This Is Bullshit
Shortly after Lori came out of her first surgery—meant to treat an aggressive form of brain cancer—she looked at her husband, Chris, and said, “This is bullshit. I love you.” This was one of the most endearing things about Lori. She recognized the absolute absurdity of life and followed with love all the same.
Lori passed away last Wednesday, January 21st at 9:25 p.m. There have been articles online about her story, and most of the comments have been kind and loving (a few of them have been stupid to the point of cruelty, but I’ll refer you back to Lori’s recognition of the absolute absurdity of life). I also noticed that several people characterized Lori’s life as tragic, and I want to address that. Lori’s life was decidedly not tragic.
I’m a writer and a storyteller, and I know a thing or two about how stories are organized. A tragedy hinges on a character’s fatal flaw, a weakness that reverses fortune. Lori had the opposite of a fatal flaw. She endured the most difficult challenges this world hands down, and she and her husband chose love anyhow. In circumstances that would have corrupted the most pious and virtuous among us, Lori chose joy. Again and again and again.
I understand most people use the word tragic more broadly to mean sad, and death is sad. But Lori was not. In my experiences with her, she was joyful. These past few days, memories of that joy have run through my heart like a montage.
Hanging out in a hotel room full of volleyball players and parents, everyone engaged in a sing-along of “Shallow,” nobody singing louder or smiling harder than Lori.
Toasting wine, toasting margaritas, toasting beers at barbecues, restaurants, and bars.
Watching Lori encourage my daughter after tough losses.
Seeing Lori irreverently shake her bootie in the face of a grumpy person with a stick up his ass (he had it coming).
My wife sitting beside Lori on a Florida swamp tour, each of them taking turns to hold a baby alligator.
Lori and all the volleyball moms huddled under blankets on those cold, aluminum bleachers, talking life and watching our girls grow up.
Hearing Lori dote on her husband and my good buddy, Chris, bragging (rightfully so) on his wit, his charm, his kindness, his fun spirit—she talked about him the way all great husbands want their great wives to talk about their virtues.
And the one memory that really sticks with me is the last time I saw Lori. We were in Orlando for a tournament, and we stopped by to visit her in her hotel room. As we left, she threw her hands up to give me a hug. I tried to deflect. Orlando is Orlando, and I had just worked out and told her I was a little schvitzy. “I don’t give a shit,” she said, and she threw her arms around me.
In this world—particularly this world right now, with all of its ugliness and misery—Lori’s life exists in my heart as a lighthouse. Though the waves crash and the sharks circle, it’s the pursuit of joy that will bring us home.
Lori, this is bullshit. We love you.
Below is something I wrote shortly after Lori’s cancer diagnosis, and it includes a Go Fund Me link. Cancer isn’t cheap. Neither is raising three teenagers. If you can help Lori’s family through their grief by chipping in, however little, please do.
Fuck Cancer
About four years ago, my daughter swapped competitive rock climbing for club volleyball. Just before her first game, her nerves got the best of her. I could see it on her face. She was terrified.
When she climbed, all the pressure was on her—and just her. Which was its own kind of terror. Now she had teammates, a dozen other little girls who she felt compelled to fight with and for. A different, new kind of pressure.
I did what I always did just before she competed. I looked at her, made sure she was looking at me, and I pointed my fingers at her and then at me. You’ve seen the move. Show ‘em, Ric:
The difference? I would point back at my own face and draw my fingers in a wiggly fashion down my cheeks. This was a code, something to remind my daughter what the most important thing was about competing. No, it wasn’t to remind her to have fun or play hard. It was to remind her that the goal was to make the girls on the other team cry.
Well, one of my daughter’s new teammates saw me doing this, and asked Charlee, “What’s your dad doing?”
Charlee explained our little ritual, and instead of saying, “That’s weird” or “Your dad is a maniac,” this little girl looked at me with 100-mile-an-hour intensity and returned the gesture. I thought, I need to know who raised this little girl because they are my people.
And we did meet them. And they are our people. And chances are, if you were a fan of The Oprah Winfrey Show, you know who they are. They made news for the most tragic and most mysteriously beautiful reasons you can imagine. Here’s a quick summary if you’re unfamiliar:
A semi plowed into their minivan. In the minivan were the mom, her mom, and their three babies.
Only the moms survived.
The dad had to go to three separate hospitals to learn that all of their babies had been lost in the accident.
Amidst their grief—and in an unimaginable showing of faith, courage, and love—they got pregnant again.
Triplets.
Two girls and a boy. Same genders as the babies before them.
We met them, learned this, and I’ve since been knocked over by their joy—again and again and again…The dad has become the kind of friend I can have a real conversation with, about anything—politics, religion, mental health, all the topics most people avoid—and in a quick about-face, we’ll pivot to dick jokes and laugh ourselves silly. I’m hardly a sage, but I don’t know what else you could want from a friendship.
Except maybe this:
I want him to be okay. And I want his family to be okay.
Seems simple enough—but right now, they are not okay. The mom has just been diagnosed with an aggressive bout of breast cancer and brain cancer. Reread that. Read it a third time. Really feel it.
For most people, two simultaneous cancer diagnoses would be the worst thing that could ever happen to them. Not this family. This family has already had much, much worse. Even Job from The Book of Job looks at this family and is like, “Shit, that blows.”
I know this is All Kinds of Funny, and this week’s post doesn’t really bring the house down. But hear me out: “fun” is the root of “funny,” and it’s fun to do things that feel good. This family needs financial support to pay medical bills. If you can chip in anything, do it and feel good.
If you need me to tug harder on your heartstrings, know that I asked permission to share this from Chris, the dad. This was his reply:
First, know that Chris is going to read this, and when he gets to the phrase “If you need me to tug harder,” he’s definitely going to snort. He’s a crazy smart guy, but he knows the setup to a good dick joke when he hears one.
Second, if you read All Kinds of Funny, you can be confident that Chris Coble is also your people, and if you don’t support your people, then really, what kind of a person are you? Probably an emotional tumbleweed, I’d guess. The moral equivalent of a scrotum full of dry rocks. A moist towelette, twice used by someone with a dozen OnlyFans subscriptions.
Don’t be that person. Be fun. Feel good. Give a little. Click this link or click the image below, and give what you can. They’ve had an Old Testament run already, they’re wonderful people—the very best of all of us—and anything you give will be an investment in the most profound love you can imagine.
What an amazing woman was Lori. An inspiration. May her memory be a blessing.
I read of Lori’s passing and thought of you and your family. How lucky you were to know them and have spent time with Lori. To be able to share her story and connect your readers to know her and her beautiful family. Sorry for the loss of one of your tribe. I am confident Chris and the kids will be ok because of friends like you. The ones that are real, know life is hard, and throw a good dick joke at it to make it hurt a little less. Sending all the good vibes in a time that feels so very heavy for so many reasons right now.