Joe D.

4 minute read

it was April 30, 2008, the one-year anniversary of his brother’s death

That night, at All-Star Baseball tryouts, David and I sat in the bleachers wringing our hands, nervous, hoping Joey would make the team. We started clapping when he stepped up to the plate.

“You’ve got this, Joey!”

In came the first pitch. He swung and missed.

“Next one’s yours, Joe-D!”

In came the second pitch. He swung and hit the ball in a high arc over the field and over the fence. The coach had instructed him to run after any hit, so he could time him running the bases. But Joey stood there holding his bat, looking over at us with his mouth open. He’d never hit a home run before.

We were standing, cheering, laughing. “Go, Joey! Run . . . RUN!”

Maybe that was the moment I realized it. I’d have to make the best of this test, and not ask why. Life was going to be like this: one moment, one way, collapsing, broken; another moment, another way, rising, euphoric; and sometimes, it would be both ways at once: laughing and crying at the same time. Joy and grief would live and breathe together, side by side.

An excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Loss

it was 2000, a few months before he was born

Choosing a name the second time around had been easier. We already had a short list.

“I like Joe D.—like Joe DiMaggio,” David said.

“Joseph it is—and we can call him Joey.” Then, after searching for a middle name, wanting something clean and simple between his first and last names, I found there weren’t many one-syllable options that started with D. “How about Dean?”

“I like it,” David said. He was happy, I knew, as long as the result was Joe D.

It felt kind of sneaky, choosing the male variant of my name, but why not? I liked the result too: Joe D. And now, with those four letters, I get to pass on a small piece of me that Joey will carry with him forever.

An excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Loss

it was 2018, at his high school graduation

I zoomed in on the big screen that hung from the ceiling in the center of the arena, timed it just right, and recorded video of Joey walking across the stage, shaking a hand, graduating with honors, as his name was announced: “Joseph Kassenoff.”

Hearing his name, I smiled, remembering how he hated being called Joseph. We’d never really called him that; it had always been Joey. When he was a toddler, if anyone called him Joseph, he would insist his name was “Doey, not Jofess.” On the first day of kindergarten, when I introduced Joey to his teacher, she frowned. “In my class, we use our proper names. It is Joseph, isn’t it?” We stood there, stupefied. I knew Joey didn’t like her rule, but he would follow it until first grade, when he could go back to being Joey again.

An excerpt from Willower: Rewriting Life After Loss

And now (2024) . . .

Sixteen years after hitting his first home run, Joe D. has knocked one out of the park again—receiving his master’s degree from Cornell University!

And there’s more! He’ll be starting his career working for his favorite team: the New York Yankees. Whaat?!!

We were standing, cheering, laughing.

proud . . . so proud

Look how far we’ve come! What is the word? Sometimes there just isn’t one word for a feeling, but a wave of them all at once: proud, my son, SO proud, relieved, amazed, overjoyed, grateful, so grateful, but wistful too because the word brother is the one I can only muse about now. So there’s always a tinge of emptiness in every moment of joy and celebration. A silent gap after every wave. A small shadow standing on the periphery of my mind, motioning, letting me know . . .   

And though I am able to bring myself back to the present, I can’t help but wonder (the way any parent who’s lost a child would, I suppose) about the would bes.

Joey would be celebrating and sharing his success with his brother.

His brother would be there when he needed to talk about those things he “doesn’t want to talk about” with me.

The two would be joking around and laughing, heading out the door and into their future, together.

Joy and grief would live and breathe together, side by side.

“Go, Joey! Run . . . RUN!”

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