I went to sleep late on Monday night. I lay awake in bed at 1:45 a.m. with the reading light on overhead. I still think of it as Ted's reading light... on his side of the bed. As I readied myself for sleep, I noticed the light was acting up. It was dimming lighter and darker, lighter and darker. When I would stop and look, the light seemed to stop. And when I looked away, it would dim again. Freaked out, I called Kevin to come look at it. While we both thought it was strange, we passed it off as a electrical glitch and turned off the light. I went to sleep.
Late in the Summer of 2014, I was making coffee in the kitchen when I got a call from my mother. I sensed heaviness in her voice immediately, or maybe she had sent me a cryptic text so I expected bad news before even answering the phone, I can't remember the details but I knew it was bad. She informed me that our dear friend, essentially family, Jennifer Rockwood had been terminally diagnosed with cancer with maybe just months to live. This news was sudden and shocking. I had been blessed with living a mostly grief-free life up until that year. First my grandmother in the Spring of 2014, and now this news. I was devastated.
Jennifer was without a doubt the most "alive" woman I knew. How could she be dying? I cried. Ted held me. And then, just a couple months later, Ted died. I went home to Toledo for the holidays, cloaked in grief and confusion. And Jennifer held me.
Jennifer and her husband John have been two of my parents closest friends since sometime in the 1970s. My mom, Jenny, and Rayna were all pregnant at the same time, two or three times in a row. Decades of family potlucks, vacations, swim meets, school plays, and summer camps ensued. Between the three families, there were 7 boys... and me. Long before Jennys' sons Ian and Julian married beautiful women and Jenny finally had daughter-in-laws, she claimed that I was her 'adoptive' daughter. I remember her telling me that when I was very young. Jenny was the coolest, so obviously I was beyond honored that she wanted ME as the 'daughter' she'd never had. Ever since then, I felt a kindred spirit with Jenny – like we had a secret. I continued to always admire her unabashed glamour, her robust personality, her dramatic presence, her rockstar edginess, and her automatic role as the life-of-the-party. I sought to be like her as I grew up.
When I went home to Toledo last winter after Teddy passed, much of me resisted going, yet a huge pull towards home was that I needed to see Jenny. On my first night back, despite my own spirals, I met Jenny for dinner. You could hardly tell she was sick, her thinness was the only sign. As usual, she was vivacious and full of spirit (and spirits)! During dinner that night, while watching her throw back vodkas and hearing her belly-laughs echoing through the dark room, I remember feeling an ounce of nostaligic happiness. You see, I didn't feel happiness back then; so when I felt the emotion creep up, it was painfully hard to ignore.
Also that night, Jenny told me me that she did not believe in life after death. She did not believe in energy continuing on. She believed that death was the end of it all. So, she would live big until her end. Jenny's perspective was hard for me. My whole life had just been crumbled and I was rebuilding it on the faith in something bigger. I needed that faith. And, in my opinion, so did she. I bought Jenny a book to change her mind. I don't know if she ever read it. But in truth, as I look back, it was my own fear that felt the need to make her believe. I didn't want to hear her doubting, because what if I doubted?
Despite the difference of opinions, I asked Jenny a huge favor.
I asked that if she was wrong, and that when she passed she learned that indeed there was something after this realm, to let me know. I asked her to find Ted over there, wherever 'there' was, and to send me a sign. She agreed; although I knew it was just to be nice, because she didn't believe.
I woke up Tuesday morning with the news that around 1:45 a.m., the same time that my lights had been flickering, Jenny had passed away. I called my mom. Our conversation was brief because a call came in. My phone acted weird and I missed the call. I set my phone on the counter and before I could turn away the screen started to move. Buttons were pressed as if someone was operating the screen, but nobody was. The search page pulled up and letters were typed in as I stared, "W. A. L..." Then, the imaginary hand scrolled the cursor down, clicked on something and iTunes popped up. I don't use iTunes, and have almost no music synced to it, but somehow a song appeared that I didn't own, "Walking Far From Home" by Iron & Wine started to play. I stood and listened. I felt tears on my cheeks. I felt a knowingness. I felt a shiver of energy. I felt like I was getting a hug.
In the early days, weeks, and months after Ted passed many strange things happened – lights flickering, TVs turning on, electronics acting up, songs playing, animals appearing at opportune moments, weird things showing up in photos... the amount of occurrences was so large that I simply could not overlook them as coincidence or happenstance. Also, I didn't want to. It is often discovered that after a loved one passes on, they hang around for a while. They show their presence in different ways. I remember being scared by the way the energy appeared sometimes, like when I would feel it while lying alone in bed. I remember deciding that Ted didn't really know how to control his new state and that his ways of communicating were awkward or creepy. But I was still thankful that he was communicating.
As time has apparently continued (though my perception of 'time' is a whole other subject in itself) I have become less aware of these energetic happenings. Maybe Ted's place in the realm he is in now is more settled. He no longer has as much of a pull towards tinkering with where I am. Also, perhaps I am less open to noticing his paranormal tickles. I'm hardened. And my sadness has progressed to a constant numbness, versus a frantic hysteria. I now live with sorrow, instead of for sorrow.
Time creeps towards the anniversary of Ted's death, now just a few weeks away. I don't care what calendars and clocks and scientists say, this year was without-a-doubt shorter than all of my thirty other years. On Monday night, when the lights began to dim, and the next morning, when my phone played that song, I again felt that familiar bittersweet nostalgia. I again felt that rush of lively, effervescent, unseen energy. I was reconnected to my own faith in the deeper web between us and the others. Jenny, in her playful exit from this place and her stubborn realization that perhaps she was wrong and there was more, reopened a door that I had turned my back to. She sent me the sign I had asked her for, and she reminded me of the beautiful magic that coincides with devastating loss.
The house feels particularly energized now. It's as though if I touch something, I'm more likely to get a static shock. A year ago, it felt eerie. But now, it feels comforting.
While I am heartbroken by Jenny's passing and particularly for those who now feel consuming loneliness without her, I also find comfort in knowing that the cosmic web just got a whole lot more charged. When a big life leaves here, that energy is consumed by what see as 'empty space' – but what is actually a plenum of the exact opposite.
So now, as I continue my countdown towards the sad anniversary that I am trying so hard not to anticipate, I will be more open to the magic. Jenny has unblocked a channel that allows me to feel closer to Ted. Her death and continuing life has helped cleared of the filter of judgement and doubt that I contend with in my ego-mind and my humanness. I find a sense of solace as she wraps her energetic, mother-like arms around me, her 'daughter,' allowing me to see into the eyes of my soulmate, and my truth.
Walking Far From Home: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fg5403yj4II
In loving memory of Jennifer Rockwood (1951-infinity)
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Bittersweet
A child has become silent as heaven birthed a new angel. Just hours after I wrote about little Bennett's courageous fight for life – he passed on. While his spirit displayed relentless courage, his kidneys lost their power. It's a fresh reminder that in this life our survival is fused with the body. In the end, we do not own our body – it is merely on lease. From the earth our body will rise and back to the earth it will descend. It is the cycle. Yet part of the cycle is continuance: from the soil that our body returns to, life begins again. Whether we fuel the blossom of a flower or tiny particles that once again return to the womb – new life is fertilized by old. And that is just the physical body. I believe that souls traveling without bodies fill the space around us. The air that appears empty to our naked eye, science shows is actually a plenum. It's when I lost touch with you as a physical soul that I was able to see your spirit glitz and shimmer in the space around me – magic, love, and memory filling what I previously thought was a void. In the immediate days and weeks following your death, I often saw strange lights, unearthly movements, and fractal shapes in places where I had always seen solidity. Because I was raw, I was open. With rawness, comes an ability to see things that our trained minds stopped seeing long ago – connection with other layers and realms beyond human comprehension. It was faith flirting with me. "Believe in more," she said. And because I was seeing the unbelievable and because I had no energy not to, I chose to believe.
Every evening before you and I went to sleep, we offered our nightly gratitudes as we closed the blinds overlooking the city-lights of Boulder and the acres of majestic mountains over which we reigned. The first night I was back in our bed after you died, Kevin came into the room and sat with me as I continued that ritual of thanks, even in a moment when thankfulness seemed impossible. There have been days (and weeks) when I simply don't open the blinds so that I can avoid my gratitude prayer, but mostly – I still keep this ritual. Yesterday morning, my first day back in my bed after ten days in Oklahoma, I opened the blinds. The beauty that unfolded as the blinds lifted took my breath away. I had to remind myself it was not a postcard, it was as real as is humanly possible.
Last night, after I'd received the news of Bennett's death, I sat on the phone with Kevin for a long time. He shared the experience of his day with me. His voice was heartbroken and his sobs were real, but he knew that Bennett's death was both bitter and sweet. This sweet child spent two-and-a-half of his three-years fighting a battle with a terminal condition. He had fought his battle and won it with graceful surrender. Kevin shared the story of what, through his words and my lens, was a truly peaceful passing. A crossing over where the whole family was there, where there was time for good-byes, and during which Kevin played guitar and sang Bennett's favorite song as he took his last struggled breaths in his body and his first in freedom. Earlier in the evening, when I knew the respirator had been removed and Bennett's last moments were near, I imagined you – an angel – kneeling, beaming smile, and arms wide open... ready to catch Bennett in a huge, loving hug. At the end of our phone conversation, as I closed the blinds in my bedroom, we said what we were grateful for. "A peaceful passing," Kevin said. "Yes. And I'm grateful Teddy has a new friend up there now," I said, guiltily noticing envy's pinprick.
Death is not peaceful to living. What we don't understand, we choose to reject. In some ways, I've come to accept death. With the passing of this poor child, I see that death can be a untroubled destination. Death can be a gentle surrender. It can catch those who struggle with peaceful and loving wings. With you, death plucked you suddenly and unfairly – you were not ready for it. None of us were ready. But sometimes, death can be more gracious. Death can offer relief. That doesn't mean the loss is any less painful, horrifying, or confusing. I don't undermine the suffering, trauma, or grief that will ensue. I don't compare. I simply offer a death an apology for my hatred of him, a loosening up of the reigns. I see that he can be both bitter and sweet.
My deepest condolences go out to Bennett's parents and family. I admire his mother Aimee's dedication and undying love for her son. A mother that could love so deeply that she held her child as he died naturally, instead of coerce him to live a little bit longer, in unconscious torture. Her selfless acceptance of his fate warmed my empty womb. I'm thankful for the heartfelt conversations we shared over the past couple weeks as we sat by Bennett's bedside. We talked about grief and suffering through the lenses of both the struggling and the departed. We talked about how strength doesn't apply during tragedy, it's surrendering to instinct. Healing wishes and tremendously big hugs go to my dear friend, Kevin. I will be here as his ally and his support as he boards a train of grief while he is still congruently riding on another. My prayers of peace travel to little Bennett as he relinquishes the grip on his spent body, takes his place as an angel, and lets his spirit twinkle in the air we breathe.
Every evening before you and I went to sleep, we offered our nightly gratitudes as we closed the blinds overlooking the city-lights of Boulder and the acres of majestic mountains over which we reigned. The first night I was back in our bed after you died, Kevin came into the room and sat with me as I continued that ritual of thanks, even in a moment when thankfulness seemed impossible. There have been days (and weeks) when I simply don't open the blinds so that I can avoid my gratitude prayer, but mostly – I still keep this ritual. Yesterday morning, my first day back in my bed after ten days in Oklahoma, I opened the blinds. The beauty that unfolded as the blinds lifted took my breath away. I had to remind myself it was not a postcard, it was as real as is humanly possible.
Last night, after I'd received the news of Bennett's death, I sat on the phone with Kevin for a long time. He shared the experience of his day with me. His voice was heartbroken and his sobs were real, but he knew that Bennett's death was both bitter and sweet. This sweet child spent two-and-a-half of his three-years fighting a battle with a terminal condition. He had fought his battle and won it with graceful surrender. Kevin shared the story of what, through his words and my lens, was a truly peaceful passing. A crossing over where the whole family was there, where there was time for good-byes, and during which Kevin played guitar and sang Bennett's favorite song as he took his last struggled breaths in his body and his first in freedom. Earlier in the evening, when I knew the respirator had been removed and Bennett's last moments were near, I imagined you – an angel – kneeling, beaming smile, and arms wide open... ready to catch Bennett in a huge, loving hug. At the end of our phone conversation, as I closed the blinds in my bedroom, we said what we were grateful for. "A peaceful passing," Kevin said. "Yes. And I'm grateful Teddy has a new friend up there now," I said, guiltily noticing envy's pinprick.
Death is not peaceful to living. What we don't understand, we choose to reject. In some ways, I've come to accept death. With the passing of this poor child, I see that death can be a untroubled destination. Death can be a gentle surrender. It can catch those who struggle with peaceful and loving wings. With you, death plucked you suddenly and unfairly – you were not ready for it. None of us were ready. But sometimes, death can be more gracious. Death can offer relief. That doesn't mean the loss is any less painful, horrifying, or confusing. I don't undermine the suffering, trauma, or grief that will ensue. I don't compare. I simply offer a death an apology for my hatred of him, a loosening up of the reigns. I see that he can be both bitter and sweet.
My deepest condolences go out to Bennett's parents and family. I admire his mother Aimee's dedication and undying love for her son. A mother that could love so deeply that she held her child as he died naturally, instead of coerce him to live a little bit longer, in unconscious torture. Her selfless acceptance of his fate warmed my empty womb. I'm thankful for the heartfelt conversations we shared over the past couple weeks as we sat by Bennett's bedside. We talked about grief and suffering through the lenses of both the struggling and the departed. We talked about how strength doesn't apply during tragedy, it's surrendering to instinct. Healing wishes and tremendously big hugs go to my dear friend, Kevin. I will be here as his ally and his support as he boards a train of grief while he is still congruently riding on another. My prayers of peace travel to little Bennett as he relinquishes the grip on his spent body, takes his place as an angel, and lets his spirit twinkle in the air we breathe.
Living, not dying
After a particularly dark April, in early May I gave myself a tiny bit of permission to feel better. I was over the guilt, self-harm, hangovers, anxiety, and tunnel-vision of dark clouds. It is easier said than done, this permission to heal – especially when gloominess had become my warm blanket, darkness had allowed me to not look at myself, and self-harm had given me the ability to hide my anger in sloppy camouflage.
In order to make this shift, I had to make a commitment to the hardest person for me to commit to – myself.
I knew that this work would have a benefit outside of simply my own well-being (when you’re in pain, sometimes your own well-being just isn’t enough). When I feel clear and in-touch with my truth, I also feel closer to you – your memory and your spirit. I have less isolation and more connection. I have less doubt and more faith. When I believe in me, I believe in you. We were like that in life, and in death, that remains.
So I did the things that make me feel healthy. I went to yoga every day; sometimes two or three times a day. I did a cleanse. I stopped drinking alcohol and started drinking vegetables. I abstained from settling into my well-marked dent on the couch and avoided media overkill. I woke up and went to sleep at decent times. I allowed the sun to shine on my body. I looked into the eyes of animals and happy people and let them in rather than hating their joy. I carefully avoided situations and relationships that would plummet me into the wrong direction. I gave myself a mantra, “Let your light shine.” I repeated it all the time.
