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.

Stages

I have heard that there are five stages of grief. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross was the doctor to develop the theory – though in time she went back to say that she wish she'd explained the stages in a different way because society had taken them as being linear and universal – which she did not intend. Her work was meant as a kindness, not a cage. I have not looked up the stages of grief. I know anger is one, acceptance is one, and I think denial is another – but that's the extent that I'm familiar with. I have opted not to look up this process because like everyone, my sorrow will be unique. There is no sense in trying to assign a sequence of events or a right/wrong to what's happening in my body and mind. If I over-analyze (which is my natural tendency) I run the risk of harming myself more rather than allowing my natural process to unfold. At least that's where I am right now.

However, in this grief, I have been confronted by MANY emotions. Included are: guilt, confusion, denial, horror, anger, sadness, loneliness, confusion, fear, emptiness, astonishment, heaviness, constriction, nausea, inspiration, nostalgia, numbness, ambition, action, inaction, pity, self-judgment, bravery, insecurity, self-harm, depression, compassion, love, and sorrow. Some of these terms may be synonymous, but I have felt them all in various degrees, depths, and definitions.

I'm back in the States. I'm sitting in the bed at your sister Berkley's house that you and I slept in three weeks before your death. We spoke about the doorknobs in her house; they were the runner up choice for our renovation. You liked the wallpaper in her bathroom. We read poems written by a dog out of the book on the back of the toilet. We walked to yoga and really enjoyed the class we attended. You took a picture of me holding a giant leaf next to my face from a tree we passed by while walking to class. It was bigger than my face. I always liked giant leaves and I thought it was cool to see one in the middle of the city. You ate a Chicago-style hotdog, with pickles. I did too. But I added ketchup when no one was looking.

But now the visit is much different. I have cried more since I've been here than I have in weeks. The last time I was here, I was the happiest I had ever been. Now, I'm the saddest.

My grief is manifesting in a new way. It's as though the protective sheaths my body has offered me – the cushions – are deflating. The reality is really sinking in – again. I already thought it was real, that this had already hit me. But it hits in new ways now. The meat cleaver has been sharpened. The pain is fresh and palpable all over again. I feel paralyzed by the pain.

When Jesus's cousin, John the Baptist, died tragically – Jesus got on a boat and traveled to a desolate place to think and pray. When he arrived, crowds had heard of his arrival. They journeyed by foot to meet him and ask for his ministry. And when he saw them, he turned outward rather than inward. He helped others. While Jesus had intended to be alone and mourn, he was able to turn his sorrow into deep empathetic compassion when he saw that's what the world needed. He allowed the grief to empower him.

There have been moments, days, and even weeks through this process when I've felt ambitious. Where I've felt that I can take this pain and create something out of it. I will use it to help others. I will write a memoir. I will use this loss to create something beautiful to memorialize you. I have gone so far as to be in action and planning. That inspiration felt good. It kept me moving. It kept me nurturing. I can understand how such deep sorrow can liberate selfless action.

Until it can't. Until the adrenaline runs out. Until the blood wears thin. Until the body simply drops. And that's where I'm hanging now. I'm in a dark causeway.

Even though I'm surrounded by beautiful support. I am with your sister, one of my oldest and dearest friends. I hold your nephew in my arms and look into his innocent eyes, and I ask for you to shine out to me through him. But I am so, so raw. I am stuck in a pit of self-woe. I know this is part of the nonlinear and bewildering process. I realize my feelings, according to Ms. Kubler-Ross, are not crazy, they are probably very much in line with the five stages I am supposedly experiencing. But nevertheless, I do not feel strong, I do not feel connected, and I do not feel motivated to be empowered. I need my legs back underneath of me.

So today, my sweet love, I ask for your help. I ask you to pull me up in whatever way you can. Make a light twinkle around my periphery. Meet me in my dreams with a kiss or even a fart. Smile at me through invisible space so I can feel your aura. Let me know you're here, somewhere or everywhere. Let me know you still love me. Let me know, so I can go back to being brave.

Gracefully Patient

Patience has never been a virtue of mine. I have always found it difficult to live in the moment and enjoy spending life planning what's next. I have trouble staying focused on one thing and tend to multitask – often in front of multiple screens. For instance right now, I'm booking air travel, texting about yoga class, responding to email, drinking coffee, people watching, writing this, oh, and mourning intensely. You struggled with ADD as a student and continued to as an adult, but despite your diagnosis of lack of focus, I never met a man who was more patient.

When I spent my days with you, I woke up cheerful. I was excited about life.

