very much resembled that cloud on Van Nuys Boulevard.
As I sat down to eat my lunch, I looked at photographs of newborn Catherine at the hospital. “I still have the hospital pads in the bathroom,” I remembered. In fact, both the sanitary pads and the mesh underwear I had been given at Cedar’s Sinai were still on the toilet, where I had put them the day we had returned home as parents. I didn’t lack the time to throw them away, or to at least store them in the cabinet beneath the sink; I had decided to keep them there, where I could see them, almost as if I were to use them again soon, or rather, as if by seeing them every day I could bring back time.
But I can’t bring back time. Things change, and they change fast.
They change as fast as the traffic lights on Van Nuys Boulevard; they change so drastically that I am not in touch with the change until life forces me to pause, and to look back. Time has passed; some have left, some have arrived. Time has passed; some things have gotten better, others have gotten worse. Someone has gotten sick, someone’s found new health and hope.
Part 3
What will happen when I’ll be able to listen to every song of Tom’s, and enjoy it? Will I still miss him? Will I still remember the tours, the challenges and the magic moments, the laughs, the stage, the plane, our flight attendant Cynthia, Cliff, pilot Bill, and the rest of our family on the road? Are those who pass forever gone, once we get used to them missing? Is it then, when they really die? Can I keep them alive, or will they become just another traffic light that goes from green to red?
Who will I be without my pregnant body? Will I remember the nausea, the discomfort, the fear, but also the joy, the excitement, and the healing? What will happen when I’ll put away those jeans for good? Catherine is growing. I am getting older.
Putting away the hospital pads, the pregnancy jeans, and listening to Tom, scares me because I am afraid I will lose the last life I hold of them in my heart. I am scared I will lose the very moment we found out I was pregnant, the first time she moved in my womb, during Learning to Fly at Wrigley Field, in Chicago. Patty and Dana were there with me, side stage right, behind Greg Looper at the mixer. Ben was on the other side of the stage, so I sent him a message through John Bunker, his piano tech.
Who am I without pregnancy? What is life without the band on stage? I remember asking a similar question when I had gotten sober: who was I without the old self-destructive darkness? In those days, my eating disorder was the last link to that Alice. Today, the maternity clothes are my last link to the pregnancy and to life in two — the sorrow I feel when I listen to Tom’s voice the last life I have of him.
Will I still miss him? Will I still remember Catherine in my womb?
We are approaching the end of this essay, and I think I’ve found a possible answer. And it is yes, I will.
Catherine is my bond to her creation, to the soft curves of my pregnant body, and to the woman I was before giving birth. And Tom’s music and voice is the bond with his life, a life that will never die. Like energy, nothing disappears. Like energy, memories can’t be destroyed.
I guess the secret is to trust we will always remember, and to allow memories to visit us when we are open to them, when we need them, when they do good, and not harm. I guess the secret is to savor this very moment without too much thinking, and as Ben’s favorite band sings…let it be.
I just listened to Southern Accents. And I cried.
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I, too, could not bear to listen to Tom’s music for a few months after his passing. When I finally did I realized that there was healing in the words and music. It hurt to listen, but the hurt allowed for healing. As a nurse I know that some wounds have to be debrided, or cleared of scabbing and dead tissue before healing can begin. Those first several times of listening to Tom was a period of debridment. I know you feel his loss much more than I because you were there. You are part of the family.
As for losing yourself, you will always be the little girl that you were before, the young bride of Benmont, and now you have a new title, mother. You will grow into this new role and your love for Catherine will grow stronger every day.
I enjoy reading your blogs so much. You are an excellent writer!
Love to you,Catherine, and Benmont. I hope he is doing well ❤
I can’t listen to or watch Tom without feeling sad either. It must be even harder for you.
Lovely writing Alice as always. It’s so hard tout our deepest feelings into words.
Sending love. Elaine xxx
So beautifully eloquent at transferring your thoughts and feelings to paper. My pain, sadness and “fear of no longer remembering” has manifested itself in another way – ONLY listening to Tom and the band; savoring every second and individual instrument (and its player); imagining and re-living. It’s as if I feel disloyal or “I’ve moved on” if I miss hearing him for just one day. Working through loss is hard and very, very introspective, isn’t it? Yet the joy and balance of a newer and fierce love having entered your life shows you, Alice, how it all comes full circle. My very best wishes to you, Benmont and, of course, little Catherine.
Love love love this… thank you so much … I too cannot listen to tom … yet… 💋
What a wonderful essay, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts and feelings!
I have been listening to the music created by your husband together with Tom and the other Heartbreakera since I was 14 and first discovered them. Growing up in Romania, a country that only got free of the communist regime when I was about 10 years old, I had missed out on a lot of the foreign cultures since we barely had any access to foreign radio stations, TV channels being totally out of discussion. Between the ages of 10 to 14 though, I did a great job of catching up with British and US music, with the help of my wonderful parents who gave their best to offer me a better path in life than the one they had until 1989, when my country was finally freed of communism. As an opposite to American Dream Plan B., my dad was the one that never had the chance that I had.
I was 14 in 1994 when I first listened to You Don’t Know How It Feels, then found myself obsessively searching for the Wildflowers album and after listening to it, I started a quest to gather the entire Heartbreakers catalogue.
I learned that there was a lot of magic to take in, since the band had been around for almost 20 years already. I devoured every album, injected my blood with every piano note, every guitar chord, every lyric that seemed to speak about my own life, my joys and losses, and situations I could identify taking place around me, for real.