These practices may sound simple: health, exercise, nature, surroundings, affirmations, rainbows, unicorns, blah, blah, blah... But when one is coming from intense grief, it’s not easy to do the right thing.
The day I chose to get better, I told my roommate Kevin about my decision.
Kevin, the one person who was there that night. The one who has seen me in the darkest ruts of this grief. The one who has held me day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month while I scream and wail. The one who has taken emotional beatings from my misdirected anger and confusion (and still claims to like me). The one who shares the same space as me. He is a constant reminder that I am not the only one missing you. He walks the same halls of ghostly memories. Like me, he still can’t move your shoes from beside the door or box up a single one of your items. He too turns the doorknobs that weren’t supposed to open to the emptiness that is now cast on the other side. He too suffers unexpected triggers, tears, and panic attacks from what we witnessed that night. Kevin, bound together by trauma, walls, and deep love for someone who's no longer there. He's often the only person I can stand to be around and the only one I'm willing to let see me in this state.
When I told Kevin about how I was going to allow myself to heal, I could see the relief on his face. But because he’s smart and forgiving, he looked at me and said, “I am so proud of you. And know that if you sidestep or slip backwards, it is OK. It's a process.” His words were like a dare to the perfectionist within me. Don’t screw up. Prove that you can heal. So I tried my damnedest.
I had a trip to Hawaii planned at the end of May. Throughout my ‘healing process’ I set my eyes on the approaching trip as a pending deadline. I wanted to be in the best possible head-space when I got there. I had several days planned to spend with family in Honolulu – which I knew would be both lovely and exhausting. After, I had several days planned to travel on Kauai – alone – which was absolutely, fucking, horrifying.
I arrived to Honolulu feeling strong. I felt connected to myself, to nature, to family. I saw my big brother, who I admire more than I have ever expressed – and who reminds me more of you than anyone else I know. I spent time with my nieces, who I unfortunately never truly have taken the initiative to build deep relationships with. I took hours each day to spend alone, preparing myself for the upcoming solo travel. I went to yoga everyday and opened myself up to new teachers, albeit the short stay. I lived in each moment, truly. I ate enough raw Ahi for the both of us. I watched as my niece graduated from high school. I allowed nostalgia to creep into my veins. I allowed bittersweet tears to flow as my mind drifted to the festivities that we would never get to celebrate, and the family we will no longer create together. I let the anxiety attacks wash over me and drag me as though I was a surfer caught in the undertow. But I knew that I would rise up and take another breath. I told people (and myself) what I needed. Moreover, I was actually able to see and define what I needed. I was proud of myself.
The moment I arrived in Kauai, I knew I’d made the right choice in going there. I had feared the trip. Why would I choose to visit one of the most romantic honeymoon destinations in the world on my own, buried in grief? I hate being alone – especially when I hate myself. But, by the time I got there, I didn’t hate myself. I loved myself.
On my drive from the airport to my hotel in my rental car, multiple serendipitous things happened. A song I was thinking about played. A funny metaphor I was daydreaming about spelled itself out in front of me. Time felt like it stood still. I drove too many miles in too short of time, without speeding. As I drove, I admired the lushness of the island around me. The islands of Hawaii are young in comparison to so much of our Earth. Luscious verdure blossomed from black volcanic ash. The island is a phoenix. As I studied the beautiful landscape, I could see the plants breathing – inhales and exhales through the murmur of the wind. It was nearly a psychedelic experience. The whole island whispered, ‘Life!’
I woke up with the sun and spent my days basking in her light. I breathed heat into my body and let it warm my bones; they had become brittle through the bleak winter. I swam in the ocean without the fear I had always carried while submersed in her. I surrendered to her power and vastness. As I swam, I asked you to be with me. “Show me a sign that you’re here too,” I hoped. Amidst the waves and current, I relinquished a need to control myself. I watched schools of colorful fish careen in perfect formation, cautious of the food chain and allowing the undertow to guide their path. I swam amidst a group of three sea turtles, each weighing more than I and probably double my age. I yielded and I witnessed. I tried to learn what they had to teach me, “Slow down. Lie low. You have time.” I dove down deep and swam far out. Deeper and farther than any other snorkelers I saw. It was not an attempt to be perilous, but an acceptance that I was a part of something bigger. I gave the ocean a proposal of my curiosity and need for wonder. I let the pressure build in my ears, clearing repeatedly so I could dive further down. I explored dark caves and cold crevices far under the surface. I thought about you as a man. You had sensitive sinuses and chronic ear infections. I knew you wouldn’t be down that far with me if you were still alive and swimming along my side. I felt grateful that you could be there with me in spirit instead.
At one point I realized I’d been in the water for a very long time and was more tired then I'd realized. I made my way towards the shore, but the best route was hidden from my perspective. As it often it. A shallow reef was quite close and waves were breaking upon it. I had to use powerful strokes to swim through a narrow channel and avoid getting slammed onto the coral. I’m a strong swimmer and had already made peace with the ocean, but it was a rush. I arrived on the shore, somewhat beached. I was winded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something large on the sand. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes and blinked a few times. A very still, very large seal had also washed up on the shore, just feet away.
My heart sank. Lifelessness is too familiar for me these days. Unfortunately, my loss has caused me to assume the worst. Tears welled. How could this dazzling experience, so fueled in the reminders of plentiful life, end in me lying on the sand with this giant, perished creature? Moments later, the endangered monk seal lazily flapped his flipper onto his belly and rolled onto his back. He was sunning himself on the sand. He was warming his chilled bones, just like I had been. And he too, had let life take him for a ride.
I chose to believe in all the signs. The wave I shared with the seal, the lesson from the turtles, the shocking bright color of fish set against what seemed to be such a deep and dark canvas, the wispy seaweed, the growing coral… it was all so abundant. Each element, pulsing to the beat of the great ocean’s heartbeat. By slipping into the mystery of what is below I became more connected to what’s above.
I noticed a new-found comfort in solitude while embraced by the island. But it was because I wasn’t really alone. More like, alone, but with training wheels. The island was throbbing with life. From a buzzing mosquito to a couple of chatty tourists on their third mai-tai, it was a constant reminder how how very not alone I was. And yet, when the bugs buzzed and travelers talked, I found myself needing more space away from them, and into me.
I read a book about a twisted love story in the midst of a magical circus. It set the scene for my own spellbinding narrative. I rode on a helicopter to get the birds-eye view of this fantasy island I was having a love-affair with. I visited secret enclaves and deserted beaches. I hiked eight menacing miles to a three-hundred foot waterfall. When I got to it, I stripped down and jumped in the cold pool it poured into. I swam directly under the pounding chutes of water and let the pure island water cleanse my soul. I swam with your ashes cupped in my palm to that spot under the falls and I sprinkled them around me. They sparkled in the water as it baptized me and carried you.
After several days, I boarded my plane back to the mainland. Albeit many shades tanner, I came back a lighter version of myself. I felt radiant. And for the first time in seven months, I felt joyful. My joy didn't arrive as a result of my solitude. It arrived because I felt you were there with me. I knew it. I saw life and it reconnected me to the big picture.
I came home on a Friday. I hugged Kevin tightly when he picked me up from the bus. Despite the joy of my solo adventure, I had missed my best friend. That night, I danced with friends at Red Rocks to two of your favorite funk bands. You were there too. I heard you in the music. I felt you in the raindrops that fell on my skin. They had evaporated from the waterfall in Kauai and traveled east to land on me, a glittering reminder of the cycles.
---
I thought my story would stop there: A recap of my therapeutic journey. An advertisement for the healing values of Hawaii. A happy ending. But it doesn't.
Once you are reminded that you are indeed alive, life takes you for a ride.
---
Early Saturday morning, after the night of dancing at Red Rocks, Kevin opens my bedroom door. He starts speaking in sobs. I register the panic in his tone before my eyes even opened. There had been an emergency with his 3-year old nephew. He was near death. Kevin needed to fly home immediately.
There has been a pattern for Kev and I through this traumatic saga. Often, when I'm up, he's down. When he's feeling strong, I'm falling apart. We know that we can count on the other to be a shoulder to cry on, a set of ears to listen without judgement, and a hand to hold when we need comfort.
As I was off frolicking through palm trees and coral reefs, Kevin had been struggling through a dark place in Boulder. By the time I got home from Hawaii, he was ready to have his ally back. So when the call came in that morning and Kev arrived at my doorway in tears, the first words out of my mouth were, "I'm coming with you." "Thank you," his voice broke with a hint of relief. We've been through death together once and it has nearly killed us. I wasn't about to let him go through it again – much less alone.
And so life grabbed by the shoulders and dropped me off five-hours later in the Oklahoma University Pediatric ICU at the bed of a child – intubated and in a coma.
I hadn't been to a hospital since the night you died. The sound of an ambulance or the flash of a siren can throw me into panic. And yet here I was.
Kevin's nephew, Bennett, struggles from a rare mitochondrial disease called Pearson's Syndrome. Among other things, it makes his kidneys and immune system struggle severely, leaving him extremely susceptible to infection and illness. Over the last year, little Bennett has had his left foot amputated after a small scratch grew to massive infection on his big toe, chemo and a bone marrow transplant after a leukemia diagnosis, and more. The week before, while I was still in Hawaii, Bennett had been admitted to the PICU after a cold had turned to pneumonia. That Friday night, as Kevin and I had been dancing with our friends in Denver, Bennett had thrown up and aspirated (inhaled) it into his weakened lungs. He was hanging on by a thread. Kevin's family had simply hoped he would make it in time to say goodbye. We did, and so far have had no need for goodbyes.
Over the next ten days, Bennett made improvements like a game of chess – for every step forward, it seemed like a step back. But, while he remains intubated and heavily sedated, it seems the child will make it. Even though during my time with him I only got to know him through his vital signs, his PICC lines, and his medications, I can see that he is a fighter.
Much to my surprise, being at the hospital, at the whim of others and as a stronghold for those who needed one continued to help me in my own healing. I felt necessary and helpful – which is comforting to me. And also, I continued to see life. With every heartbeat on the screen and every squeeze of his blood pressure, I watched Bennett pull towards living versus dying. I watched family, community, and faith join hands in support and prayer for LIFE. I spent time with Bennett's six-year old sister, full of sass and questions. She whizzed through the ICU like it was her playground. She had a sick brother for a long time; this is what she knows. This is the norm. And yet, amidst the life-support machines, the blur of nurses changing shifts, the schedules of doctors making rounds, the adjustments of medicines – blood pressure this, heart rate that, glucose up, calcium down, oxygen here, sedative there, IV in, fluids out – amidst it all, I saw the strength of life. Life sustained.
---
We all have our shit. My struggle is mine, and mine alone. Each person has their own version. They are all hard. They are all incomparable. There is no measurement system for how we can define challenge. We never know where life will take us and how it will prove its points. I experienced it in the sacred paradise of Hawaii and also in an Oklahoma ICU, life can teach the same lesson both in heaven and hell. We are impermanent – but we are given the opportunity to fight. Yet too much fight will confront us with where we can fall short. So then, we must open to the wings of grace. We can never guess where we will end up – and sometimes an unexpected path will turn out to be exactly where we need to be. Connect – to people, to the self, to belief. Connection is the foundation of mankind. Don't underestimate the complexity of life's weaves, its entanglements, its relationships, its journeys, its battles, its beginnings, its endings, and its sustainability.
---
After a week in Oklahoma, my flame began to flicker as I burnt my candle from both ends. I wore myself out of being supportive and strong. I tricked myself into thinking I could spent days on end in a hospital, suppressing my own grief, and not reliving my own trauma. I heard a woman sob a terminal diagnosis to a family member as I used the bathroom stall next to her. I stood in the stall quivering, wearing her sadness as my own. Wanting to be a comfort to her, when I was out of comfort for myself. At one point, I found myself in the hospital chapel, crying to the book of Genesis as I looked for answers in places that I'd not looked. But like anyone, I can only give so much until I need to turn back to me and refuel. I see life around me – blossoming, growing, sustaining. But the reality of the loss of your life doesn't fade: it remains a constant. Just like the oxygen in the air I breathe, your absence is within everything.
I'm back in Boulder at our home now. It seems like so long since I've been here. I was scared of what it would be like to be back home, as my very concept of what home is has been challenged. And yet, thankfully, our house feels comfortable. It always does. It's filled up with your stale, but loving breaths, trapped.
It's raining. I'm going to stand outside and let the rain spill over me, charging me back up with its immortal cycle of glittery drops.
In order to make this shift, I had to make a commitment to the hardest person for me to commit to – myself.
I knew that this work would have a benefit outside of simply my own well-being (when you’re in pain, sometimes your own well-being just isn’t enough). When I feel clear and in-touch with my truth, I also feel closer to you – your memory and your spirit. I have less isolation and more connection. I have less doubt and more faith. When I believe in me, I believe in you. We were like that in life, and in death, that remains.
So I did the things that make me feel healthy. I went to yoga every day; sometimes two or three times a day. I did a cleanse. I stopped drinking alcohol and started drinking vegetables. I abstained from settling into my well-marked dent on the couch and avoided media overkill. I woke up and went to sleep at decent times. I allowed the sun to shine on my body. I looked into the eyes of animals and happy people and let them in rather than hating their joy. I carefully avoided situations and relationships that would plummet me into the wrong direction. I gave myself a mantra, “Let your light shine.” I repeated it all the time.
These practices may sound simple: health, exercise, nature, surroundings, affirmations, rainbows, unicorns, blah, blah, blah... But when one is coming from intense grief, it’s not easy to do the right thing.
The day I chose to get better, I told my roommate Kevin about my decision.
Kevin, the one person who was there that night. The one who has seen me in the darkest ruts of this grief. The one who has held me day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month while I scream and wail. The one who has taken emotional beatings from my misdirected anger and confusion (and still claims to like me). The one who shares the same space as me. He is a constant reminder that I am not the only one missing you. He walks the same halls of ghostly memories. Like me, he still can’t move your shoes from beside the door or box up a single one of your items. He too turns the doorknobs that weren’t supposed to open to the emptiness that is now cast on the other side. He too suffers unexpected triggers, tears, and panic attacks from what we witnessed that night. Kevin, bound together by trauma, walls, and deep love for someone who's no longer there. He's often the only person I can stand to be around and the only one I'm willing to let see me in this state.
When I told Kevin about how I was going to allow myself to heal, I could see the relief on his face. But because he’s smart and forgiving, he looked at me and said, “I am so proud of you. And know that if you sidestep or slip backwards, it is OK. It's a process.” His words were like a dare to the perfectionist within me. Don’t screw up. Prove that you can heal. So I tried my damnedest.
I had a trip to Hawaii planned at the end of May. Throughout my ‘healing process’ I set my eyes on the approaching trip as a pending deadline. I wanted to be in the best possible head-space when I got there. I had several days planned to spend with family in Honolulu – which I knew would be both lovely and exhausting. After, I had several days planned to travel on Kauai – alone – which was absolutely, fucking, horrifying.
