As I walked into yoga tonight, the teacher – a friend of ours – said, "Hey Sami. How are you?" Before I could think about what was coming out of my mouth, I said, "I'm good, thanks". The moment the words left my lips, I felt my lie. I shuddered at the sound of the words. I was not good at all. I was not even okay.
I'd spent the whole drive to my 6pm yoga class with tears streaming down my cheeks. Before that, I hadn't changed out of my pajamas until 5 pm. I'd slept until nearly 1pm, fourteen hours from when I'd fallen asleep the night before. I'd spent those four waking hours in front of the television, smoking pot. I don't smoke pot often. But when I do, it's usually for the specific purpose of dulling my feelings. I bailed on plans I'd made with multiple friends over the weekend. It's not that I wanted to be alone. It's that I didn't want anyone to be around me. I didn't have the effort to show up as the woman I know I am. Or want to be. Or used to be. Or thought I was.
I've spent my whole life trying to please. I've spent thirty years wanting to be liked, be loved, be cool, be accepted, be successful, be attractive, and be it all. And as I trudge around my home with my feet stuck in cement, amidst the grey, smudged canvas that is my life, I can't focus on being anything, because it takes everything just to be. And yet ego breathes his heavy breath down my neck: I don't want anyone to see me weak. I don't want my sadness to rub off on others. I don't want to ruin anyone's day. I want to be worthy of love. For now, in the battle between masculine ego and feminine grief, she wins. I am very, very, very sad – sadder than I knew humanly possible. And sadness like this is exhausting, like a disease. And when I become so tired, I no longer have the energy to pull myself together. To try. To work. To move. To be dependable. To be funny. To be strong. It's embarrassing, to be honest. For someone who has spent her whole life trying to be perfect and loveable – to now be completely and utterly broken, and too tired and sad to try to pick up the pieces. It's as though I'm sitting amongst a pile of puzzle pieces that once fit together so beautifully and I can't find a single match. I sit, frozen, holding pieces in my hands, wondering, 'What happened?'
There is this blanket you had. It's thick, soft, fuzzy, and white. When we would lounge, that was always my blanket. It felt like I was cuddling with a cloud. These days, I am often cocooned on the couch inside of that blanket. I try to cover as much of my body as possible beneath its comfort. Maybe only the sliver of my eyes will have to see the light – my own burka of grief. I run my fingers through the fabric of that blanket and I search for signs of you inside of it. I'll find a small twig that is stuck in the weave and wonder, 'Where you here when that twig found its way into the blanket?' Or maybe I'll spot a little purple stain from a drop of wine. I'll ask you in my mind, 'Was that your spill of wine or mine?' I remember when we both used to snuggle beneath its warmth, our limbs interlaced like twist ties. When you were here, I didn't actually need the blanket to keep me warm. I had you. I had love. Now, no matter how thick or how soft the blanket is, I'm always cold. I'm chilled so deeply from within that nothing can warm me from outside. Nothing.
I feel that my life is a contradiction these days. I don't want to sleep. And then all I want is sleep. I don't want to be alone. And then I need to be alone. I don't want to eat. And then all I can do is eat. I want to feel everything. And then I don't want to feel anything. I want to be loved. And then I feel unlovable. I want to see you. And then I can't find you.
Last week, as I nestled on the couch in a fit of tears, your computer was closed and asleep on the other side of the room. It hadn't been touched in days. Suddenly, the song "Struggling Angel" started playing from your machine. It was the song written for your friend Sarah after she passed, by your favorite band. You used to listen to it "when you needed a good cry". Alarmed, I got up, walked to the computer, opened it, and woke it up. The song stopped. When the screen flashed on, there were no music applications open – in fact the only things open were Acrobat and a Chrome browser with ESPN's website up. There was no sign of the song. The next day, as I painted my toenails (again, on the couch), the TV – which was off – turned on, and flipped from Netflix to DVD mode on both the video and the audio – that task involves various buttons on two remotes, which were on the table. An episode of Seinfeld, which you gave me for my birthday, began to play. I looked up from my polishing, dumbfounded and yet hardly surprised. Obviously, you are around. You are sneakily saying hello in the ways that you can. But while I find it comforting on some level, I also find it distressingly sad. It is you who I love, but I don't know how to love a ghost.
