The last few weeks have been a blurry roller coaster of ups and downs, or as Monty would describe it, "peaks and valleys." While we operated on foggy autopilot, our family and friends helped Ev and I pack up our belongings at Candle Lake and we made the long trek back to the island with the pets. As we touched down in Cayman, my eyes filled with tears. I didn't want to be here. Monty was always the one who picked us up from the airport ("You guys look... 'fresh'" 😬), and I knew that this time Monty's silver CRV wouldn't be waiting for us. It just didn't feel like home anymore and nothing on this island would ever be the same. I wanted to remain on that plane and go anywhere but Cayman. But...we got off the plane and faced everything head on. Monty had been staying at our place before he was admitted to the hospital. Thankfully, Stacey had gone in earlier and took his belongings out, but Monty's signature scent lingered, and his coffee mug remained in the sink. It was just so hard to believe that he had recently been right here and now he was just...gone.
Monty's Mom, Fran, reached out from Eads, Colorado and asked me to write a tribute to Monty for the service in Colorado. That was a blessing. I immersed myself in my writing for two days, wanting so desperately to accurately depict Monty's life in Cayman. I wrote furiously, thinking, "What would his parents want to hear?" I knew that I had to communicate Monty's love for the children with whom he worked, his incredible work ethic, as well as his friendships with such a diverse group of people on the island. I wanted them to know what a thoughtful man he was, always bringing in treats for the office, helping me after surgery, and giving his time to any friend in need. I wanted them to know that he was so loved and respected here in Cayman and that he was living a good life. When I knew that Fran had received my written piece and that she liked it, I went to bed and stayed there for a few days. I alternated between being okay and sobbing uncontrollably. But....I could hear Monty's voice, "Ok buds, settle down," and I would force myself out of bed to walk the dog.
Evan and I, along with a small group of Monty's close friends, had the honour of flying Monty's ashes back to his family farm in Colorado. The trip was hard. It was long, gruelling, emotionally and physically exhausting...but one of the most rewarding trips that Evan and I have ever taken. Monty's family was so thankful and grateful to us and it felt so good to embrace his Mom and Dad and to meet his four siblings and nieces and nephews. It was soon evident to us that Monty was the perfect combination of his Mom and Dad. He possessed his Dad's mischievous twinkle in his eye and "stand up for what you believe in" attitude and his Mom's fun-loving "first person to arrive and last person to leave the party" personality and nurturing demeanor. We could feel Monty's presence everywhere - on the porch swing, on his John Deere combine, in the garden, and in the den where he read every night with his parents during summer break. For the first time since Monty died, I felt like he was still with me, that he was okay, and that maybe I would be okay too.
Monty's parents, Fran and Randy flew back to Cayman with us. The last time that they flew was seven years ago when they visited Monty on the Brac. I felt terrible dragging them on a horrible red eye from Denver, but they never complained once, and it was our only option. Once we landed in Cayman, it was a whirlwind of dinners, services, celebrations, and condolences. The Department of Education held a service for Monty on Friday, which was an unprecedented government event. It was a beautiful ceremony - the hall was donned in flowers arranged in a farm theme, people whom Monty respected greatly read tributes, one of Monty's students sang the Cayman National Song, a tear-jerking slideshow with photos and videos was presented, and our beloved Music Therapist played Bob Marly "One Love" on the steelpan drums. I was so thankful for my island bestie, Andrea, who stepped up and read the tribute that I had written for Monty beautifully. I think that his parents felt overwhelmed by love and support and I hope that they felt proud of themselves for raising such a special human who had impacted so many lives. Saturday was the "friends event" at Monty's favourite beach bar, Calicos. We watched the sun set over the Caribbean with Monty's buds and the stories, hugs, and tears were shared over drinks and Monty's favourite songs. On Sunday we attended a quiet ceremony on beach where we prayed, shared a few words and stories about Monty. We watched one last sunset with Monty, spread his ashes in the sand, and released lanterns into the night sky. This ceremony felt like a final goodbye. It was all a LOT to take in, but overall, all three events were exactly what Monty would have wanted and truly represented who Monty was and what he meant to us and to Cayman.