I arrived to Honolulu feeling strong. I felt connected to myself, to nature, to family. I saw my big brother, who I admire more than I have ever expressed – and who reminds me more of you than anyone else I know. I spent time with my nieces, who I unfortunately never truly have taken the initiative to build deep relationships with. I took hours each day to spend alone, preparing myself for the upcoming solo travel. I went to yoga everyday and opened myself up to new teachers, albeit the short stay. I lived in each moment, truly. I ate enough raw Ahi for the both of us. I watched as my niece graduated from high school. I allowed nostalgia to creep into my veins. I allowed bittersweet tears to flow as my mind drifted to the festivities that we would never get to celebrate, and the family we will no longer create together. I let the anxiety attacks wash over me and drag me as though I was a surfer caught in the undertow. But I knew that I would rise up and take another breath. I told people (and myself) what I needed. Moreover, I was actually able to see and define what I needed. I was proud of myself.
The moment I arrived in Kauai, I knew I’d made the right choice in going there. I had feared the trip. Why would I choose to visit one of the most romantic honeymoon destinations in the world on my own, buried in grief? I hate being alone – especially when I hate myself. But, by the time I got there, I didn’t hate myself. I loved myself.
On my drive from the airport to my hotel in my rental car, multiple serendipitous things happened. A song I was thinking about played. A funny metaphor I was daydreaming about spelled itself out in front of me. Time felt like it stood still. I drove too many miles in too short of time, without speeding. As I drove, I admired the lushness of the island around me. The islands of Hawaii are young in comparison to so much of our Earth. Luscious verdure blossomed from black volcanic ash. The island is a phoenix. As I studied the beautiful landscape, I could see the plants breathing – inhales and exhales through the murmur of the wind. It was nearly a psychedelic experience. The whole island whispered, ‘Life!’
I woke up with the sun and spent my days basking in her light. I breathed heat into my body and let it warm my bones; they had become brittle through the bleak winter. I swam in the ocean without the fear I had always carried while submersed in her. I surrendered to her power and vastness. As I swam, I asked you to be with me. “Show me a sign that you’re here too,” I hoped. Amidst the waves and current, I relinquished a need to control myself. I watched schools of colorful fish careen in perfect formation, cautious of the food chain and allowing the undertow to guide their path. I swam amidst a group of three sea turtles, each weighing more than I and probably double my age. I yielded and I witnessed. I tried to learn what they had to teach me, “Slow down. Lie low. You have time.” I dove down deep and swam far out. Deeper and farther than any other snorkelers I saw. It was not an attempt to be perilous, but an acceptance that I was a part of something bigger. I gave the ocean a proposal of my curiosity and need for wonder. I let the pressure build in my ears, clearing repeatedly so I could dive further down. I explored dark caves and cold crevices far under the surface. I thought about you as a man. You had sensitive sinuses and chronic ear infections. I knew you wouldn’t be down that far with me if you were still alive and swimming along my side. I felt grateful that you could be there with me in spirit instead.
At one point I realized I’d been in the water for a very long time and was more tired then I'd realized. I made my way towards the shore, but the best route was hidden from my perspective. As it often it. A shallow reef was quite close and waves were breaking upon it. I had to use powerful strokes to swim through a narrow channel and avoid getting slammed onto the coral. I’m a strong swimmer and had already made peace with the ocean, but it was a rush. I arrived on the shore, somewhat beached. I was winded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something large on the sand. I rubbed the salt out of my eyes and blinked a few times. A very still, very large seal had also washed up on the shore, just feet away.
My heart sank. Lifelessness is too familiar for me these days. Unfortunately, my loss has caused me to assume the worst. Tears welled. How could this dazzling experience, so fueled in the reminders of plentiful life, end in me lying on the sand with this giant, perished creature? Moments later, the endangered monk seal lazily flapped his flipper onto his belly and rolled onto his back. He was sunning himself on the sand. He was warming his chilled bones, just like I had been. And he too, had let life take him for a ride.
I chose to believe in all the signs. The wave I shared with the seal, the lesson from the turtles, the shocking bright color of fish set against what seemed to be such a deep and dark canvas, the wispy seaweed, the growing coral… it was all so abundant. Each element, pulsing to the beat of the great ocean’s heartbeat. By slipping into the mystery of what is below I became more connected to what’s above.
I noticed a new-found comfort in solitude while embraced by the island. But it was because I wasn’t really alone. More like, alone, but with training wheels. The island was throbbing with life. From a buzzing mosquito to a couple of chatty tourists on their third mai-tai, it was a constant reminder how how very not alone I was. And yet, when the bugs buzzed and travelers talked, I found myself needing more space away from them, and into me.
I read a book about a twisted love story in the midst of a magical circus. It set the scene for my own spellbinding narrative. I rode on a helicopter to get the birds-eye view of this fantasy island I was having a love-affair with. I visited secret enclaves and deserted beaches. I hiked eight menacing miles to a three-hundred foot waterfall. When I got to it, I stripped down and jumped in the cold pool it poured into. I swam directly under the pounding chutes of water and let the pure island water cleanse my soul. I swam with your ashes cupped in my palm to that spot under the falls and I sprinkled them around me. They sparkled in the water as it baptized me and carried you.
After several days, I boarded my plane back to the mainland. Albeit many shades tanner, I came back a lighter version of myself. I felt radiant. And for the first time in seven months, I felt joyful. My joy didn't arrive as a result of my solitude. It arrived because I felt you were there with me. I knew it. I saw life and it reconnected me to the big picture.
I came home on a Friday. I hugged Kevin tightly when he picked me up from the bus. Despite the joy of my solo adventure, I had missed my best friend. That night, I danced with friends at Red Rocks to two of your favorite funk bands. You were there too. I heard you in the music. I felt you in the raindrops that fell on my skin. They had evaporated from the waterfall in Kauai and traveled east to land on me, a glittering reminder of the cycles.
---
I thought my story would stop there: A recap of my therapeutic journey. An advertisement for the healing values of Hawaii. A happy ending. But it doesn't.
Once you are reminded that you are indeed alive, life takes you for a ride.
---
Early Saturday morning, after the night of dancing at Red Rocks, Kevin opens my bedroom door. He starts speaking in sobs. I register the panic in his tone before my eyes even opened. There had been an emergency with his 3-year old nephew. He was near death. Kevin needed to fly home immediately.
There has been a pattern for Kev and I through this traumatic saga. Often, when I'm up, he's down. When he's feeling strong, I'm falling apart. We know that we can count on the other to be a shoulder to cry on, a set of ears to listen without judgement, and a hand to hold when we need comfort.
As I was off frolicking through palm trees and coral reefs, Kevin had been struggling through a dark place in Boulder. By the time I got home from Hawaii, he was ready to have his ally back. So when the call came in that morning and Kev arrived at my doorway in tears, the first words out of my mouth were, "I'm coming with you." "Thank you," his voice broke with a hint of relief. We've been through death together once and it has nearly killed us. I wasn't about to let him go through it again – much less alone.
And so life grabbed by the shoulders and dropped me off five-hours later in the Oklahoma University Pediatric ICU at the bed of a child – intubated and in a coma.
I hadn't been to a hospital since the night you died. The sound of an ambulance or the flash of a siren can throw me into panic. And yet here I was.
Kevin's nephew, Bennett, struggles from a rare mitochondrial disease called Pearson's Syndrome. Among other things, it makes his kidneys and immune system struggle severely, leaving him extremely susceptible to infection and illness. Over the last year, little Bennett has had his left foot amputated after a small scratch grew to massive infection on his big toe, chemo and a bone marrow transplant after a leukemia diagnosis, and more. The week before, while I was still in Hawaii, Bennett had been admitted to the PICU after a cold had turned to pneumonia. That Friday night, as Kevin and I had been dancing with our friends in Denver, Bennett had thrown up and aspirated (inhaled) it into his weakened lungs. He was hanging on by a thread. Kevin's family had simply hoped he would make it in time to say goodbye. We did, and so far have had no need for goodbyes.
Over the next ten days, Bennett made improvements like a game of chess – for every step forward, it seemed like a step back. But, while he remains intubated and heavily sedated, it seems the child will make it. Even though during my time with him I only got to know him through his vital signs, his PICC lines, and his medications, I can see that he is a fighter.
Much to my surprise, being at the hospital, at the whim of others and as a stronghold for those who needed one continued to help me in my own healing. I felt necessary and helpful – which is comforting to me. And also, I continued to see life. With every heartbeat on the screen and every squeeze of his blood pressure, I watched Bennett pull towards living versus dying. I watched family, community, and faith join hands in support and prayer for LIFE. I spent time with Bennett's six-year old sister, full of sass and questions. She whizzed through the ICU like it was her playground. She had a sick brother for a long time; this is what she knows. This is the norm. And yet, amidst the life-support machines, the blur of nurses changing shifts, the schedules of doctors making rounds, the adjustments of medicines – blood pressure this, heart rate that, glucose up, calcium down, oxygen here, sedative there, IV in, fluids out – amidst it all, I saw the strength of life. Life sustained.
---
We all have our shit. My struggle is mine, and mine alone. Each person has their own version. They are all hard. They are all incomparable. There is no measurement system for how we can define challenge. We never know where life will take us and how it will prove its points. I experienced it in the sacred paradise of Hawaii and also in an Oklahoma ICU, life can teach the same lesson both in heaven and hell. We are impermanent – but we are given the opportunity to fight. Yet too much fight will confront us with where we can fall short. So then, we must open to the wings of grace. We can never guess where we will end up – and sometimes an unexpected path will turn out to be exactly where we need to be. Connect – to people, to the self, to belief. Connection is the foundation of mankind. Don't underestimate the complexity of life's weaves, its entanglements, its relationships, its journeys, its battles, its beginnings, its endings, and its sustainability.
---
After a week in Oklahoma, my flame began to flicker as I burnt my candle from both ends. I wore myself out of being supportive and strong. I tricked myself into thinking I could spent days on end in a hospital, suppressing my own grief, and not reliving my own trauma. I heard a woman sob a terminal diagnosis to a family member as I used the bathroom stall next to her. I stood in the stall quivering, wearing her sadness as my own. Wanting to be a comfort to her, when I was out of comfort for myself. At one point, I found myself in the hospital chapel, crying to the book of Genesis as I looked for answers in places that I'd not looked. But like anyone, I can only give so much until I need to turn back to me and refuel. I see life around me – blossoming, growing, sustaining. But the reality of the loss of your life doesn't fade: it remains a constant. Just like the oxygen in the air I breathe, your absence is within everything.
I'm back in Boulder at our home now. It seems like so long since I've been here. I was scared of what it would be like to be back home, as my very concept of what home is has been challenged. And yet, thankfully, our house feels comfortable. It always does. It's filled up with your stale, but loving breaths, trapped.
It's raining. I'm going to stand outside and let the rain spill over me, charging me back up with its immortal cycle of glittery drops.
Going Home
I visited my hometown, Toledo, this weekend for a 48 hour whirlwind celebration of my dear Nannie's 90th birthday. Visits home have always seeped in nostalgia for me. I tend to remember the 'old days', when in retrospect, I seemed carefree; problems were scant and life plans were allowed to just be pipe-dreams. I left Toledo (for the second time) after ending a long relationship and being laid off six years ago. The city was in a depression: doors were closing, businesses were shrinking, and citizens' attitudes reflected the decline. Since I've left, I've often referred to Toledo as 'Detroit's runoff' with a sardonic 'I'm so glad I got out of there' attitude. It was cast as a place of 'endings' in my book.
I've been buried in a gloomy hole bleeding death and loss for the past seven months. Seeing light is desperately hard. But the past few days, I was confronted with life and growth from the most unexpected place. Toledo taught me a lesson.
I saw a city that is healing her wounds. Doors of closed businesses downtown are opening up as juice bars and trendy condos. Conscious options are popping up next to the Del Tacos and McDonald's. I visited three yoga studios and was delighted by the powerful teachers, thoughtful sequences, and jam-packed classes. Waistlines are shrinking, consciousness is expanding, and smokers are quitting.
Beyond the city herself blossoming after a long, cold winter – I saw life in her people. While death may mysteriously and unabashedly take too soon... sometimes he is patient. He holds off – allowing many to think sharply, move healthily, and breathe longer. My grandmother was surrounded by more members of our family then ever. So much growth has taken place: a new era of young life has sprung from my generation (the ones I still think of as 'the kids'). Babies are growing, crawling, and discovering. Children are playfully coming into their own. Young boys are becoming men who look like their fathers. I was reminded of long-time friendships that continue to sparkle and swell. I was touched by new connections and possibility. I was grateful for bittersweet conversation, laughter, tears of remembrance, and support.
Toledo's forecast is often grey and cloudy. But this past weekend, her sun shined warm and her sky was blue. She dazzled as a reminder of the 'little engine that could'. When one is thrashed into the pit of suffering, she is often blinded from hope. The cycles of life/death, beginning/endings, and growth/decline are infinite and as old as time. But without darkness there is no way to see light. The light crept in from under the crack of the door of the most unforeseen place. Thank you, Toledo.
I've been buried in a gloomy hole bleeding death and loss for the past seven months. Seeing light is desperately hard. But the past few days, I was confronted with life and growth from the most unexpected place. Toledo taught me a lesson.
I saw a city that is healing her wounds. Doors of closed businesses downtown are opening up as juice bars and trendy condos. Conscious options are popping up next to the Del Tacos and McDonald's. I visited three yoga studios and was delighted by the powerful teachers, thoughtful sequences, and jam-packed classes. Waistlines are shrinking, consciousness is expanding, and smokers are quitting.
Beyond the city herself blossoming after a long, cold winter – I saw life in her people. While death may mysteriously and unabashedly take too soon... sometimes he is patient. He holds off – allowing many to think sharply, move healthily, and breathe longer. My grandmother was surrounded by more members of our family then ever. So much growth has taken place: a new era of young life has sprung from my generation (the ones I still think of as 'the kids'). Babies are growing, crawling, and discovering. Children are playfully coming into their own. Young boys are becoming men who look like their fathers. I was reminded of long-time friendships that continue to sparkle and swell. I was touched by new connections and possibility. I was grateful for bittersweet conversation, laughter, tears of remembrance, and support.
Toledo's forecast is often grey and cloudy. But this past weekend, her sun shined warm and her sky was blue. She dazzled as a reminder of the 'little engine that could'. When one is thrashed into the pit of suffering, she is often blinded from hope. The cycles of life/death, beginning/endings, and growth/decline are infinite and as old as time. But without darkness there is no way to see light. The light crept in from under the crack of the door of the most unforeseen place. Thank you, Toledo.
Moonlight and Momentum
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. As I saw the moonshine cast upon the fresh snow making my path home sparkle, my heart felt heavy. My heart is always heavy these days. But as I noticed the moon, it became even weightier. I wondered if I would ever look at the moon with joy again. Now, when I see the moon I am taken back to that night. The night I drove to the hospital in the back of my Audi, with a policeman driving. I stared at the moon. We were following your ambulance. I hadn't cried yet at that point. Adrenaline was surging. When I'd seen you wheeled out of our front door, on a stretcher, they'd said you had a faint pulse. There was hope. I stared at the moon. My mind raced. I thought of so many things and somehow also nothing at all. I clutched something. I don't remember what it was. My purse? My phone? Your wallet? Kevin's hand? A stone? I don't know. But I know I was looking at the moon. I know I was praying to the moon.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
A Walk
Today I took a walk. It was the same walk that I took about six months ago. I retraced my steps – something I've been avoiding doing often. I saw the same rocks. I saw the same creek. I saw the same path. I saw the same mountains. And yet everything was so different. The grass is now dormant. The ruddy trail has a different landscape. There are no prairie dogs. There are different stacks of cairns along the way. Everything is the same and yet so different.
