To Daryl, with Love

I realize this blog is about losing my husband, Daryl Grove, but some of you may not have much of an idea of who he was or what he was all about. So, in honor of the second anniversary of his death (Oct. 22) I thought I would share the tribute I wrote to him after he died. It was one of the hardest things I have ever written, and it was also the writing of it that helped me through one of the darkest nights of my life, the night after he died. Writing about him, writing our story, sharing who he was to me and many of his friends was a life vest that helped get float toward shore.

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October, 24, 2020

This week I lost the love of my life Daryl Grove, to a cruel disease. I won’t tell you about his colon cancer battle, but I will tell you about the person who loved and lived each day knowing this might not last. When he was diagnosed in 2019, still lying on the hospital bed he held my hand, smiled, and said “It’s gonna be a helluva year.”

From the beginning he made this clear—he loved his life as it was and he would change nothing about it. He spent it loving and enjoying friends, daily FaceTime with his family back in England, traveling when he could, walking the dog, sitting on our porch, being my best friend and, of course, recording The Total Soccer Show.

For some reason, whenever anyone asked how he was doing I would usually end with “He’s still riding his bike,” which I guess indicated to me some normalcy to his health, to our life, to his autonomy. But what’s normal about living on the edge of a cliff? And that’s truly what a Stage IV cancer diagnosis is, cliff dwelling. I followed his lead and tried not to look down as we setup camp, careful not to take a single step for granted.

When COVID hit we begin driving to his monthly clinical trial appointments in Boston. The logistical gymnastics of these trips became another chapter in the Helluva Year Experience. Friends marveled at how brave we were to do this during a pandemic—while the wilds of the NJ Turnpike rest areas are not for the faint of heart, I would have driven into the mouth of a volcano if it bought him more time. That time in the car, on the road with him next to me is so precious now. The conversations, the music, the delicate hope we both held that this would last. And when we arrived he ALWAYS thanked me for making the trip with him and I would think to myself, who would I be if I didn’t do this with you?

A few days ago, coming in and out of the pain-killer delirium he asked me “What’s the farthest apart we’ve ever been?” I told him it was when he was in England and I was here waiting on our fiancée visa paperwork, at least 3 months. “How far?” he asked, again. When I told him thousands of miles he raised his eyebrows considering something, satisfied he went back to sleep.

People told us if our relationship could make it through that separation then we could make it through anything. In order to cope with the distance, aside from daily phone calls, he started texting me whenever he heard Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” as a sweet way to say he was thinking of me and that we would get through it.

Over the 18 years we had together, he taught me by example how to be a better, kinder version of myself. How to not just spin wheels but do, as I saw him do with his commitment to Richmond Street Soccer and helping those coming out of addiction programs. He was so kind, always. He also showed me how much you can miss out on by being a snob vs an enthusiast. That sounds like an intellectual pursuit, but in practice it means making your wife watch The Lion King when you find out she has never seen it.

He never, ever let the perfect be the enemy of the good. He took critique and analysis seriously, but was never cruel or cutting or cynical at the expense of others. A possessor of an easy and pithy wit and a gift for puns, he never used it at the expense of others. When he wrote film reviews I would marvel at how long it took him because he never took a shortcut—he wanted to get it right because someone had taken the time to make a film and tell a story. He found value in the noble pursuit no matter the final product.

He understood the creative process and that what it takes to make something, anything takes commitment not just talent. It was a conversation we had many times as he pep talked me through finishing my novel this summer. While he will not get to read it, his fingerprints are all over it. When I would hit a roadblock and get frustrated and want to give up and moan my way around the apartment, he would listen to whatever plot tangle or existential reason I had as an excuse and say “Keep going.” His presence at home during quarantine is a huge part of why I was able to finally finish. As many know, to have Daryl Grove believe in you means you do not let him down.

Whenever he would talk to his family in England, I was always referred to as Captain Shannon. I may have been head of operations & transportation here at Grove-O’Neill but he was the one who set our mission/goals/entertainment. He would not be happy with my mixed metaphor, but to say I am feeling lost at sea would be an understatement. I am feeling lost in the universe.

Last night, gathered in the VMFA garden with close friends, part of me kept waiting for Daryl to arrive and we joked he would be running late as usual. As the evening wound down, music from a nearby wedding wafted over and I heard the strains of “Brown Eyed Girl” through tears I managed to choke out why I was so overcome and my friend Leslie comforted me and said, “That’s the universe talking.”

Farewell for now to one of the gorgeous ones inside and out. Thank you for gracing my life with your joy and love. I will honor it every day of my life. You were a gift to all of us and a reason to keep going.

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To say he was loved would be an understatement. We had many friends and listeners of his show TSS write to us, and local friends write their own tributes.

Here is an amazing piece our friend Shawn Cox wrote for the Richmond Times Dispatch. (Also as a PDF in two parts: Part one and Part two)

A memorial piece our friend Rachel Everett wrote for RVA Magazine:

And one our friend Thad Williamson penned for Style Weekly.