It's kind of incredible how your body reacts to tragedy. With adrenaline coursing through my veins all weekend, I shed a few tears, but mostly operated without full awareness/feeling, ensuring that Fran and Randy were doing okay and distracted by the logistics of each event. I can't count how many hugs that I received. I'm not much of a hugger, but I found myself holding on tight to each and every person who approached me. I heard "I'm so sorry," more times than I can count, but my only reply was, "I'm sorry too." I'm sorry for Monty's students, I'm sorry for Monty's friends and co-workers, and I am so deeply sorry for Monty's family. What else can one say? I am so sorry that this happened.
Having Monty's parents, Fran and Randy here with us was such a gift. I don't know if they realize how their presence has helped so many of us heal. This trip must have been exceptionally difficult for them, yet they attended each and every meal, meeting, and ceremony with a smile on their face, interested and engaged in every conversation with anyone and everyone who wanted to share a Monty memory. Their strength really helped me maintain focus and stay relatively present for each of the events. I know that Evan and I have developed a lifelong connection with Monty's family and it gives me comfort to know that we will maintain ties with them forever.
I don't know how to do this island without Monty. Monty was a part of my work life, personal life, and "family" life here in Cayman. I don't know how to do this island without Monty, but I know that I will figure it out. I will go back to work, but I will have to begin each day without Monty. Monty will no longer be knocking on my school office door every morning to discuss our daily schedule and hash out our issues. I will have to be more assertive in meetings, as I will no longer have my passionate bud present to advocate for our students. I will have to step up and be more sensitive to my officemates moods and feelings because we no longer have Monty as the equilibrium of our office. I will have to continue going to the gym and taking care of my knees, but Monty will no longer be on the rower cheering me on. I will have to continue to organize happy hours, island tours, and Sunday barbeques for our friends but there will be a huge void left without Monty's sarcastic comments and contagious laugh. We will have to continue to travel and see the world, but we will no longer have Monty taunting us with his Exit row. I will do all of these things because that's what Monty would want. But I will have to do them all without Monty.
Eventually I will figure out how to do this island without Monty. But at this present moment, I need some time. I feel so tired. I feel empty. My knees, which have been happy all summer, ache every time I move. My eyelids feel so heavy, yet when I attempt to sleep, my eyeballs twitch beneath them. I alternate between being ravenous and feeling sick at the thought of consuming food. I fluctuate between feeling so incredibly sad that my chest hurts and laughing out loud at some stupid punchline that I've heard hundreds of times on a "Friends" episode. According to the literature, these are all "normal" symptoms of grief. A book that I am reading, "Option B," discusses how brutal everyday life feels during acute grief. It advises against numbing or suppressing the pain with alcohol or drugs. The book encourages you to "lean into the suck" because the suck is inevitable. I feel like I'm not just leaning into the suck, but am completely immersed in the suck right now. It hurts a lot, but it makes total sense. We just lost one of the most important people in our lives. We lost one of us. We lost a brother. It should fricken hurt. And it will...for a while.
I have so many memories of Monty, but I have one simple one that I am presently clinging to. It was a Friday in June. We had just finished DIBELS testing, an intense literacy test administered to hundreds of students by Ed Psychs and Speech Therapists three times a year. Monty and I were exhausted, but riding a high because we had just completed one of the most productive weeks of work. My car was in the shop so Monty gave me a ride home. Monty rolled down the windows that day and the hot tropical air was whipping through our hair. Monty stopped and grabbed us a Red Stripe for da road. He handed me his phone and instructed me to text Matty from Bob FM with a song request. I asked Monty, "Can we listen to Toto - "Africa"?" Monty knew that I loved that song. He smiled and said, "Sure Kirstie - because God knows it's always all about you!" (He loved that line!) Matty obliged and "Africa" was on the radio within minutes. Monty cranked up the volume and we sang at the top of our lungs, "Gonna take a lot to drag me away from you!" We sounded pretty awful, but we smiled and shouted out the lyrics with no shame. When the song ended Monty looked at me, grinning from ear to ear and said, "That was real good, bud." Monty, I hope you know just how much I loved you.
Cheers Friends.