As Kira and I walked the path six months back, I had noted the damage from the floods. This time as we walked the path, I again noticed the damage from the floods – but I also noticed the damage from my own flood. I walked along the creek and I came to the place where six months ago I saw the tracks of a mountain lion. I texted you about it right then, because it was just a day or two after you'd seen three mountain lions trotting across the road just meters away. Through our texts, we questioned if it was one of the same lions. Now a run in with a mountain lion seems very minor. Death trumps animal encounter.
I remember how complete I felt that day on that walk. Taking some time for myself, getting some exercise, making Kira happy, giving you some alone time. Now it's all alone time. Or is it? No matter how many bodies I surround myself with – I always feel alone. But when I'm alone, I can more connected. Why does that connection frighten me?
I have not gotten outside very much lately. I have stayed on the couch, under a blanket, in bed, hiding in the arms of a loved one, inebriated by music or drink or circumstance, behind the guise of social media or a screen – I have been numbing the pain. And that's okay. It's okay because I recognize what it is that I'm doing. The path that I'm choosing. I'm understanding that I have a need to hurt in a different way, disguise the pain, mistake it as something else. But I still feel it always. Even when I dam up the path, the grief breaks through powerfully and floods my spirit with sorrow. So when I stepped outdoors today and into solitude – as I walked on that path, traveling through time to that place six months ago and then back again – I felt the weight of my grief. I sat with the reality of my grief. Grief comes in many forms: It feels. It stings. It burns. It loiters. It numbs. If you experienced the symptoms of grief without being aware of your issue, you would certainly call your doctor to find out what's wrong.
As I walked, I realized I felt angry at the beauty of nature. I wondered if the dead grass along the way would feel the same way, if it could feel. I felt angry at the sun for warming my skin – for allowing me to be in a t-shirt in 70° weather in February. Something that would usually make me so happy, except today it made me sad. I felt angry at the brook for allowing water to run so peacefully from here to there. Here to where? I listen to the sound of it gently babbling over rocks around sticks and warming under the heat of the warm sun. I felt angry at Kira for each excited step, moving swiftly like a champion. I felt envious of what I can only imagine is her ability to forget, even just for a bit.
A couple years ago my friend Leah told me that when things got hard she often reminded herself to 'look up'. So as I walked along the path today, instead of looking down at my next rocky step, I looked up. I saw the splendor of the mountains, the grace of the horizon, the rays of the sun, the swing of the trees. I saw life. And when I saw life around me, it infused the life within me. I was forced to sip it in with each breath. My insides warmed just a bit. But maybe a bit is all I can handle.
There are so many ways to numb pain. Hiding under a blanket. Oversleeping. Overworking. Staying too busy. A screen. A drink. A pill. A puff. A line. A dip. And yet what do those quick fixes do except create a bottleneck in the brook which needs to flow? Create a bottleneck in the tears that need to fall? My teacher Baron says, "In order to heal, you must feel". Getting on that path today showed me a bit of light. It took me away from the buzz of distraction and numbing agents, and back into the space of remembering. Remembering my grief in its heaviness. Remembering the non-linear nature of this beast. Remembering the memories of the last time I walked there, when it seemed much smoother. It reminded me that I can be with the stillness – that the stillness breaks up the clutter in my mind. It gives me space for thoughts, memories, breath, and grief: the loiterer that it is. Sometimes life in the shadows is ok, but we need to step into the sun to feel the warmth.
As Kira and I walked the path six months back, I had noted the damage from the floods. This time as we walked the path, I again noticed the damage from the floods – but I also noticed the damage from my own flood. I walked along the creek and I came to the place where six months ago I saw the tracks of a mountain lion. I texted you about it right then, because it was just a day or two after you'd seen three mountain lions trotting across the road just meters away. Through our texts, we questioned if it was one of the same lions. Now a run in with a mountain lion seems very minor. Death trumps animal encounter.
I remember how complete I felt that day on that walk. Taking some time for myself, getting some exercise, making Kira happy, giving you some alone time. Now it's all alone time. Or is it? No matter how many bodies I surround myself with – I always feel alone. But when I'm alone, I can more connected. Why does that connection frighten me?
I have not gotten outside very much lately. I have stayed on the couch, under a blanket, in bed, hiding in the arms of a loved one, inebriated by music or drink or circumstance, behind the guise of social media or a screen – I have been numbing the pain. And that's okay. It's okay because I recognize what it is that I'm doing. The path that I'm choosing. I'm understanding that I have a need to hurt in a different way, disguise the pain, mistake it as something else. But I still feel it always. Even when I dam up the path, the grief breaks through powerfully and floods my spirit with sorrow. So when I stepped outdoors today and into solitude – as I walked on that path, traveling through time to that place six months ago and then back again – I felt the weight of my grief. I sat with the reality of my grief. Grief comes in many forms: It feels. It stings. It burns. It loiters. It numbs. If you experienced the symptoms of grief without being aware of your issue, you would certainly call your doctor to find out what's wrong.
As I walked, I realized I felt angry at the beauty of nature. I wondered if the dead grass along the way would feel the same way, if it could feel. I felt angry at the sun for warming my skin – for allowing me to be in a t-shirt in 70° weather in February. Something that would usually make me so happy, except today it made me sad. I felt angry at the brook for allowing water to run so peacefully from here to there. Here to where? I listen to the sound of it gently babbling over rocks around sticks and warming under the heat of the warm sun. I felt angry at Kira for each excited step, moving swiftly like a champion. I felt envious of what I can only imagine is her ability to forget, even just for a bit.
A couple years ago my friend Leah told me that when things got hard she often reminded herself to 'look up'. So as I walked along the path today, instead of looking down at my next rocky step, I looked up. I saw the splendor of the mountains, the grace of the horizon, the rays of the sun, the swing of the trees. I saw life. And when I saw life around me, it infused the life within me. I was forced to sip it in with each breath. My insides warmed just a bit. But maybe a bit is all I can handle.
There are so many ways to numb pain. Hiding under a blanket. Oversleeping. Overworking. Staying too busy. A screen. A drink. A pill. A puff. A line. A dip. And yet what do those quick fixes do except create a bottleneck in the brook which needs to flow? Create a bottleneck in the tears that need to fall? My teacher Baron says, "In order to heal, you must feel". Getting on that path today showed me a bit of light. It took me away from the buzz of distraction and numbing agents, and back into the space of remembering. Remembering my grief in its heaviness. Remembering the non-linear nature of this beast. Remembering the memories of the last time I walked there, when it seemed much smoother. It reminded me that I can be with the stillness – that the stillness breaks up the clutter in my mind. It gives me space for thoughts, memories, breath, and grief: the loiterer that it is. Sometimes life in the shadows is ok, but we need to step into the sun to feel the warmth.
Winging it
The biggest commitment one can make in love is to be parted by death. Now, it is up to me alone – the remainder of our pair – to remember. To remember the way you said 'I love you'. To remember the promises we intended to keep for ourselves and one another. To remember how it felt to dance wrapped in each others arms. To remember how peaceful it was to sleep next to you and wake up nestled in your body. To remember the way my heart felt warm when I was with you. To remember how OK everything always was when you were there. To remember the way your hand danced with mine – the way your fingers explored every ridge of my skin. To remember how it felt to lock our eyes – how our pupils dilated as our souls merged. To remember how we came together when we made love. To remember how safe I felt when you held me. Now, as I question everything, it is up to me to remember how it felt to question nothing.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
Anniversary
I didn't know what to expect from this weekend. I am in Chicago for the Pink Party, the fundraiser event that your sister Berkley, and her husband Bob, founded to honor their beloved baby Jane who was born asleep 3 years ago. It is the event we met at. It is our two-year anniversary. A year ago, we attended this event arm-in-arm. I wore a European pink, chiffon, and sequin strapless gown. I'd bought it in Vail one day when you went skiing and I stayed at the house to work. I felt like a prima ballerina at the party that night, our one-year anniversary. You coordinated your outfit with my dress, as you always loved to do. We shopped together to find you a tie and a new shirt. Initially, you planned to wear a black suit – you felt it was appropriate for winter – but I convinced you to go with your grey one – a Hugo Boss we bought together for you in Austin. You looked so handsome in a suit. It was you in a suit that caught my eye two-years ago at this same event. But, I don't get to see you in a suit tomorrow. It is not only our two-year anniversary, but also marks three months since your death. I have my pink dress, but I don't have my love. Your sister has the memory of Jane, she has her newborn son, William, but she doesn't have her brother. Anxiety is creeping up into my chest. My skin feels chilled. My throat is raw. My heart beats loudly, a reminder that it is still working even though it's in severe pain. My eyes are cast low. The sound of my own laughter is a shock to my system; it hits like a static shock when you unknowingly touch a charged doorknob or railing. My dreams are cursed. My thoughts feel claustrophobic in the confines of my skull. I feel lost.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
I walked by a store this morning called Material Possessions. I slowed and gazed at the window displays. I thought about all the things in there that people would purchase just so they could take ownership of something. So they could show off what they have. I used to show you off. I thought I had you. But I learned you cannot possess ones heart, not even your own – it can go at any time. I thought about how, over the past few months, material possessions have suddenly seemed so immaterial. And yet, at the same time, I've also felt a need to hold onto what is mine. This is my shoe. This is my car. This is my phone. You cannot take it! It is MINE. I've felt a sort-of deserving (a nasty word that I try to avoid) towards whatever I can possess. I have been robbed of what's most important to me. I am free-falling through life right now. Whatever I can cling to is giving me some sort of stability, some sort of wall to hold. When the lover is ripped from my bed, the career is pulled from before my eyes, and in some sense, the floor from beneath my feet – what am I supposed to hold on to? I wrap myself in my own arms, but I am still cold. I need your arms. But if I can't have your arms, I at least need a really warm, new, fancy blanket.
It's been painful for me to go back and look at photos of us. Seeing the joy in my eyes, the height of my cheekbones due to a smile so big, and the closeness of our bodies pressed together makes my whole being quake with sadness. I'm jealous of past-Sami. But I'm also scared that if I don't look, I'll forget. I'll forget the way I felt when I was with you – complete peacefulness, exuberant joy, unconditional love. I know the words I felt, but will I remember the feeling? When we were together, we didn't need to be anywhere else but with each other. We were just as happy under the covers alone as we were in a crowd of loved ones. We were always smiling together, even when we were grumpy about life. We were always having fun. There was never a lull in joy.
So, to preserve the memories, I looked at the photos of us from this same event, one year ago. I admired the giddyness in my eyes with an envious despair. I looked at how your fingers gripped into my shoulder in one photo, a proud possessiveness. I looked at how your hands interlaced around my waist in another, pulling me close into your hug. I pressed into you with beaming willingness. I looked at a photo of us kissing. We are smiling so big that our lips are too puckered to kiss properly. My cheekbones smash into my eye sockets because of my grin. We look like two frozen goldfish. My eyes are slivers that can't see – but they don't need to because they feel your touch, your caress. I would happily be blind for the rest of my life if I could just feel you alive, if I could just hear your voice.
As an anniversary gift to us, I plan to listen to the one voice-mail I have from you that I have never checked. You left it for me about a week before you died. It will probably be you asking me to pick up some avocados or you letting me know that you scheduled an appointment to get your tires rotated. But, just maybe, it will be a message I need to hear. Maybe you will tell me you are always around me. Maybe you will tell me that I will be happy again someday. And maybe, hopefully, I will be able to hear you say "I love you" in your voice, one final time, for the first time.
Beacon
I miss hearing you tell me I am beautiful. You would tell me when I groggily woke up to you bashfully watching me. You would tell me when I got out of the shower and you would steal my towel making me chase you, dripping wet. You would tell me when I was in jeans, a t-shirt, glasses, and a dirty ponytail – stressed out in front of my computer. You would tell me on our walk to the car after a hot yoga class, my clothes seeping in sweat. You would tell me after I spent ninety-minutes getting ready for a date with you – in a new dress, fresh lipstick, high heels, and perfume. You would tell me when I would slip into something silk and lacy for you at the end of a long day. You would whisper it again as you stroke my cheek, playfully smack my behind, and then follow it up with a kiss that said it all over again, but without words. You would tell me when I was asleep and could only hear you through the echo of my dreams.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
I didn't know much I wanted to hear the words until I stopped hearing them. You spoiled me. And now I try extra hard to look beautiful so I can say it to my reflection and believe myself. It's not a question of low self-esteem or seeking attention – I had just gotten so used to your compliments, to be stripped of them is a shock to my system. It makes me feel needy. A few nights ago, a friend told me that I looked beautiful. And then she said it again in different words, and then again. It was only on the third iteration that I realized it was because she actually meant it. My skin is so thick that maybe it won't let love in, or maybe it lets it in too easily. Hearing those words made my heart open up a little bit and let some love in and out. It also triggered how much I missed it coming from you, in your voice. It reminded me that while the words were soothing to my mind, my lips ache to be kissed and my skin begs for the weight of your body on top of me.
I miss that I could read your mind through the look in your eyes. Our souls shared the sixth sense. And if I couldn't read you, you would tell me what you were thinking without me needing to ask. And you were always thinking about something just so fantastic. You put everything out on the table. No questions. No holding back. No doubts. No games. You allowed yourself to be entirely vulnerable. You allowed yourself to love completely. You allowed yourself to be fully loved. I let you move into my heart. But now, it's been vacated. The love remains, but you aren't there to bask in it. Before, my love was weightless, but now it's heavy. Where does the love end and the baggage begin?
I miss you making me laugh. Laughter is the language of love. It echos across wide open spaces. It bounces across big-city buildings. It sweeps into canyons and valleys, lifting the fog. It defeats hatred. Laughter makes us kind. Kindness breeds love. And love is the triumph. So now I am attempting to juggle all this love. But, I never learned how to juggle. You knew how, but you never had a chance to teach me. I can't drop this ball; it's far too sacred.
I miss empty space with you: the few moments when we had nothing to do except just be. You knew how to dress up boredom in a glittery costume. Now, boredom and loneliness go hand-in-hand. When space isn't filled up with some distraction, it's a reminder that I am without you by my side. I am alone. Distraction overshadows the voices in my head reminding me that I am not OK. So now, I avoid silence. It's a trigger for how different it all is now, how confused I am, how quickly everything has changed, how it will never be like it was, and how happenstance can override all plans.
I miss your love: your unique strain of love. Love is like DNA. There is no carbon copy. There is no love that is the same as another love. That's one of the most beautiful things about love, but it's also one of the most painful. Love is both limitless and irreplaceable at the same time. But damn. Your love was divine. It's as if we were both made of pure love as individuals, but when we came together it became an offering to the Universe. Our love was a beacon.
Just OK
I feel like I'm riding quickly on a stationary bike. Life and time force forward motion and yet I feel stagnant. I ride a wave back and forth between feeling OK, questioning why I feel OK, judging myself, and then not feeling OK. The human body is a powerful, powerful thing when we treat it right. That has been my course of action lately: treat my body well. Feed her. Exercise her. Quiet her. Keep her busy. Rest her. Give her vitamins. I have tricked my physical body into thinking I'm OK, and honestly, it's helping. But then I remember. It hurts to remember.