Now, I wake up anxious. I wake up sad. I feel like a Peanut's cartoon character who walks around with a raincloud over her head all day. I see something out of place and get upset with whoever put it there. My father has been staying with Kevin and I in the house since you died. He's been giving me space and acting with nothing but love, but I am reactive and snappy towards him. I feel like I'm experiencing my worst case of PMS every day, all day. I can hardly stand to be around myself.

I think of the woman I was with you – the joyful woman who always had a positive outlook. That woman would not want to be around this woman. She might pity this woman. I want to be the me I was with you.

A few days ago, someone told me, "Sami, you are grace". The comment stopped me in my tracks. When I was a ten-year-old ballet dancer, my Mademoiselle told me the opposite. She said to me, "Sami you are just not graceful and you will never be". That insult stuck with me as a child and was a defining moment for me. I remember the exact place I was standing when she said it. I remember my black leotard. I remember the scent of rosin on the wood floor. I remember my pointe shoes carelessly laced around my ankles. I decided right then, in that moment, 'Since I am not graceful, instead I will be strong'. And so, I became strong. I left the possibility of embodying grace in the past. In fact, I decided that since I was absolutely not graceful, that I would name the little girl I hoped have someday, Grace. That way, someday, I could have grace.

So when this person told me that I am grace. I was taken aback. I took inventory – where could I possibly give the impression of being graceful right now? I'm a fucking mess! Maybe I appeared graceful in my yoga practice – my own dance of devotion, with strength meeting flexibility, a moving meditation? Maybe I appeared graceful in my moments of gentle strength throughout this mess: a broken woman trying to hold it together? A woman who in her best moments, only allows one tear to fall from the corner of her eye. Maybe in my writing I can sometimes appear graceful – when I'm able to string words together in a proper sentence with only a few grammatical liberties?

I'm not graceful when I'm screaming in my car, punching the steering wheel, red-faced and puffy with buckets of tears falling from my baggy eyes. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I'm angry – angry at death, angry at life for being fleeting, angry at people for not having altered your fate, angry at myself for failure, even at times, angry at you for leaving. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I frigid or needy towards others. When someone puts their hand on me and my mind screams, 'Don't fucking touch me!' or maybe when it screams, 'Oh! Please keep touching me.' That's not grace. I'm not graceful when my body is so confused by its lack of touch, that I try in vain to pleasure myself and end up sobbing into a pillow. That's not grace. I'm not graceful when I drive the hairpin turns up the hill to our home and before each turn think, 'Maybe I'll just keep going straight off the cliff instead'. That's not grace. That's not strength.

But you my love, you define grace. You were grace in every move: as a thinker, as a yogi, as a lover, as a driver, as a skier, as a musician, as a teacher, simply, as a man. You carried us in grace. And often, I carried us in strength. You carried us in patience. I carried us in movement. It was a great fit. We each carried the perfect amount of weight to even out the scale. We balanced one another out.

A testament to your beautiful virtue of patience and grace:

In our shower, my faucet tended to leak. Unless the handle was turned tightly, the head would drip constantly. I never remembered to crank the handle. Within a couple weeks of us moving in together, you said to me, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Oh, OK! I'll remember," I told you. Over the course of the next six months, you reminded me at least forty times. Always with the same patience, the same tone, and never with an ounce of irritation, "Hey baby, so in our shower, you need to crank the handle down or your faucet will drip." "Argh! Yes!" I would remember. "Hey baby, soooo in our shower..." "Yes, yes yes! The drip," I'd say. Over and over and over and over.

One day, six months later, I stepped into the shower and my handle was wrapped in sparkly duct tape. You were trying a new technique. You realized the method you'd been implementing, verbal reminders, wasn't landing – so without being antagonizing, you tried a different method, a visual reminder. And that landed. And every day since, I've cranked the shower handle.

And now, in your absence, that sparkly duct tape is still there. It's a little 'Hello' from you every time I turn the water on and off. You reminded me for six months about that drip, without fail. And you, with your patience that matches none other, didn't place blame for my forgetfulness. You were gracious, thoughtful, and simply tried something new.

I love you for your patience, Teddy. I love you for your grace. I love you for your strength. And as I move through this grief process, when emotions arise – whether it be depression, tears, anger, desperation, or anything else – I'll remember your grace and your patience. I'll remember that now, in order to carry you on, I must embody you. Maybe in time I will have the steadfast patience that you so beautifully held. Maybe there will be brief moments when your grace shows through my being. And maybe someday, I will still have Grace.