I recently turned 38 and it was my first anniversary without Tom Petty. I always thought that I will be the one in my 60’s when I would hear about his passing, therefore the news shocked me on many levels. Due to the time zone differences I stayed awake for the entire night, until it was finally confirmed that he was gone, for real. I had lost one of the best friends I have never met. I had the chance to attend a live show in Hamburg, Germany, in 2012 and it was one of the most wonderful nights of my life.
I managed to fly over there with a childhood friend who had also been following the band since the first song he heard on the radio and we ended up carving a priceless memory into our hearts and minds.
I never stopped listening to the music, no matter how much it hurts. It is my way of dealing with the pain. I actually want to feel that pain, it’s a mix of sadness and gratitude that burns my soul every time I play any of the songs. But I also feel Tom and the Heartbreakers to be as present in my life as they always were and I know they always will be. I am actually playing the Let Me Up! album on vinyl as I am writing this.
I dare to ask you one thing, please tell your husband that I love him and that his music has a bigger impact on people’s lives than he could ever imagine. Sure, he may already know that from the cheers and ovations he received at every concert, but so many more subtle things are happening on a so much more private level and I sure not the only one to experience that. For every song there is a memory, for every piano note there is a response from my heart, an energy that boosts up my lust for life. I occasionally apply a digital vocal removing effect to the song Swingin’ just to be able to hear Ben’s piano more up front while listening to it. What they achieved together as a band is magic, something that touches millions of people in a million different ways.
I know that I will always miss Tom but I also think about your husband and the other Heartbreakers a lot. I pray to God to keep him safe and I wish you and your family the best of everything. I thank him for the music by playing it and sending him love and good thoughts every single day, and I hope that on a subtle, spiritual level, the good vibes will reach and protect him.
I have one single complaint though, which I dare to express: You Tell Me starts fading away just as the piano gets even better!
Much love and respect from Romania,
Laurian
Hi Alice
I’m writing from Australia, where we’re missing Tom very much as well. Thankyou for writing that, it’s a very nice piece
Stephen
Thank you Alice for sharing that. As I read it tears welled up in my eyes and my heart felt love, loss, joy, sorrow, remembrance. I still can’t listen to him or the music without balling hysterically. I guess a time will come when I’ll be able to listen with joy and feel alive to it again. Until then, I’m happy to have TPATH fans and groups to share the love and the loss with. Seeing all of the pictures of him and that beautiful smile and sharing lyrics and stories with his fans is a great comfort. We all love and miss Tommy. His music and legend will never die. We didn’t know him the way that you all did. But he shared and gave so much of himself to us that it certainly feels like we did. I’ve never grieved so relentlessly for any public figure ever the way I did for at least a week. On that first day I literally fell to pieces and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it. Love peace and Petty forever. 💘💘💘
As just one of the millions of Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers fans, I too find it difficult to listen to the music. As we continue with our daily lives, it is so good to know the Tom is still with us, in his own little way. Keep fighting, keep laughing, keep doing good for your fellow man. Stay blessed, Alice!
Alice,
I was touched by the vulnerability and beauty of your”For A Moment…” blog. I, too share the pain many times when I hear Tom sing on our station. I have started to cry often. Nonetheless, as you know, it it were not for Tom and The Heartbreakers, 88.5 FM would not exist today.
With that said, every day is a tribute to them. As long as I am here, I will honor them the best we can at 88.5 FM.
Send my love to Benmont and Catherine. I hope we can bring joy to you all.
Sky Daniels
Dear Alice
Your writing moves me so. Thank you for sharing your emotions. I love how your words flow & the analogy of the traffic lights. When you spoke of Tom & his music I could feel myself choking up fighting not to let it out.
Recently I was driving from Portland passed Mt Hood to see my son. This year hasn’t been easy with the various mental health issues he has been dealing with. I was supposed to have company on the drive but found myself driving alone. I put on Tom Petty & The HB’s . I said out loud “well I guess it’s just you and me Tom” and my insurance card fell down from my visor. I smiled Tom still manages to touch his fans from where he is. I sang & rocked out with old tennage angst & all the feelings of today. Then Southern Accents came on. The tears flowed “ for just a minute it was oh so real, for just a minute she was standing there with me” . A vision came back to my from 1989 picking up my grandparents at the OC airport ( when it was smaller you just pulled up front) . My grandmother I grew up close with had passed 2 months prior to my wedding where I was now picking my grandparents up for. I’m looking for them to come out. I see a older woman standing out front. She looks just like my Grandma I lost. I keep staring, she starts walking towards my car & approaches the passenger window. She looks at me then she is gone.
I realize on my drive to see my son how much Tom’s music can touch you. All those wonderful lyrics can envoke so many different memories. He truly was a gift and gave so much to this world & that is lasting. I can’t imaginr what you & Ben are going through especially with all the feelings of being new parents too. God Bless you for sharing and helping others. Looking forward to hearing Ben play on Friday. Yea!
Sincerely
Michele Walker
Hi, Alice. I am so glad to see you’re doing so much better, emotionally, mentally, and physiologically, than you sounded several months ago. My heart was breaking for you, and by extension Ben, and I worried over you.
I didn’t know Tom, but I, too, got a little misty-eyed watching Southern Accent above. I lost my mother when my children were still babies, so the verse about dreaming of his mother makes my heart hurt. I so miss hearing her call my name in her lovely South Georgia accent. (I was born in Gainesville, raised in a neighboring community by her and my adoptive father, a native of Alabama. I have quite an accent myself.)
I appreciate you sharing your experiences and feelings with us.
It’s Tom’s more personal songs that cause my eyes to well up in tears. I just imagine his passing has had this effect on the millions of people who loved Tom and the band. Time will pass, but I’ll always be that guy who listened to Tom and the Heartbreakers in the blue Pontiac GTO at 14. I turn 54 in September and I still cry thinking about Tom.