I took a Kundalini yoga class this morning with a friend. I set my intention: "Remember". At one point the teacher told the class that a true yogi can fall asleep in an instant. She has the power to quiet her mind into stillness in just moments. I was drifting off when she spoke the words. I realized that the yoga I've been doing over the past two and a half months has been the most self-serving and true that my practice has ever been.
Over the past year, I would often tell you I needed a new inspiration for my yoga practice. Yoga had taken a back seat to love, music, travel, and work. I would rather lay in bed with you than jump out of bed to get my practice in. I'd choose dancing to your band's show over an evening class. And when we would get to the studio, I would often practice without much passion. I focused on sticking a handstand, hitting every pose I saw the Instagram celebrity yogis doing, wanting my ass to look hot in yoga pants, or growing my 'fan-base'. I practiced for my ego with a side serving of peace-of-mind.
I searched for new teachers, new styles, new studios. You and I drove to Denver last summer to try out a new style of yoga. "I think I can get on this bandwagon," I told you after the practice. I was slightly inspired, but honestly, hardly. You preferred the tried and true practice that we did at our local studio. You practiced because it made you centered, strong, and energized. You practiced for the right reasons. I was in a rut and searching for something to call me back to my mat.
I was fully invested in the yoga lifestyle career-wise. I taught multiple times a week to a diligent student body. I worked eight to ten hours a day designing a national yoga and conscious-living magazine. I worked on side projects in the yoga industry: yoga apparel, assisting studios, attending workshops, teaching at festivals. But my heart wasn't really committed. My heart was committed to YOU.
The day you died I taught a class about nurturing those you love. It was one of my favorite classes I'd ever taught. You had been my inspiration. It was at noon. You died just over twelve hours later. I talked about how you had been under the weather lately. You were heartbroken and ill. I spoke about how it had been the first time I'd ever really, truly been able to take care of you. You often resisted letting others help. You liked to care for yourself. You were always so capable. But, those last couple days, I took care of you in a way I had never taken care of anyone. It was beautiful. It was sacred. I cradled you in my arms those days, the way you usually cradled me. You cried on my shoulder the way I had cried on yours. I made you meals and brought them to you in bed. I held your hand because you needed your hand to be held. Nurturing you felt natural. I felt powerful in that role. I felt needed. I felt loved and loving. I am so grateful I was able to step into that role, even if it was only for a short time. I also will never forget that class I taught. I was so happy, so complete, and so purposeful.
As fucked up as it sounds, your death was the kick in the ass I needed to reinvigorate my commitment to my practice. It has become my life-force. It didn't take a new teacher. It didn't take a new style of yoga. It didn't take being able to stand on my hands. It didn't take new followers on social media. It took loosing the thing that was most important to me. It wasn't worth it. But this is what life has offered. When you take out the largest piece of the puzzle, the other pieces have a new space to fill. My yoga practice – asana, meditation, self-inquiry, breathwork, and way of being – has been crucial in this process. It has saved my life.
In suffering, as in all facets of life, we have options. We can choose avoidance. Running away from our problems, keeping our head down, not confronting our feelings, not talking about it – I have tried this. It's stifling and not my nature. We can choose to numb. Temporarily soothing ourselves with drugs, alcohol, or other agents – I have also tried this. The highs aren't worth the lows. We can sit with the pain. Empty our agenda, be still, wallow, and marinate in loss – I have tried this. At times, it's necessary, but it's also self-harming. Or we can choose creation. Taking what we have learned from the situation, the memories, the love, and building from it with a sense of forward motion – I have tried this. It's exhausting and although I feel like I'm running in place, it serves me.
As I approach the three month mark of your departure from this plane, I no longer wake each morning reaching for you. I know that you are gone before I open my eyes now. I don't have traumatic visions every time I close my eyelids down. I also have a hard time remembering. It's as if my brain has put up a wall preventing me from focusing on the past as a defense mechanism, as a way to keep me safe. So I have to really sit still and set the intention: "Remember". Sometimes I let myself. And it really, really hurts. Other times I sit with the present breath, as my practice has taught me. Just. This. Breath. And I can keep moving and feeling OK.
Not happy. Not joyful. Not loved. Not complete. Not healed. But OK.
I took a Kundalini yoga class this morning with a friend. I set my intention: "Remember". At one point the teacher told the class that a true yogi can fall asleep in an instant. She has the power to quiet her mind into stillness in just moments. I was drifting off when she spoke the words. I realized that the yoga I've been doing over the past two and a half months has been the most self-serving and true that my practice has ever been.
Over the past year, I would often tell you I needed a new inspiration for my yoga practice. Yoga had taken a back seat to love, music, travel, and work. I would rather lay in bed with you than jump out of bed to get my practice in. I'd choose dancing to your band's show over an evening class. And when we would get to the studio, I would often practice without much passion. I focused on sticking a handstand, hitting every pose I saw the Instagram celebrity yogis doing, wanting my ass to look hot in yoga pants, or growing my 'fan-base'. I practiced for my ego with a side serving of peace-of-mind.
I searched for new teachers, new styles, new studios. You and I drove to Denver last summer to try out a new style of yoga. "I think I can get on this bandwagon," I told you after the practice. I was slightly inspired, but honestly, hardly. You preferred the tried and true practice that we did at our local studio. You practiced because it made you centered, strong, and energized. You practiced for the right reasons. I was in a rut and searching for something to call me back to my mat.
I was fully invested in the yoga lifestyle career-wise. I taught multiple times a week to a diligent student body. I worked eight to ten hours a day designing a national yoga and conscious-living magazine. I worked on side projects in the yoga industry: yoga apparel, assisting studios, attending workshops, teaching at festivals. But my heart wasn't really committed. My heart was committed to YOU.
The day you died I taught a class about nurturing those you love. It was one of my favorite classes I'd ever taught. You had been my inspiration. It was at noon. You died just over twelve hours later. I talked about how you had been under the weather lately. You were heartbroken and ill. I spoke about how it had been the first time I'd ever really, truly been able to take care of you. You often resisted letting others help. You liked to care for yourself. You were always so capable. But, those last couple days, I took care of you in a way I had never taken care of anyone. It was beautiful. It was sacred. I cradled you in my arms those days, the way you usually cradled me. You cried on my shoulder the way I had cried on yours. I made you meals and brought them to you in bed. I held your hand because you needed your hand to be held. Nurturing you felt natural. I felt powerful in that role. I felt needed. I felt loved and loving. I am so grateful I was able to step into that role, even if it was only for a short time. I also will never forget that class I taught. I was so happy, so complete, and so purposeful.
As fucked up as it sounds, your death was the kick in the ass I needed to reinvigorate my commitment to my practice. It has become my life-force. It didn't take a new teacher. It didn't take a new style of yoga. It didn't take being able to stand on my hands. It didn't take new followers on social media. It took loosing the thing that was most important to me. It wasn't worth it. But this is what life has offered. When you take out the largest piece of the puzzle, the other pieces have a new space to fill. My yoga practice – asana, meditation, self-inquiry, breathwork, and way of being – has been crucial in this process. It has saved my life.
In suffering, as in all facets of life, we have options. We can choose avoidance. Running away from our problems, keeping our head down, not confronting our feelings, not talking about it – I have tried this. It's stifling and not my nature. We can choose to numb. Temporarily soothing ourselves with drugs, alcohol, or other agents – I have also tried this. The highs aren't worth the lows. We can sit with the pain. Empty our agenda, be still, wallow, and marinate in loss – I have tried this. At times, it's necessary, but it's also self-harming. Or we can choose creation. Taking what we have learned from the situation, the memories, the love, and building from it with a sense of forward motion – I have tried this. It's exhausting and although I feel like I'm running in place, it serves me.
As I approach the three month mark of your departure from this plane, I no longer wake each morning reaching for you. I know that you are gone before I open my eyes now. I don't have traumatic visions every time I close my eyelids down. I also have a hard time remembering. It's as if my brain has put up a wall preventing me from focusing on the past as a defense mechanism, as a way to keep me safe. So I have to really sit still and set the intention: "Remember". Sometimes I let myself. And it really, really hurts. Other times I sit with the present breath, as my practice has taught me. Just. This. Breath. And I can keep moving and feeling OK.
Not happy. Not joyful. Not loved. Not complete. Not healed. But OK.
Uncontainable Love
Over the past week, I've learned that, surprisingly, I can live without you. It's a painful thing to type and a painful thing to feel. When you walked this earth as my counterpart, as my soul mate in the flesh, I did not think that I would be able to survive without you. I thought that if you left, I would crumple into a pile of dirt. Gone. Though I feel like a puddle, when I look in the mirror, my reflection looks back at me. I am still here. I am the same. I don't know how it is possible, but it is so.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
When we were together, you were the air I breathed. And when you left, I felt as though I could not breathe any longer and I no longer wanted to if you were not here with me. Yet, despite a fight between my body and spirit, I've learned how to breathe air again. My body won. Air is not as good to breathe as you were. I want to breathe breaths of you. You were pure and sacred to inhale, and exhaling you left me feeling as though my insides sparkled. Every breath of you filled me with vitality, love, and effervescent joy. Now, I still breathe, but I breathe reprocessed, tormented, and brokenhearted air. Every inhale leaves me wanting more and every exhale drains energy from my weary body.
My life these days feels like a facade. I am going through the motions that I always have: Get proper rest. Feed myself. Exercise my body. Meditate my brain. Give myself pleasure. Seek passion. Exhibit love to others. Be grateful. Let music sooth my soul. Write and create. Stay busy. Call my mother... But it all feels dull, like scratched facets of a fake diamond. And the main element is missing: you. Give you love. Be there for you. Listen to you. Be listened to by you. Laugh with you. Smile with you. Plan the future with you. Help you. Teach you. Be taught by you. Hear you. Kiss you. Offer my everything to you.
Life after you will never be like life was before you.
Seeing life continue without the main actor is a very confusing process to witness and be a part of. The show goes on. The clock ticks. Hair grows. Seasons change. Laughter still sounds. Often I want to shake people or even slap them, and say, "How the fuck are we living without him!? This is not OK!" Often, I want to slap myself and yell the same thing. Sometimes I do. It was not supposed to be like this: shaking and slapping. It was supposed to be a fairy tale.
As I see life continue it's as though we're all on a moving sidewalk and you are stuck way behind us on the unmoving road. We can't turn around and walk backwards – and you are still, no longer trying to catch up. One of my biggest fears is that I will move so far away from you that you will be forgotten. My moving sidewalk could be very long. It could continue on well over sixty more years. And I'm scared that you will blend in with all the other things in my past – that you will somehow become a dull and blurred memory, a chapter in a book. Our love and your memory deserves more than that. It makes me fear, am I even worthy of the love you gave me?
Our love deserves churches, altars, skyscrapers, and memorials that will keep reminding me and all of the man that was you. You, the man whose name appears in lights and whose silhouette is drawn by the clouds. You chose me. And now I watch you slip through my fingers and away into dust as life goes on, even though I'm backwards with my arms outstretched, crying on my knees. I'm scared I'll forget you and everything you taught me. I'm scared I'll forget what love is. I'm scared I'll forget that love is the only thing worth anything.
I don't know this path. The body and mind's capacity for healing is shocking to me. I did not think that I would be able to survive. But I am surviving. So I go through the motions of life. But it is not how it was with you. There is no color. It's all grey.
You were my container for love. The love I offered is floating somewhere, not contained. It was housed in your body, in your heart. And now, poof! It's escaped. I feel like I'm scampering around trying to capture it. I scream at the space around me, "Hey, give me back my love! That's for Teddy, not you! That love is sacred. That love is too righteous to be mixed in with the plethora of other shit out there! Give me back my love, damnit!" But it's too late. My love that was for only you lost its container. It has slipped away and mixed in with recycled breath and untethered souls. And the love you gave me, the love that is housed in my being, I'm trying to treasure it. I'm trying to keep it clean and pure. But it's mixing with confusion, loneliness, anger, and unworthiness – and they are really trying hard to dirty the love, just like the oil in my car.
So I'm surviving. I'm putting one foot in front of the other and stringing words together to form poetic messages, sarcastic comments, and dirty jokes. But I'm not enjoying it. I can't hear you laughing. I can't feel your hand on the small of my back supporting me. I'm treading water. I'm gasping for the air that I became addicted to – you. Your love is my drug.
Anger
I was never angry at you a single time when you were alive. Our life together was fluid. It was calm like a still lake; the only turbulence was passion and adventure. When we disagreed, the ripples were small and resolved quickly through immediate discourse. It was as if a fish jumped out of the water and then without any memory, hook, line, or sinker, just disappeared back from where it came. Together, we were frictionless.
So, it feels wrong to be angry with you now. It's an unnatural emotion for me. One of those responses that stays way on the back burner. "USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY." Well, this defines an emergency. So here comes anger. Shit, watch out.
You aren't here to defend yourself. You aren't here to react. You aren't here to tell me your side of the story. You aren't here to hug me and make it OK. But that's why I'm angry. You're not here. What the fuck, babe?
You promised me you would be here for me. When I left three yoga studios, a business I'd built from the ground, sold my house, and said goodbye to dozens of friends – it was because you promised me you'd be here for me. You would build a home with me. You would help me find a new career here. You would wake up next to me every day and kiss me good morning. You would be my one. You promised me this was it. I knew it. You knew it. So why did you break your promise? What did I do wrong? Why am I alone? Where did you go? Why won't you answer me? Why do I look around and see everyone else so happy – love, marriage, houses, families, success, security, smiles – and I'm alone and sad. You said you would be here for me. You never lied to me. But now you have.
When you were alive, you were so cautious not to hurt others. Even when they needed to be scolded, you were still tender. We trusted you to treat us kindly. We trusted you. I trusted you. We believed you would be here for us forever. We depended on you. I depended on you. When you were floating off to the light, did you know how much we needed you here? How much I needed you here? Maybe you were done with us, but we weren't done with you, Ted. I had so much more love to give you. We all did. Why did you rob us of that chance to love you more? Why did you rob me?
I came undone for you. Every wall I'd built up, every protective sheath, every guard, every story, every excuse – I let it all go when I fell in love with you. I softened like a ripe fruit. I let myself be vulnerable. And you held me gently. You held me as if I were an egg that could crack at anytime and you wouldn't dare let that happen. You teased me into full exposure. You were tender. You were loving. You cared for me with the nurturing of a mother. You showed me that there was none other than you. You were my match. You made me whole. Until you left. Death flirted with you, showed you her daunting beauty, and you chose her over me. You left me. You left all of us here who love you and need you. You broke the egg, smashed it into a thousand pieces and let the yolk spill out into the mud. You took that supple fruit and you gripped it so hard it bruised until it exploded, rotten pulp oozing into the hot sun and making your fingers sticky. You have broken me. I was whole and now I am broken. Shattered. Bruised. Tarnished. Damaged goods.
This anger scares me. I don't want to feel it and I don't want to fight with you. I am sorry for my anger. And I know you are sorry too. I know you are.
