My Grief Journey: The Voice on the Phone

“He’s Gone”

I’ll never forget the sound of her voice on the phone. “Val, he’s gone,” Andi* said.

“Wait, what? Who’s gone?” I asked, trying to put the pieces together. I had just spoken to Andi about an hour before, and I was mentally thumbing through the topics we’d been talking about, and I was coming up empty.

“Rich. He’s gone. He died. He had…,” her voice wavered as she tried not to cry, “…he had a heart attack. And, and, he’s gone.”

My blood ran cold. My breathing stopped. My mind reeled. “No. No, no, no, he can’t be,” I said on the brink of tears now. I collapsed into the nearest chair. “How do you know? Wait, I just spoke to him! It’s not, it can’t, it’s….” My voice trailed off as the words began to sink deeper, like daggers in my heart.

Beginning the Adventure

Rich was my friend, my partner in silly adventure. He’d introduced me to the world of on-air radio, and together we took his solo act into a duo. He’d shared his thoughts, his feedback, his sass and his wit, teaching me just about everything I knew about radio life, and I wasn’t done learning from him.

“He’s gone,” she told me again, gently, and now I could hear the tears in her voice, matching the tears streaming down my own cheeks. I fell into the chair in the production room, his prod room. The same chair I’d occupied a hundred times over when I came to the station over the years to voice radio spots. I would sit waiting for him to finish production on a radio commercial so we could go to lunch after our morning on-air shift ended, in the room where he’d spent so much of his life honing his craft.

Even outside of radio, we were friends. Despite his immense talent, he had difficulty taking a compliment and had earned the nickname “Eeyore” because he could be a bit glum, even on the happiest, sunniest of days.

When he was being too hard on himself, I would say to him, “Don’t talk about my friend like that.” When he’d spiral into self-deprecation, I tried to pull him back. The black cloud he lived under could be oppressive, but he had a generous heart and a gentle soul. He rarely saw himself the way his friends saw him: talented, kind, and giving, which is why I never stopped reminding him, even when he pushed everyone away.

A Change of Scenery

The day Rich retired from radio, he handed me his key and said, half joking, half sardonic wit, “Whelp. It’s your problem now. Good luck.” But I knew handing me the key was more than just an irreverent tossing of metal into my hand. He was symbolically giving me the reins to something he loved with his very being, and then walking out a door he’d never be able to walk through again.

The radio industry had changed around him, shrinking his creative freedom and locking down his joy into sanitized, formulaic boredom. He was no longer in love with the beautiful career he’d chosen, and he was stepping away from a 30-year relationship into the unknown.

Greener Pastures, Prevailing Winds, Smoother Seas

He was looking for new scenery. His brother had invited him to move West with him to a place where they could open a window to ocean views and a cooler climate. He wasn’t sure what the next chapter would hold, but he wanted different views, and the move did him good. He found part-time work doing private audio production, augmenting his income with gig work.

Driving around the Bay Area and taking in the ocean, the mountains, the bridges, and the people made him happy. A few times a week he’d call me to share his adventures. In his buttery, mellifluous voice, he would describe the scenery and tell me in immense detail about his encounters with customers and service workers. We laughed, we snorted, we fell back into our radio ravings, me riding virtual shotgun as he navigated the highways and sideroads. Things were looking up.

“He’s Gone. He Died.”

A series of health problems began to plague Rich. He ran out of breath easily, struggling to climb a flight of stairs. He had strange pains in his heart, but steadfastly refused to see a doctor. After some scary events where he was rushed by ambulance to the hospital, it seemed like he’d finally found a diagnosis and a treatment, and things were getting better. Until that fateful day.

I’ll never forget Andi’s voice on the phone. She worked with our local law enforcement, and Rich’s nephew served on the force. Word of Rich’s passing spread quickly through the department; Rich had been a long-standing, well-known member of our community, and everyone knew him or had heard him on the radio. So many people loved him, and despite his prickly exterior, he left an indelible mark on our town. We all felt a shockwave at the news.

Rich had been my best friend, and I desperately wanted to tell him how much I’d learned about mediumship and to share my journey with him. As it turns out, I didn’t have to tell him. When the time was right, he found me. His snarky wit is unmistakable, and whenever I practice with other mediums, he doesn’t hesitate to step forward with his signature personality.

We Don’t Really Leave

If there’s one thing he taught me, it’s that we don’t leave when we die, not really. Our form changes, our purpose is different, but our loved ones are never far from us. Ironically, our friendship has grown stronger in his physical absence. Would I rather have him here, harassing me and giving me advice? Oh, yeah, absolutely.

But it’s nice to know that even though his physical journey ended, he’s still here, guiding me through mine.

*Some of the names in this post have been changed.