The next time someone asks me how I am, I hope I have the wherewithal to speak my truth. I am not OK. I am lost. I am sad. I am lonely. I am confused. I am a mess. I am barely in motion. But I am here, in the flesh and no matter how here you are in essence, you are not here in the way that I need you.
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drugs. Show all posts
Grey
We left Steamboat early this morning to make our way back to Boulder – hugs, goodbyes, gifts, and coffee passed around. Minutes before loading into the car, a bear was spotted in our host's backyard. It wandered down a path and onto a neighboring green from the golf course behind their property. I swallowed a hiccup of hope as I watched the animal. I see you in nature.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
Happy Birthday, Big Brother (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
---
I
don’t remember most of Ted’s birthdays growing up. Memories of
childhood birthdays in our house are a blur of sheet cakes decorated by
Mom, birthday dinners with our grandparents around the formal dining
table, fighting over new presents, one of us ending up in tears…
But I do remember Ted’s 18th birthday. It was a Tuesday.
He was a senior, I was a sophomore, and Berkley was 13. Our parents
were out of town and our middle school math teacher, Ms. Winney, was
staying with us. Ted told me I was welcome to join in the birthday
festivities and I was beyond thrilled. Ted was cool, his friends were
cool and I got to be a part of it, if only for a Tuesday afternoon.
After
school, Ted and I drove around to various friends’ houses to pick them
up. We picked up Hunter. He had something wrapped in a gray sweatshirt. I
asked him what it was and he said it was his pet, José. “What is it???”
I asked, so naive. “Want to see?” Hunter replied. “No! If it’s a snake,
I am NOT touching it!” Ted and Hunter and the other friends laughed and
laughed.
By
four in the afternoon, a small group had assembled in our backyard,
drinking beer and tequila, smoking cigarettes, laughing in the gray
midwestern November. I have no idea where Ms. Winney was.
Somehow,
in the midst of the partying, Ted managed to get me to and from my
tennis lesson and I also ended up on time for my choir rehearsal, but I
think someone else drove me there. I didn’t drink or smoke anything that
day. “Someday, Hopie…” his friends taunted. “Hey, I think it’s cool
that she’s doing her own thing,” Ted said in my defense. “She’s here
chilling with us and making her own choices. That’s awesome.” It felt so
good to be tucked under Ted’s wing like that. I was so safe there. I
could be myself with Ted. Guaranteed.
It
was one of my best days in high school. Hanging out with all these guys
I thought were so cool. And feeling like I totally belonged, because my
big brother said I did.
After
choir rehearsal, I went back to my normal school-day routine—homework,
chatting with friends, going to bed at a decent hour. Ted’s celebration,
however, carried long into the night. They moved the party to Don
Pablo’s, a mediocre Mexican restaurant where Ted had worked and was
buddies with the bartender. He also got a tattoo that night—his
astrological sign, scorpio, on his calf.
On
Ted's more recent birthdays, I could always count on him to actually
pick up his phone--something he normally never did. We’d talk for a good
long time. He’d ask me all about what was going on in my life, how his
little nieces were doing. He’d listen to my stupid stories about the
cute stuff they were saying and he’d laugh. I always thought it was so
generous of him to have such a long phone conversation on his birthday
because I knew I wasn’t the only one he’d be talking to that day.
My
generous, welcoming and extremely accepting big brother, thank you for
making me feel awesome at the peak of my awkward years. Thank you
telling me I was okay for being the way I was, when all I felt was that I
should be something different.
I
will miss our birthday calls. I will miss hearing your laugh on the
other end of the phone. I will miss having someone to talk with who was
so validating, so affirming, so ready to tell me how awesome I’m doing,
without a hint of judgment.
Ted, you got some pretty awesome gifts for your birthdays over those years. But you gave even bigger ones.
---
Thank you Hopie for this beautiful submission.
Formaldehyde
I still woke up today. The sun still rose, flirting with the edges of the blinds, peeking in to let me know that despite the darkness in my heart, it was still casting red to pink to iridescent white light over the tops of the mountains. I got up, and made our bed again. I washed my hair for the first time in 4 days. What's the point? You can't run your fingers through it. The shower is so lonely without you.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
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