A couple days ago, right after my anger had really begun to appear, an old friend of yours sent me a message. She told me you had appeared to her in a dream. Initially, you were alive in the dream. You were a lifeguard at a pool. The two of you were chatting like old times. Then, the truth hit. You are dead. She said the dream became much more intense, more lucid. You changed forms from the lifeguard and began to disappear, as though you were being taken away. She said it was as though you didn't want to leave but couldn't control it. Watching you leave, she asked, "Is there anything you want me to tell anyone?" You remained quiet. "Is there anything you want me to tell Sami?" she asked. "Tell her 'I'm sorry'," you said. And then you were gone.
I hear you. I know you're sorry. But I just don't know if I'm ready to accept it quite yet. I will, my love. I will. But it's not easy.
And so goes life. One day I feel darkness, the next I feel lightness. One day I feel loneliness, the next I feel connected. One day I feel love, the next I feel anger. It is confusing. It feels bottomless. Someone will say to me, "You're pulling through! This is a turning point for you." Yes. A turning point that will turn right back around and go back in the opposite direction. Just give it a few days, a few hours, a few minutes. Grief is like a pendulum that swings back and forth. When it starts to slow down, something or nothing comes in and wacks it again – catapulting it into high gear all over again.
I have heard that anger is a step of the grief process. Honestly, I thought I would leapfrog it. 'I am bigger than anger,' I told myself. I thought, 'I've never been angry at him before, so why would I be now?' Well, once again, grief has humbled me; I am not bigger than anger. It has slapped me in the face and it stings. It's not a natural place for me to be. It feels as though I'm ice skating with socks on; it's slippery. But, I recognize that I can't control my emotions. This is how I feel now, but it can change in an instant. Today, anger has gripped me with it's ugly, sticky hands. It's taking me for a ride that makes me motion sick. And though this ride makes me ill, I will hold on to my truth and eventually I'll make it through, truth intact. Anger will retract his fierce claws.
So, it feels wrong to be angry with you now. It's an unnatural emotion for me. One of those responses that stays way on the back burner. "USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY." Well, this defines an emergency. So here comes anger. Shit, watch out.
You aren't here to defend yourself. You aren't here to react. You aren't here to tell me your side of the story. You aren't here to hug me and make it OK. But that's why I'm angry. You're not here. What the fuck, babe?
You promised me you would be here for me. When I left three yoga studios, a business I'd built from the ground, sold my house, and said goodbye to dozens of friends – it was because you promised me you'd be here for me. You would build a home with me. You would help me find a new career here. You would wake up next to me every day and kiss me good morning. You would be my one. You promised me this was it. I knew it. You knew it. So why did you break your promise? What did I do wrong? Why am I alone? Where did you go? Why won't you answer me? Why do I look around and see everyone else so happy – love, marriage, houses, families, success, security, smiles – and I'm alone and sad. You said you would be here for me. You never lied to me. But now you have.
When you were alive, you were so cautious not to hurt others. Even when they needed to be scolded, you were still tender. We trusted you to treat us kindly. We trusted you. I trusted you. We believed you would be here for us forever. We depended on you. I depended on you. When you were floating off to the light, did you know how much we needed you here? How much I needed you here? Maybe you were done with us, but we weren't done with you, Ted. I had so much more love to give you. We all did. Why did you rob us of that chance to love you more? Why did you rob me?
I came undone for you. Every wall I'd built up, every protective sheath, every guard, every story, every excuse – I let it all go when I fell in love with you. I softened like a ripe fruit. I let myself be vulnerable. And you held me gently. You held me as if I were an egg that could crack at anytime and you wouldn't dare let that happen. You teased me into full exposure. You were tender. You were loving. You cared for me with the nurturing of a mother. You showed me that there was none other than you. You were my match. You made me whole. Until you left. Death flirted with you, showed you her daunting beauty, and you chose her over me. You left me. You left all of us here who love you and need you. You broke the egg, smashed it into a thousand pieces and let the yolk spill out into the mud. You took that supple fruit and you gripped it so hard it bruised until it exploded, rotten pulp oozing into the hot sun and making your fingers sticky. You have broken me. I was whole and now I am broken. Shattered. Bruised. Tarnished. Damaged goods.
This anger scares me. I don't want to feel it and I don't want to fight with you. I am sorry for my anger. And I know you are sorry too. I know you are.
A couple days ago, right after my anger had really begun to appear, an old friend of yours sent me a message. She told me you had appeared to her in a dream. Initially, you were alive in the dream. You were a lifeguard at a pool. The two of you were chatting like old times. Then, the truth hit. You are dead. She said the dream became much more intense, more lucid. You changed forms from the lifeguard and began to disappear, as though you were being taken away. She said it was as though you didn't want to leave but couldn't control it. Watching you leave, she asked, "Is there anything you want me to tell anyone?" You remained quiet. "Is there anything you want me to tell Sami?" she asked. "Tell her 'I'm sorry'," you said. And then you were gone.
I hear you. I know you're sorry. But I just don't know if I'm ready to accept it quite yet. I will, my love. I will. But it's not easy.
And so goes life. One day I feel darkness, the next I feel lightness. One day I feel loneliness, the next I feel connected. One day I feel love, the next I feel anger. It is confusing. It feels bottomless. Someone will say to me, "You're pulling through! This is a turning point for you." Yes. A turning point that will turn right back around and go back in the opposite direction. Just give it a few days, a few hours, a few minutes. Grief is like a pendulum that swings back and forth. When it starts to slow down, something or nothing comes in and wacks it again – catapulting it into high gear all over again.
I have heard that anger is a step of the grief process. Honestly, I thought I would leapfrog it. 'I am bigger than anger,' I told myself. I thought, 'I've never been angry at him before, so why would I be now?' Well, once again, grief has humbled me; I am not bigger than anger. It has slapped me in the face and it stings. It's not a natural place for me to be. It feels as though I'm ice skating with socks on; it's slippery. But, I recognize that I can't control my emotions. This is how I feel now, but it can change in an instant. Today, anger has gripped me with it's ugly, sticky hands. It's taking me for a ride that makes me motion sick. And though this ride makes me ill, I will hold on to my truth and eventually I'll make it through, truth intact. Anger will retract his fierce claws.
Operation Seratonin
You and I used to fuel ourselves with oxytocin. We would lie in bed for hours – not eat, not sleep, just bury ourselves in one another's love. The hormone would secrete out of our pores, into the space cocooning us, and then settle back onto the opposite's body with a sigh. If the space around us had a soundtrack it would be the 'ooh's, 'aah's, and giggles of a Parisian love story. Eventually, after hours of whispers, love making, and kisses you would say, "Alright babe, my body can no longer survive purely on oxytocin." We'd rouse to get you some food.
The oxytocin that used to sustain me is flickering out like the dying wick of a candle. My body craves touch. Your touch. My heart had learned to beat in tune with yours. She quieted down, listened for the echo in your chest, and set her pace with yours – happy to have a mate to pulse with. But now she strains to hear you and you aren't there. My heart is tired.
Over the past week I took a dip. I celebrated life – yours, mine, ours. I celebrated the past year – the good, the beauty, the love. Then once this year arrived, I stopped in my tracks like a deer in headlights. In a sense, I laid down in the road and allowed myself to be run over. I felt the pain. I crawled under my covers and turned out the lights. I stopped moving. I hoped that when I fell asleep I wouldn't wake up – that I would drift off to be with you again. I was supposed to be with you.
I don't believe in suicide. I have a hard time respecting it as a choice for others and I certainly do not for myself. In my belief system, I think that exiting life by your own hand signs you up for karmic debt. I think it's a cop out for the lessons we are meant to learn in this life. Life is a gift, even in suffering. Even in the most painful of times, I refuse to believe that human life is ruled by a dark force. So, I know I would never take that route. I am too stubborn. I am too proud. I am too afraid. But, over the past week, I've wanted to drift off to the other side with you, accidentally. Just slip away, into thin air, like you did. One moment you were there – talking, breathing, loving, making promises – and the next you were gone – you were dust, ashes, memories, history, just a dream. I have felt that the only true happiness I will ever feel again, is whenever, wherever I can find you.
Today I decided to make a shift out of the darkness, one of many small shifts that are a part of this rollercoaster ride on the Sea of Shit. I decided that today, I would unglue my chin from my throat. I would lift my gaze from the mud to the clouds. Clouds though they may be, I know behind them is clear, somewhere.
I filled my day up with action. Small things – call the plumber, fold the laundry, shave my legs, call my mom, change the oil, get my dog groomed. These small tasks that seem so ordinary to the layman are like climbing Mount Everest for the grieving. When I can hardly stick my toe out from under my comforter and place my foot onto the earth, going to the grocery store seems like running a marathon with no training, food, or water. My body feels thirty times heavier then it actually is. I tried to move it at times over the past week and all I could do was lay on the ground and beg the Earth to keep holding me, to not let me go.
But today I made it up. I made it out of the house. And I accomplished a lot. In fact, I accomplished a lot for a normal, non-suffering person if I do say so myself. And it felt good. And feeling good, when you're grieving, is like being able to take one breath of air without gasping.
My intention for the day was "Operation: Seratonin". I figured since I can no longer live on oxytocin, I should fuel myself on other natural uppers. I took supplements that I know help me feel better: 5-Htp, Lumiday, St. Johns Wart, Stress-B Complex, Ashwaganda, and GABA. I got out of bed before nine. I ate food. And later in the day, I went to the pool.
My best friend had recommended that maybe swimming would be helpful during this time. She said it might be peaceful to float. Now, considering moving from my bed to the toilet has seemed like a walking on a tight rope across the Grand Canyon, my hopes weren't high. But once I submerged myself in the salt water, it was as though I had tapped into a resource of power deep in my body. I started to swim laps. I started to pass other swimmers. I moved to a faster lane. I started to swim how I can only imagine Michael Phelps swims – super fucking fast. I just kept swimming. I gave myself permission to take the next breath. And then the next breath. And then the next breath. When the tears came, it was OK. No one could see them and I couldn't even feel them because I was already submersed in salt water. I glided forward in the water. Just a little further, I told myself. Just a little further. Until I had no other option – forward motion was the only possible way. I didn't want to stop. Finally, swim team practice started and they made me leave the pool. I had probably swam from Alcatraz to San Fransisco. When I got out of the water, I felt the endorphins rushing through my body. Even when the heart is full of sorrow, the body reminds us of our strength. "Hang in there," my body told my heart, "I know you feel alone, but I've gotcha."
After my swim, I took a steam and then I went to yoga. I continued to ring myself out. I took the sludge, the buildup, the tar, the darkness, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the torture, and the pain and attempted to clean out a layer of it. But I realized that once I accelerate, it's easier to push forward. I remembered how being kind to myself comes more naturally than being cruel. Being hopeful is more inherent than being forlorn.
I'll never be fueled by oxytocin and love the way I was with you. But I still have the power to be lifted up. I will try to climb out of the dark holes and see a bit of sky, no matter how treacherous the clouds seem. When I feel suffocated by my own tears, I will swim in them. I'll remind myself of what I love about me – about the me that is still whole. While you are no longer here, as much as I fight it, you can't take me with you. That's just not how this life works. So I am here. And you are there. But we are still a part of the same stardust.
The oxytocin that used to sustain me is flickering out like the dying wick of a candle. My body craves touch. Your touch. My heart had learned to beat in tune with yours. She quieted down, listened for the echo in your chest, and set her pace with yours – happy to have a mate to pulse with. But now she strains to hear you and you aren't there. My heart is tired.
Over the past week I took a dip. I celebrated life – yours, mine, ours. I celebrated the past year – the good, the beauty, the love. Then once this year arrived, I stopped in my tracks like a deer in headlights. In a sense, I laid down in the road and allowed myself to be run over. I felt the pain. I crawled under my covers and turned out the lights. I stopped moving. I hoped that when I fell asleep I wouldn't wake up – that I would drift off to be with you again. I was supposed to be with you.
I don't believe in suicide. I have a hard time respecting it as a choice for others and I certainly do not for myself. In my belief system, I think that exiting life by your own hand signs you up for karmic debt. I think it's a cop out for the lessons we are meant to learn in this life. Life is a gift, even in suffering. Even in the most painful of times, I refuse to believe that human life is ruled by a dark force. So, I know I would never take that route. I am too stubborn. I am too proud. I am too afraid. But, over the past week, I've wanted to drift off to the other side with you, accidentally. Just slip away, into thin air, like you did. One moment you were there – talking, breathing, loving, making promises – and the next you were gone – you were dust, ashes, memories, history, just a dream. I have felt that the only true happiness I will ever feel again, is whenever, wherever I can find you.
Today I decided to make a shift out of the darkness, one of many small shifts that are a part of this rollercoaster ride on the Sea of Shit. I decided that today, I would unglue my chin from my throat. I would lift my gaze from the mud to the clouds. Clouds though they may be, I know behind them is clear, somewhere.
I filled my day up with action. Small things – call the plumber, fold the laundry, shave my legs, call my mom, change the oil, get my dog groomed. These small tasks that seem so ordinary to the layman are like climbing Mount Everest for the grieving. When I can hardly stick my toe out from under my comforter and place my foot onto the earth, going to the grocery store seems like running a marathon with no training, food, or water. My body feels thirty times heavier then it actually is. I tried to move it at times over the past week and all I could do was lay on the ground and beg the Earth to keep holding me, to not let me go.
But today I made it up. I made it out of the house. And I accomplished a lot. In fact, I accomplished a lot for a normal, non-suffering person if I do say so myself. And it felt good. And feeling good, when you're grieving, is like being able to take one breath of air without gasping.
My intention for the day was "Operation: Seratonin". I figured since I can no longer live on oxytocin, I should fuel myself on other natural uppers. I took supplements that I know help me feel better: 5-Htp, Lumiday, St. Johns Wart, Stress-B Complex, Ashwaganda, and GABA. I got out of bed before nine. I ate food. And later in the day, I went to the pool.
My best friend had recommended that maybe swimming would be helpful during this time. She said it might be peaceful to float. Now, considering moving from my bed to the toilet has seemed like a walking on a tight rope across the Grand Canyon, my hopes weren't high. But once I submerged myself in the salt water, it was as though I had tapped into a resource of power deep in my body. I started to swim laps. I started to pass other swimmers. I moved to a faster lane. I started to swim how I can only imagine Michael Phelps swims – super fucking fast. I just kept swimming. I gave myself permission to take the next breath. And then the next breath. And then the next breath. When the tears came, it was OK. No one could see them and I couldn't even feel them because I was already submersed in salt water. I glided forward in the water. Just a little further, I told myself. Just a little further. Until I had no other option – forward motion was the only possible way. I didn't want to stop. Finally, swim team practice started and they made me leave the pool. I had probably swam from Alcatraz to San Fransisco. When I got out of the water, I felt the endorphins rushing through my body. Even when the heart is full of sorrow, the body reminds us of our strength. "Hang in there," my body told my heart, "I know you feel alone, but I've gotcha."
After my swim, I took a steam and then I went to yoga. I continued to ring myself out. I took the sludge, the buildup, the tar, the darkness, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the torture, and the pain and attempted to clean out a layer of it. But I realized that once I accelerate, it's easier to push forward. I remembered how being kind to myself comes more naturally than being cruel. Being hopeful is more inherent than being forlorn.
