Happy Birthday

That night, after the ambulances finally arrived, 16 gut-wrenching minutes after I called 911, our house was swarmed with EMS, detectives, police, sirens, lights-flashing. Kevin and I had followed every single instruction from the dispatcher in those long minutes. 700 chest compressions, Kevin had counted them without missing a beat. I had checked your airways repeatedly in case you were choking. You'd only eaten a few bites of yogurt and washed it down with some coconut milk. Your airways were clear, you weren't choking. What was wrong? At one point you took three very, very faint and raspy breaths. The vice-grip in my chest loosened, "He's breathing! He's breathing!" We stopped compressions. No more breaths. Kevin started them again. I called your name repeatedly, put my hand in yours, you didn't respond. No eyes. No grip. No breath. Nothing. You were talking to me one second, and then you were gone the next. I had said, "What are you most afraid of?" You said, "Anger." Then you were gone.

When the first sheriff arrived, I could tell he was nervous. Boulder cops don't see this often. He fumbled with the CPR mask. I couldn't believe he was bothering with it. HELP HIM NOW. I ran upstairs to let the EMS in. They were trying to back down our long driveway. "Just leave the ambulance there! Someone get inside NOW! Please! He's not breathing! PLEASSSSSE, " I cried, adrenaline pumping. What was probably only a minute seemed like ten. Then, suddenly, there were dozens of EMS and police in the basement. "Someone get this dog OUT of here," a policeman shouted. Kira was going back and forth between licking your face and barking at the men in hats. She loves you. I put her outside. "Who owns this house? Who lives here?" Unnecessary questions. "He does. We all live here," I said, numb. "I'm assuming you don't know this man's birthday," one of them shouted at me. "Of course I do. November 5, 1979," I answered his non-question. Assholes. Help him, please. I watched them drill a hole in your perfect leg, right by your Scorpio tattoo, and yell "Clear!" as they shocked your heart. Then they made us go upstairs to answer questions. Kevin held me tightly, holding me upright, reminding me to breath. He did everything right.

Happy birthday Teddy, my love. My hands are shaking as I type. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

I have been keeping a list of gifts for you in my phone for the past 6 months. Every time you've mentioned something you've wanted, liked, or thought was 'cool', I've written it down. You are a hard man to shop for because if you really want something, you can get it for yourself. I had already purchased many of your gifts for your birthday and Christmas. I'd gotten you two books you'd asked for: Heaven is Real, a story about a little boys trip to Heaven and back when he'd died for 3 minutes. (I've already read it over the past week. Now I believe in heaven, but only if I go to church. Strange, for a Jew.) I bought you A Wrinkle in Time, which you wanted to re-read as an adult and I thought was simply adorable. I'd been conferring with a couple members of your band to find the perfect case for your drum hardware. You'd been carrying it in an old ski-bag. It was to have handles and wheels and fit everything in the perfectly organized fashion you so loved.

I'd gotten you a pair of funny one-piece-footie-pajamas. They have a butt you can unsnap to use the bathroom. You would have thought they were hilarious. I imagined you wearing them on cold days after skiing when we were snuggled up drinking hot toddies by the fire. You, a 35 year old man, with the spirit and pjs of an 8-year-old. Along the same line, I'd gotten you a Phil Lewis coloring book for grown-ups. You mentioned how fun it would be to have one a few weeks ago to a friend. You didn't even know I was listening, but I was. You hated your iPhone case. It was hard to remove to charge and plug into the mp3 player and we always laughed because when you pulled out your phone other items in your pocket would stick to it, like your keys or wallet. I got you a new case, one that wasn't sticky rubber, with an Alex Grey painting on it called "Theologue". The painting is described as "The union of human and divine consciousness weaving the fabric of space and time in which the self and its surroundings are embedded". When it arrived in the mail I noticed the print wasn't perfectly centered, which I knew you'd notice. I considered returning it, but never did.

We had gone to Burning Man this past year and both loved the sculpture, Embrace. We hadn't seen it burn because it was at sunrise, and I was never very good at staying up until sunrise. You loved being up all night, seeing the sun peek over the playa, a new day ahead. I felt guilty and like I should be asleep. So we'd missed the burn and we never had a chance to go inside it. But, I'd gotten you a piece of it. Android Jones had done a limited print for Embrace. You had seem the tube arrive in the mail with "Andrew Jones" as the return sender. "I didn't mean to look! It just jumped out at me," you'd told me. I believed you. I knew you wanted another one of his prints to hang near the "Love is a Riot" piece I'd gotten you last year. I didn't know why that piece spoke to me so much at the time, but now it's ominous every time I walk by it hanging on our wall.

