Hangover Days

Even hangovers were fun with you.

I haven't had much to drink since you left us. For one, drinking is celebratory. I feel as though I have very little to celebrate these days. The love of my life is no longer in this world, and there's nothing to celebrate in that. Secondly, drinking can be numbing, which I'm trying to avoid.

I never knew pain before you died, Ted. I've been under the knife for two back surgeries, I've lost ailing grandparents, I've had dogs run get hit in traffic, and I've had my heart squashed a few times – but those pains don't even approach the tail winds of this pain. I feel like I need an entirely different word than 'pain' to distinguish this from anything else.

It's been my course of action to feel everything, without numbing – and maybe eventually heal through actually feeling every drop of this wretched pain. Because the pain will be so intense that there's no deeper wound possible, and healing is the only option. Perhaps that's slightly self-harming, but perhaps I feel like I need to harm myself a bit. I mean, I was right there as you took your last breaths and I did not succeed at bringing you back. I did not save your life. I know I did everything I could, but it was not enough. You died, on my watch. So yes, maybe I feel like I need a big, bloody slab of self inflicted pain on top of this heart shattering devastation to remind myself of the most grievous failure any human could ever participate in.

So self-deprecating and preaching aside, yesterday I got drunk.

After attending the Warren Miller ski movie premiere with some members of my support squad, one beer turned into four and the liquid numbing agent dulled the pain for a few hours. I still ached the entire time without much relief, but I do remember at one point I actually laughed at a joke. A real laugh. The sound of my own laughter gave me chills and a dagger-like pain in the chest. But there was a laugh.

I woke up this morning, my body reeling from the depressant I'd poisoned it with. I couldn't get out of bed for two hours. It wasn't a bad hangover, in fact, if you were here I probably wouldn't even notice its presence. But alone, things are much harder.

When you and I had a hangover we would lay in bed until ten a.m. or so. Whichever one of us slept later would be awoken by a grumbly nuzzle from whomever awoke first. We would snuggle. We were fantastic at snuggling. If there were a gold medal for snuggling, we would be on the podium, hand-in-hand, gold medals shimmering around our necks. I would imagine intertwining every limb of my body in yours, like a double knot. We'd stay there, in our twist-tie of limbs, love, and morning breath. We'd chat about the fun we'd had the night before. Because we always had fun and we always fell asleep happy. Therefore, even with the cloud of a hangover, we still woke up happy. Foggy, but genuinely happy.

We would stay in our pajamas all day on hangover day. You would make us breakfast while I dramatically allowed you to wait on me. I would sprawl across the wood floor and moan about being in a hurt box. You would pop vitamins, make us fresh juice, fry bacon, and tell me about the most recent nutritional hangover cure you'd read about. I'd moan for coffee. You would make it, pour in the perfect amount of almond milk, and bring it to me in my favorite over-sized mug, setting it next to my face on the floor. You would bend down and give me a kiss and I would say, "Oh! That made my headache a bit better. Can I have another one?" You would kiss me again, "Gladly," you'd say.

We'd retire to the couch, where we would intend to stay all day. Hangover days were permission to put the real world aside. We'd switch on the Netflix or stolen HBO Go and catch up on the shows we liked, but rarely watched – The New Girl, The Mindy Project, Modern Family, Trophy Wife, or Hung. You'd man the remote, because I never really got a grasp on how it worked. "Just press all the buttons until you get the desired results," you'd joke about my remote-control tactics. I'd fall asleep a couple episodes in, my head in your lap. When I would wake up an hour or so later, I would hear The Simpsons or American Dad on in the background. You would watch cartoons when I slept because you knew they weren't my favorite. We'd watch the rest of the animated episode and you'd be stoked when you heard me laugh. "See! Cartoons are good," you'd convince me.

After a couple hours of guilty pleasures, we'd each take some time to accomplish something. You would bring your gear in from your last show and set up your drums. I would attend to emails and get ahead on the upcoming week's designs for the magazine. Within an hour or so, though, we would be back in the den on the couch, tying our bodies into a pretzel, once again. You'd switch on the Wii and we'd play Super Mario. Your Mario would race through world after world while my Luigi stumbled along behind you, falling in holes twenty times per level. You would take my controller and go win me a few dozen lives and then hand it back over for me to lose them all again within ten minutes. Our Nintendo games were immortal.

I would get frustrated and my thumbs would start to hurt from my exaggerated button pressing so we would stop playing. You would be hungry and we would pull up the menu for sushi delivery. There was no question about food. It was always sushi. Friends have questioned our love for sushi during a hangover, but sushi it was, every time. We had a system: you choose the sushi, I called to place the order, you would pay, I would answer the door, and you would hold the dog back. We would always order too much food and have sushi for breakfast the next day. You would plate dinner while I made us whiskey sours with organic maple syrup and lemons from our tree. We would feast.

We would watch some more TV during dinner. We didn't watch much TV in general, so hangover days (along with airplane rides) were a special treat. We generally chose comedies because we both preferred laughing to crying. But neither of us were afraid to cry. In fact, most likely at some point throughout our hangover day, we would both cry over a bittersweet video on social media. We'd kiss and our tears would merge as our faces touched.

Fat, happy, and minds abuzz with media overload, we would put our dishes in the sink and leave them for the next day. We'd head back to the den and boot the Wii back up. We'd play a few rounds of post-dinner Just Dance 3. We'd laugh and say it counted as a workout. You would win every time. I would scoff and say, "How is that possible? We both know I'm a fantastic dancer!" Then, I'd blame it on my controller. We'd swap controllers and you would win again. A not-very-sore-loser, I'd grin and decide I was over it. We'd strip down and get in the hot tub for a pre-bedtime soak. We'd finish our martinis as the bubbles surrounded us and the water massaged our lazy bodies. You'd turn off the jets, knowing that we both preferred the silence and stillness. We'd sit next to each other and laugh at jokes and replay stories. We'd chat about our upcoming week and we'd plan our beautiful lives together.

Fresh out of the hot tub, we'd head up to bed. I would splash water on my face and brush my teeth quicker than my electric toothbrush recommended. Still soaked in chlorine and too tired to care, I'd slide into a negligee and prance into bed, excited for you to join me. Most likely, I would usually be asleep by the time you finished your diligent hygiene routine: shower, towel-off, 2-minute toothbrushing session, floss, mouth rinse, fold clothes you'd worn, pee, drink water, and put on fresh pjs. You'd arrive in the bedroom and close the blinds, but when you got to the last one you'd gently wake me up and say, "Babe, what are you grateful for?" I'd half open my eyes and mumble "Your love. You?" "That's a good one, I'm grateful for your love too. And also for lazy days," you'd say. You'd climb in bed beside me, I would snuggle close to you, and murmur "mmhmm" from my slumber. We'd fade off together, happy.

Glitch

As I sit here in Steamboat, looking out over a beautiful cascading view of the mountain range, snow just beginning to appear on the runs, it takes me back to our visit here early last Spring. You had a gig at the Ghost Ranch on Friday night. I had a deadline for my job at the magazine. You drove the 3-hour-trek gracefully.

I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.

Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.

A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.

We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".

A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.

We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.

That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.

The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.

As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.

I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.

As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.