I'll never be fueled by oxytocin and love the way I was with you. But I still have the power to be lifted up. I will try to climb out of the dark holes and see a bit of sky, no matter how treacherous the clouds seem. When I feel suffocated by my own tears, I will swim in them. I'll remind myself of what I love about me – about the me that is still whole. While you are no longer here, as much as I fight it, you can't take me with you. That's just not how this life works. So I am here. And you are there. But we are still a part of the same stardust.
144 Things I Want and 20 I Don't
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to be an inspiration because I meet grief with grace.
I don't want to have to be brave.
I don't want a new chapter.
I don't want to learn these lessons.
I don't want the sound of sirens to give me flashbacks.
I don't want the talk of death to remind me of you.
I don't want to be jealous when I see love.
I don't want to walk into our house and remember you're not here.
I don't want to see a picture and be saddened by the memory.
I don't want you to be past tense.
I don't want to avoid places because we went there together.
I don't want to hear songs and cry because the lyrics remind me of my loss.
I don't want hugs of pity.
I don't want to be the woman who was with that amazing man who died.
I don't want to have to be looked after.
I don't want to be worried about.
I don't want to cry myself to sleep every night.
I don't want life to look bleak.
I don't want the word angel to remind me of you.
I want you.
I want to see the flecks of sunshine in your eyes.
I want you to kiss every curve of my body.
I want you to ride me like you rode the mountains.
I want to hear your laugh.
I want to see your smile.
I want to sit next to you.
I want to marry you.
I want to be your wife.
I want to be the mother of your children.
I want to watch you be a father.
I want my babies to look like you.
I want to make you a pie.
I want to work around each another in the kitchen.
I want you to take a picture of me doing a handstand.
I want to you to rub my belly when my stomach hurts.
I want you to write me a love note.
I want to make cookies with you.
I want to you to cook the eggs.
I want to sit next to you on the couch.
I want to curl up on your lap.
I want you to bring me tea with three ice cubes.
I want you to hold my hand.
I want you there when I'm hungover.
I want to lay my cheek on your chest.
I want to you to order the sushi.
I want to throw a party together.
I want to listen to your new favorite song.
I want to you to remind me of that person's name.
I want to make memories together.
I want to see you.
I want to touch you.
I want to smell you.
I want to lick you.
I want to taste you.
I want to turn you on.
I want to watch porn with you.
I want to make you come.
I want to gaze into your eyes.
I want to watch the sunrise with you.
I want to grow old together.
I want to do yoga with you.
I want to pick out a lamp with you.
I want to go on a hike together.
I want to take the dance classes we signed up for.
I want you to give me more crystal hearts.
I want to choose an outfit for you to see.
I want you to tell me I look beautiful.
I want my phone to light up with a text from you.
I want to shovel snow with you.
I want to pick out a Christmas tree together.
I want to get in the hot tub together.
I want to go to Jamaica with you.
I want to go on our honeymoon.
I want to make the bed with you.
I want to fold your laundry.
I want us to eat almond butter on strawberries.
I want to take a shower with you.
I want to see you in the bathroom mirror.
I want to buy you a new shirt.
I want to unbutton your new shirt.
I want your new shirt on the floor.
I want you to bend me over the bathroom counter.
I want you to remind me to take my vitamins.
I want you to drum on my butt with your hands.
I want to see you in the crowd.
I want to watch you laugh.
I want to pull you close.
I want you there when I'm at a party.
I want to take your clothes to the dryer cleaner.
I want to hear you sneeze.
I want to play dress up with you.
I want to admire the view with you.
I want to walk the dog together.
I want to raise teenagers together.
I want you to finish the book you were reading.
I want to see you naked.
I want you to tell me I work too much.
I want to watch a sitcom with you.
I want you to leave me a voicemail.
I want you to buy me flowers.
I want you to drive.
I want to put our hand prints in wet cement.
I want to smoke a joint with you.
I want to stay up all night with you.
I want you next to me when I wake up.
I want to have a glass of wine together.
I want you to tell me a joke.
I want you to tell me I loaded the dishwasher wrong.
I want to hear you playing the drums.
I want to watch you on stage.
I want to pop champagne together.
I want to watch the turkeys with you.
I want you to tell me my products are taking up too much room in the shower.
I want you to tell me a fact about apple cider vinegar.
I want you to feed the cat.
I want you to clean her litter box.
I want to make you a whiskey sour.
I want to take a bath with you.
I want to make fun of our feet together.
I want to look at Playboy with you.
I want to hear your opinion.
I want to agree with you.
I want you to tap your finger on my belly button.
I want you to ask me what color I got my nails painted.
I want to clean out the fridge with you.
I want you to ask me how my class was.
I want to double check for pine nuts and sunflower seeds.
I want to make you fresh juice.
I want a bite of your food.
I want another bite.
I want you to tell me to slow down.
I want you to put concealer on the scars on my back because I can't reach.
I want to use your body as my plaything.
I want you to pack us a cooler.
I want to wash the dishes with you.
I want to set up the tent together.
I want to make salad dressing with you.
I want to eat organic with you.
I want to keep trying to get you to like sweet potatoes.
I want to go back to Canada with you and your family.
I want to grow a garden together.
I want to complain about my headache to you.
I want to take the dog for a walk with you.
I want to sit on the deck with you.
I want to climb things together.
I want to go back to the Playa with you.
I want us to play Yahtzee.
I want you to make a fire in the fireplace.
I want you to remind me not to use so many paper towels.
I want to watch you watch music.
I want you to teach me to ski.
I want you to teach me.
I want you to go on a date with you.
I want you to pay.
I want to snuggle with you.
I want to have hotel sex with you.
I want to have birthday sex with you.
I want to make love to you.
I want to fuck you.
I want you to tell me you love me.
I want my future to include you.
I want to know where you are.
I want you to kiss me at midnight.
I don't want to be an inspiration because I meet grief with grace.
I don't want to have to be brave.
I don't want a new chapter.
I don't want to learn these lessons.
I don't want the sound of sirens to give me flashbacks.
I don't want the talk of death to remind me of you.
I don't want to be jealous when I see love.
I don't want to walk into our house and remember you're not here.
I don't want to see a picture and be saddened by the memory.
I don't want you to be past tense.
I don't want to avoid places because we went there together.
I don't want to hear songs and cry because the lyrics remind me of my loss.
I don't want hugs of pity.
I don't want to be the woman who was with that amazing man who died.
I don't want to have to be looked after.
I don't want to be worried about.
I don't want to cry myself to sleep every night.
I don't want life to look bleak.
I don't want the word angel to remind me of you.
I want you.
I want to see the flecks of sunshine in your eyes.
I want you to kiss every curve of my body.
I want you to ride me like you rode the mountains.
I want to hear your laugh.
I want to see your smile.
I want to sit next to you.
I want to marry you.
I want to be your wife.
I want to be the mother of your children.
I want to watch you be a father.
I want my babies to look like you.
I want to make you a pie.
I want to work around each another in the kitchen.
I want you to take a picture of me doing a handstand.
I want to you to rub my belly when my stomach hurts.
I want you to write me a love note.
I want to make cookies with you.
I want to you to cook the eggs.
I want to sit next to you on the couch.
I want to curl up on your lap.
I want you to bring me tea with three ice cubes.
I want you to hold my hand.
I want you there when I'm hungover.
I want to lay my cheek on your chest.
I want to you to order the sushi.
I want to throw a party together.
I want to listen to your new favorite song.
I want to you to remind me of that person's name.
I want to make memories together.
I want to see you.
I want to touch you.
I want to smell you.
I want to lick you.
I want to taste you.
I want to turn you on.
I want to watch porn with you.
I want to make you come.
I want to gaze into your eyes.
I want to watch the sunrise with you.
I want to grow old together.
I want to do yoga with you.
I want to pick out a lamp with you.
I want to go on a hike together.
I want to take the dance classes we signed up for.
I want you to give me more crystal hearts.
I want to choose an outfit for you to see.
I want you to tell me I look beautiful.
I want my phone to light up with a text from you.
I want to shovel snow with you.
I want to pick out a Christmas tree together.
I want to get in the hot tub together.
I want to go to Jamaica with you.
I want to go on our honeymoon.
I want to make the bed with you.
I want to fold your laundry.
I want us to eat almond butter on strawberries.
I want to take a shower with you.
I want to see you in the bathroom mirror.
I want to buy you a new shirt.
I want to unbutton your new shirt.
I want your new shirt on the floor.
I want you to bend me over the bathroom counter.
I want you to remind me to take my vitamins.
I want you to drum on my butt with your hands.
I want to see you in the crowd.
I want to watch you laugh.
I want to pull you close.
I want you there when I'm at a party.
I want to take your clothes to the dryer cleaner.
I want to hear you sneeze.
I want to play dress up with you.
I want to admire the view with you.
I want to walk the dog together.
I want to raise teenagers together.
I want you to finish the book you were reading.
I want to see you naked.
I want you to tell me I work too much.
I want to watch a sitcom with you.
I want you to leave me a voicemail.
I want you to buy me flowers.
I want you to drive.
I want to put our hand prints in wet cement.
I want to smoke a joint with you.
I want to stay up all night with you.
I want you next to me when I wake up.
I want to have a glass of wine together.
I want you to tell me a joke.
I want you to tell me I loaded the dishwasher wrong.
I want to hear you playing the drums.
I want to watch you on stage.
I want to pop champagne together.
I want to watch the turkeys with you.
I want you to tell me my products are taking up too much room in the shower.
I want you to tell me a fact about apple cider vinegar.
I want you to feed the cat.
I want you to clean her litter box.
I want to make you a whiskey sour.
I want to take a bath with you.
I want to make fun of our feet together.
I want to look at Playboy with you.
I want to hear your opinion.
I want to agree with you.
I want you to tap your finger on my belly button.
I want you to ask me what color I got my nails painted.
I want to clean out the fridge with you.
I want you to ask me how my class was.
I want to double check for pine nuts and sunflower seeds.
I want to make you fresh juice.
I want a bite of your food.
I want another bite.
I want you to tell me to slow down.
I want you to put concealer on the scars on my back because I can't reach.
I want to use your body as my plaything.
I want you to pack us a cooler.
I want to wash the dishes with you.
I want to set up the tent together.
I want to make salad dressing with you.
I want to eat organic with you.
I want to keep trying to get you to like sweet potatoes.
I want to go back to Canada with you and your family.
I want to grow a garden together.
I want to complain about my headache to you.
I want to take the dog for a walk with you.
I want to sit on the deck with you.
I want to climb things together.
I want to go back to the Playa with you.
I want us to play Yahtzee.
I want you to make a fire in the fireplace.
I want you to remind me not to use so many paper towels.
I want to watch you watch music.
I want you to teach me to ski.
I want you to teach me.
I want you to go on a date with you.
I want you to pay.
I want to snuggle with you.
I want to have hotel sex with you.
I want to have birthday sex with you.
I want to make love to you.
I want to fuck you.
I want you to tell me you love me.
I want my future to include you.
I want to know where you are.
I want you to kiss me at midnight.
Quartz Mountains
Since arriving back in Colorado I've been subject to the magic that is this place. I'm so glad you brought me here. If anyone were to have to go through the pain and loss that I am dealing with, doing it here, in these mountains, in grounding nature, in this beautiful house, and surrounded by these magical people is the best possible option.
As I sit in our home and look out on the acres of pines cascading down the slopes, the beauty is sublime. It has been snowing since I arrived home. I watch the snow cover surfaces, spilling white peace over all that's both alive and nonliving. The powder reminds me of softness and of femininity. Grief is a feminine process. It requires a deep vulnerability, a chasm of emotions, gentleness, a willingness to come apart, and hope. There is no fast forward button, there is no fight that will help one win, and there is no way to bully through it with toughness. There is simply unraveling, opening, and letting grace shine in. This morning, I see that grace in the cool and camouflaging snow. It tells me, "Sami. Things may look monotone now. You may only see one element of this world – loss. But when I melt away, in time, after this frigid season, life will reappear. In time, dear one."
Magic is bred in the mountains. I've been witnessing its reveal since I've been home. Seeing enchantment or maybe even your supernatural hand in my life is heartening. On my first night back in the house, I said my gratitudes and prayers and drifted off to sleep. I was supine in our bed, nestled into the middle, because I no longer have a side. At some point in the night, I woke from my unconscious, yet still in a dreamlike state. I realized I'd awoken because I felt the weight of your body on top of me. I still was laying on my back, but you were laying on top of me. I heard your breath in my ears and felt it on my body, you breathed calmly and deeply, as if trying to relax me. Although I was lucid, I couldn't see you. I knew it was you, but the vision was so real that I became scared. There was someone in my bed with me. I could feel the hands holding me, fingers pressing into by torso, hair near my face, and legs down near mine. How could this be? You rolled to the side onto your half of the bed, taking your weight off of me so my breath could deepen. You spooned me and cradled me in your arms, but I'd become frightened. What if it wasn't you? What if this was a stranger in my bed? I still couldn't open my eyes and felt trapped even though I wanted to feel comforted. Once you sensed my fear, your body drifted away from mine. I felt it lift up into a plane in space over me. With my eyes still closed, I heard and felt what I can only describe as the flapping of wings over my body. It was as though a fan was turned on above my body. Cool air spilled onto me, chilling me enough to allow me to open my eyes and gasp. Awake, eyes open, I saw black and white swirls above me, your pixie dust. I watched the stripes circle on our ceiling for about a minute until they drifted off, and I was alone again. I closed my eyes, shaken up but thankful for your clumsy visit. I think you visited me for both of us. For me, so I am reminded that you are here. And for you, to infuse some of yourself in me. Because since that visit, I've felt different – I've felt a bit more like you.
Wonder continues. As I paced around our house last night in hazy stride, I found a stack of greeting cards that I've received over the past couple months. I went through the stack again, because many of them I'd been too devastated and shocked to actually take the time to really read when I'd received them. I found one that had been sent from Spoons and Daren, an old Vail roomie of yours and her husband. I studied the picture on the front of their card – it was a snowy scene with a smiling bear and a smiling fox in the foreground. The inside of the card was blank and a typed message had been glued into it. I had received that card along with smiley balloons just days after you passed. The bear and fox have carried such poignant symbolism through this journey, but I hadn't noticed them on the card prior to yesterday. I sent Spoons a message, telling her how much I appreciated the card she chose. I know they live overseas, so it couldn't have been easy to find one so perfect and get it to me so quickly. I woke up this morning with a response waiting from her. She told me that they hadn't chosen the card – the local flower shop had. It was just a coincidence that the shop had sent a card with a smiling bear and a smiling fox. I don't know if I believe in coincidence anymore. So I will take the synchronicity as a grinning 'hello' from you.
Last night I watched the String Cheese Incident's show on the internet. The show was nearby, but I'm headed there tonight and tomorrow and felt that three nights is more than I can handle in my current state. I've never watched a show from home before. However, I felt a need to be a part of it last night. I knew if you were going to be around, you would be there. And as I said, I think you've infused yourself in me. It was as though there was no other option than to watch the show.