After our summer of non-stop travel last year, you'd mentioned wanting a new dopp kit. "I like how yours has a hanger and is bigger than mine," you'd said. Yours was organized perfectly, albeit smaller. Mine was gooey from stolen-hotel-shampoos leaking in air pressure. Mine had empty band-aid packs, always fooling us when we needed one. Yours had sensible items like Aleve, in case of a bad hangover and nail clippers for a hangnail. I always forgot Aleve, but had at least 3 or 4 perfumes even though I only ever wore the one, "Tainted Love," it's called. When we would go to a hotel together, I would move in, hoarding the vanity: hairbrushes, deodorant, oozing Colgate toothpaste, nail polish in case my gel manicure came off, curling iron accidentally left 'on', glitter spilled everywhere, lipstick left open, one fake eyelash in the sink, one on the floor that would later get stuck to your foot.

Your items would be perfectly laid out. Sonicare toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, Tom's deodorant, and maybe one hair product: all in a row. You'd walk into the bathroom, hand me a glass of champagne (you knew how much I loved getting ready in a hotel with a glass of champagne). I flail around getting ready, always running late for the reservation, meetup, or show. You'd joke, "Women get annoyed when men leave the toilet seat up, and this is what we get to deal with!" I'd laugh, totally in agreement, and knowing how ridiculous it was. I'd slide all my shit over to one side, probably knocking your items over and burning myself en-route, and say, "OK! Now you have half of the space." We'd giggle. You'd tell me I look beautiful. I'd complain about my hair and say I felt fat. You'd look at me and tell me my hair is beautiful and that you wouldn't even dare to address the second half of that statement. I'd spray my hair for the 4th time. You'd start dramatically coughing. I'd say "How much time do I have?" You'd say, "Negative 2 minutes." I'd look at my full glass of bubbles, and say, "Oh shit!" We'd share it, quickly, then dash out the door, hand in hand, down the elevator and off to the next thing, looking fucking beautiful and being so fucking in love, anyone in the lift with us would see it immediately. You'd look at me and I would know immediately that you were thinking of how funny it would be if you farted in the elevator. I'd widen my eyes in a don't you dare kind of way. You never did (at least when there were others in it with us).

I'd gotten you the new dopp kit for your birthday, handmade canvas and leather, with a hanger. It has a silver button with your initials monogrammed on it. We always laughed about how we'd monogram things. You go by Ted, but your name is actually David Edwin... DWE, DTW, TWE... TED? We'd laugh. "Maybe we just won't monogram anything," you'd say. You, the preppiest hippie that existed, not even believing yourself. "But we have to have monogrammed towels somedayyyyyy......" I'd carry the 'y' so there was no doubt you'd know what I meant. Someday, when we had a registry. Someday, when we were married. Someday, when I took your name and joined your family, by law. When we became officially "we". When I could take out my IUD and we could start trying for a family, and then have little wash clothes, with ducks on them, with little baby monograms. Someday, that won't ever come anymore.

Today we celebrate your birth. I try to keep reminding myself of that this morning. Birth, not death. Birth. Without today, I wouldn't have ever met him, loved him, had him as my best friend. Without today, neither of us would have ever known what love really is. And your birthday is even more important now than it was before. Because we're celebrating the birth of a man who is now an angel. You are looking down, in whatever way you can, and wrapping your grace around me and all of your loved ones. I try to see it in everything. I tried to see it when I woke up at 5 am and tossed and turned, and asked you to let me fall back asleep, and I did. I tried to see it when I awoke to both Beats, our cat, AND Kira, our dog, both on the bed, together, gently snoring, one on each side of me. They'd only gotten on the bed together two times before and I'd coerced them into it both times. I tried to see it when I opened the blinds and the sun blinded me completely, basking me in it's warmth. I'm trying, and I see your grace – but I can't prove it and that drives me crazy.

I wish you were here, Ted. I celebrated you everyday, completely devoted, but today I would have done it it even more. I would have brought you breakfast in bed: a breakfast salad, like you had everyday. 2 soft boiled eggs for you, 1 for me. But today I would have added bacon. And instead of your homemade health tonic dressing, today I would have given you avocado vinaigrette, your guilty pleasure. You would have had 2 pieces of dark chocolate after breakfast, a special morning treat. You'd joke about how it might keep you awake all day. I would have given you a present right away. One I was really excited about, maybe the Embrace print, and saved the others until later. I would bake you something sweet, you wouldn't care what because you aren't huge on sweets other than dark chocolate, so it probably would have been a pie, because I love to make (and eat) pie. It would have been the perfect day, just like every day was with you, back when I could see you and touch you and hear you. I love you, Ted. Happy birthday my sweet angel. I miss you so much.