The second song the band played was 'Sirens'. The lyrics are nearly a literal explanation of what happened the night you died. Members of the band played the song at your memorial. Also, when you were living, you and I had cried and danced to the song. It was a very special moment to witness. I had wanted to be at the show if they played that song. I'd wanted to be held in a blanket of love. I stood in our bathroom and watched the song on my computer screen, alone. I was crying. Beats came into the room. She tends to ignore me most times. She was really your cat. She loved you, mostly. But as I cried and watched, Beats pawed at my leg and meowed repeatedly until I picked her up. It was unlike her. She stared at the screen, watching the lights, listening to the rhythm of the music and my sobs, and purred for the entire song. It's probably the longest she's ever let me hold her. She offered support in a moment when I needed it most though I believe you helped her out with that. The band never finished the song. Maybe at some point over the next two days they'll go back to it and I'll be surrounded with the camaraderie and love from our loved ones when they close it out.
Beneath Boulder lies a layer of natural quartz. In crystal lore, quartz offers balancing clarity, healing, and energy. Quartz also offers third-eye access to psychic vision. It can help manifest ancient wisdom and channeled communication with spirits and other worlds. It also is useful in dream recall. I'm grateful to be nestled into the powerful earth here in these mountains. Life and connection with the spiritual realm feels more intense and unavoidable here. Your signs may be obscure, they may be mistaken as synchronicity or serendipity, but I choose belief. I also think you have a lot to learn in your new dimension. Knowing you, you are figuring it all out, you are pushing the limits, and you are enjoying the ride. I hope that you continue to visit us and you learn to do it less mysteriously. But I will take what I can get. Even when on earth, your love was magic.
Roots run deep, rock deeper, and fire deeper yet. Snow appears as a guise on the surface. We know what is below, but above us is the unknown. Just because we can't see it with our naked, human eye does not mean it doesn't exist. In fact, in my mind, I believe that means it really exists. It exists in a way that is beyond our understanding and it is godly.
As I sit in our home and look out on the acres of pines cascading down the slopes, the beauty is sublime. It has been snowing since I arrived home. I watch the snow cover surfaces, spilling white peace over all that's both alive and nonliving. The powder reminds me of softness and of femininity. Grief is a feminine process. It requires a deep vulnerability, a chasm of emotions, gentleness, a willingness to come apart, and hope. There is no fast forward button, there is no fight that will help one win, and there is no way to bully through it with toughness. There is simply unraveling, opening, and letting grace shine in. This morning, I see that grace in the cool and camouflaging snow. It tells me, "Sami. Things may look monotone now. You may only see one element of this world – loss. But when I melt away, in time, after this frigid season, life will reappear. In time, dear one."
Magic is bred in the mountains. I've been witnessing its reveal since I've been home. Seeing enchantment or maybe even your supernatural hand in my life is heartening. On my first night back in the house, I said my gratitudes and prayers and drifted off to sleep. I was supine in our bed, nestled into the middle, because I no longer have a side. At some point in the night, I woke from my unconscious, yet still in a dreamlike state. I realized I'd awoken because I felt the weight of your body on top of me. I still was laying on my back, but you were laying on top of me. I heard your breath in my ears and felt it on my body, you breathed calmly and deeply, as if trying to relax me. Although I was lucid, I couldn't see you. I knew it was you, but the vision was so real that I became scared. There was someone in my bed with me. I could feel the hands holding me, fingers pressing into by torso, hair near my face, and legs down near mine. How could this be? You rolled to the side onto your half of the bed, taking your weight off of me so my breath could deepen. You spooned me and cradled me in your arms, but I'd become frightened. What if it wasn't you? What if this was a stranger in my bed? I still couldn't open my eyes and felt trapped even though I wanted to feel comforted. Once you sensed my fear, your body drifted away from mine. I felt it lift up into a plane in space over me. With my eyes still closed, I heard and felt what I can only describe as the flapping of wings over my body. It was as though a fan was turned on above my body. Cool air spilled onto me, chilling me enough to allow me to open my eyes and gasp. Awake, eyes open, I saw black and white swirls above me, your pixie dust. I watched the stripes circle on our ceiling for about a minute until they drifted off, and I was alone again. I closed my eyes, shaken up but thankful for your clumsy visit. I think you visited me for both of us. For me, so I am reminded that you are here. And for you, to infuse some of yourself in me. Because since that visit, I've felt different – I've felt a bit more like you.
Wonder continues. As I paced around our house last night in hazy stride, I found a stack of greeting cards that I've received over the past couple months. I went through the stack again, because many of them I'd been too devastated and shocked to actually take the time to really read when I'd received them. I found one that had been sent from Spoons and Daren, an old Vail roomie of yours and her husband. I studied the picture on the front of their card – it was a snowy scene with a smiling bear and a smiling fox in the foreground. The inside of the card was blank and a typed message had been glued into it. I had received that card along with smiley balloons just days after you passed. The bear and fox have carried such poignant symbolism through this journey, but I hadn't noticed them on the card prior to yesterday. I sent Spoons a message, telling her how much I appreciated the card she chose. I know they live overseas, so it couldn't have been easy to find one so perfect and get it to me so quickly. I woke up this morning with a response waiting from her. She told me that they hadn't chosen the card – the local flower shop had. It was just a coincidence that the shop had sent a card with a smiling bear and a smiling fox. I don't know if I believe in coincidence anymore. So I will take the synchronicity as a grinning 'hello' from you.
Last night I watched the String Cheese Incident's show on the internet. The show was nearby, but I'm headed there tonight and tomorrow and felt that three nights is more than I can handle in my current state. I've never watched a show from home before. However, I felt a need to be a part of it last night. I knew if you were going to be around, you would be there. And as I said, I think you've infused yourself in me. It was as though there was no other option than to watch the show.
The second song the band played was 'Sirens'. The lyrics are nearly a literal explanation of what happened the night you died. Members of the band played the song at your memorial. Also, when you were living, you and I had cried and danced to the song. It was a very special moment to witness. I had wanted to be at the show if they played that song. I'd wanted to be held in a blanket of love. I stood in our bathroom and watched the song on my computer screen, alone. I was crying. Beats came into the room. She tends to ignore me most times. She was really your cat. She loved you, mostly. But as I cried and watched, Beats pawed at my leg and meowed repeatedly until I picked her up. It was unlike her. She stared at the screen, watching the lights, listening to the rhythm of the music and my sobs, and purred for the entire song. It's probably the longest she's ever let me hold her. She offered support in a moment when I needed it most though I believe you helped her out with that. The band never finished the song. Maybe at some point over the next two days they'll go back to it and I'll be surrounded with the camaraderie and love from our loved ones when they close it out.
Beneath Boulder lies a layer of natural quartz. In crystal lore, quartz offers balancing clarity, healing, and energy. Quartz also offers third-eye access to psychic vision. It can help manifest ancient wisdom and channeled communication with spirits and other worlds. It also is useful in dream recall. I'm grateful to be nestled into the powerful earth here in these mountains. Life and connection with the spiritual realm feels more intense and unavoidable here. Your signs may be obscure, they may be mistaken as synchronicity or serendipity, but I choose belief. I also think you have a lot to learn in your new dimension. Knowing you, you are figuring it all out, you are pushing the limits, and you are enjoying the ride. I hope that you continue to visit us and you learn to do it less mysteriously. But I will take what I can get. Even when on earth, your love was magic.
Roots run deep, rock deeper, and fire deeper yet. Snow appears as a guise on the surface. We know what is below, but above us is the unknown. Just because we can't see it with our naked, human eye does not mean it doesn't exist. In fact, in my mind, I believe that means it really exists. It exists in a way that is beyond our understanding and it is godly.
Carnival
Last night I dreamt that I was at a carnival. I am there with Kevin. You had broken up with me via a phone call. You had rang and said "I need some space." And that was it, you and I hadn't spoken in a week. Kevin and I are wandering around the fair together. I am being social and chatting with friends. I am eating carnival food, riding rides, trying to enjoy nature, and distract myself. After finishing up a ride, I run into a guy friend who buys me a very pretty dress. I walk into the dressing room and try it on. When I see myself in the mirror, I am hit with a wave of devastation. You are the one who is supposed to be admiring me in dresses. I realize I am not OK. I can't fake happiness. The carnival is no longer a distraction. I start panicking to Kevin. I tell him, "I must call him! He can't just break up with me over nothing by the phone! It doesn't make any sense? I need to know why. I need to talk to him." I headed off to call you and then I woke up before hearing your voice or your reason.
The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.
I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.
I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.
I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.
I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.
I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.
I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.
I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.
I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.
I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.
The dream is a thinly veiled metaphor for my reality. Last night, Kevin and I went to a casino with a bunch of old friends in my hometown. While no one bought me a dress, I did win some money. I strapped on a smile and I kept my chin up. But when I got home, washed off my makeup, and climbed in bed – the truth was still spread on thick. I can't get away from it, no matter how much stimulation I layer on.
I've found that I've been drawn to certain people who remind me of you. When I interact with someone, I'll find solace in their gentleness, their sensitivity, their kind smile, their humor, or maybe their generosity. It's nice to see glimmers of you in friends. It feels familiar and nurturing. I'll feel a bit of warmth in my being, then a wave of sadness. I realize that even when there's tidbits of you in others, it magnifies a glaring reminder of the parts that aren't like you. I love all of you. Wholly and fully. It's the larger aspects of your personality that create the shell of who you are, but it's the little quirks that give you texture that makes you stand apart. Today, I've been thinking about the little things about you that I love so much.
I love how you remembered everything. In my experience, so many men (some women too) can be idiots when it comes to memory. But not you. You had the memory of an elephant. You would remember to call me when you said you'd call me. You'd remember my schedule. If I said I had a class or a deadline, you would consider it in our planning or communication, and later, you'd ask about how it went. You'd remember tickets to the show. You'd remember your keys. You'd remember to pack a corkscrew in the cooler just in case we had a bottle of wine. You'd remember where you'd stuck our boarding passes after going through security. You'd remember to take out the recycling. You'd remember to bring a fresh water bottle in the car. You'd remember where you put the bottle of Aleve the last time we used it. You'd remember what we needed from the grocery store: how many kombuchas were left, if we were low on hemp seeds, if we ran out of a supplement, or if we needed avocados because the ones we had weren't ripe. You'd remember to come and check on me if I went to bed early and you stayed up later. You remembered birthdays. You remembered to get your oil changed. You'd remember to tell me you loved me, nearly hourly, every day. I love your memory, your awareness, and how much you care.
I love your transparency. You never played games. When it came to communication, you were direct and to-the-point from day one. There was never a guessing game: Does he like me? Will he call? What is he thinking right now? Is he upset? I never had to wonder, because you simply told me. Your honesty was beautiful. I remember one time when I still lived in Austin, I went out to a show and then came back to a friend's house around 1 a.m.. My phone had died. I plugged it in at her place, but then fell asleep on her couch before it turned back on. When I woke up, I had multiple missed called and messages from you. When I called you after waking, you were nearly in tears. You told me, "I was so nervous you had gotten in a wreck or someone had assaulted you! I've been awake all night assuming the worst!" Understandably, you were concerned and a bit upset. In fact, it was probably the most upset you ever were at me. You weren't mad, you were scared. But the way you handled the situation was so transparent. You told me you were upset, you explained your fears, then you were happy I was safe, and you let it go right there. We never had to talk about it again. It was in the past. There was no passive-aggressive 'I'll show her what it's like not to call me' payback, there was never a rub-it-in-my-face comment made again about making sure I call you, nothing – you explained your perspective, we both understood, and we grew from it. We communicated like consenting adults who respected and loved one another, every day.
I love that you weren't a big drinker or a bad drunk. I don't know if it's just my relationship history, but nearly all of my serious partners have been heavy drinkers and pretty terrible drunks. After rocky roads, I've learned it's not a habit that works for me. I am down to have a drink of wine with dinner a few nights a week and knock back a few cocktails at a show or a party, but when there's a need to drink in order to have fun – it doesn't jive with me. You chose to drink alcohol cautiously which was incredibly attractive. In addition to that, when you did get drunk – you were adorable. You weren't mean, you weren't aggressive, you weren't spacey, you weren't curt, you weren't obnoxious, you weren't blacked out, you weren't stumbling, you were just more silly than usual.
I remember the one time I got a bit irritated with you when alcohol was involved. It was at an Umphrey's show at Red Rocks on a Saturday night. I was the designated driver and was trying to round up our crew after the show. Trying to rally five people post concert can be a chore to a sober person. I had accumulated everyone, but strangely, you were the one who we just couldn't coerce to head to the car. The reason you wanted to stay was so you could give your friends more good-bye hugs. You were running back and forth from one side of the Red Rocks Amphitheater to the other shouting farewells, 'I love you's', and giving hugs to Chris, Cassie, Frenchy, Rey, Jelly, and more. Red Rocks is wide, but back and forth you ran, one side to the other, spreading love. Now that's a cute drunk.
I love how affectionate you were. You understood the power of touch. If I needed a hug, you would notice from across the room. You would hold me for seconds longer than I expected you to. You'd pull me tight, and press your whole chest into mine. You'd stop what you were thinking to give a embrace, all plans aside. I loved your kisses. We kissed as often on the last day of your life, than we had at the beginning of our relationship. We never had a lull in kisses. Whether it was a kiss of passion, friendship, salutation, sympathy, custom, love, or just because – there was always a kiss. Even if a hug or kiss wasn't involved, you still showed affection in many other ways – a brush of the arm, a slap of the butt, a gentle pinch, a tickle (even though I hated it!), a game of footsie under the covers, a hold of my hand, fingers through my hair, a wink across the room, or simply eye contact – you always stayed connected to me. I am searching for that connection now, I know it's here somehow. I can't see it, I can't feel it, and I can't hear it – but I know it's here.
I love how open you were with bodily functions. When we started dating, it took about six months before you farted in front of me... which I was fine with, trust me. But once you crossed that threshold you let it rip. In addition to your own flatulence, you had an open mind about women's stuff too. It's a relief when a man understand that the same stuff, minus a couple things and plus a couple more, come of out both men and women's bodies. It's surprising how many thirty-year-plus men I know that don't want to accept that. Women can have tummy aches too. They get cramps. They fart. They purchase tampons, put them in the garbage, and carry them around in their purse. Women pee and they poop too. They fart occassionally, and maybe after Indian or Mexican just like you. Women can get stinky after a run just like a man. They can even have diarrhea. The ignorance of women's bodily functions can be ridiculous. But not with you, you made it easy and a non-issue to talk about how we were feeling – whether it was emotional or physical. While we may have still peed with the powder-room door closed and given one other personal space with our hygiene, we still respected what was going on behind closed doors.
I loved your dirty mind. I have the mind of a fourteen-year-old boy with a thirty-year collection of sexual innuendos and vocabulary. You had met your match when you met me. If we heard, saw, or read something that could be played off as a dirty joke, it was on. Between us, there were probably as many "That's what she said's", "Dzzzzts!", and "Giggity's" as there were kisses, which is a lot! Now, as I'm moving through my days like I am made of wet cement, when I hear a funny innuendo or see something slightly sexual my stomach drops instead of my eyes lighting up. My joker is no longer here to joke with. It's creepy to make dirty jokes with yourself all of the time.
I miss the whole you. I miss the physical you. I miss the spiritual you. I miss the friend in you. I miss the lover in you. I miss the things that carved out the large facets of your personality. And I miss the little things, like some of what I've mentioned here: the texture, the quirks and curves that made you so special. There's no hiding from your absence. There's no carnival fun enough to distract me. There's no friends that fill the gap. There's just my love, waiting in space, to give back to you someday, somehow.
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