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 sad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sad. Show all posts
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.
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.
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.
Home Alone
It's been 62 days, 20 hours, and 36 minutes since I saw you take your last breath. Each day creeps slowly onto the next. I've settled into the knowledge that my only healer will be time. I've heard it, I've read it, but now I feel it, I know it. As of now, the wound remains open and raw. I think in some ways it's more open and raw now than it was 62 days ago. The adrenaline has left my system, the support is softer and less immediate, and the reality is vivid. Life without you is sinking in, it's desolate.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Emergency
Oh Teddy. I needed you so much today.
Black Friday – the day when Americans rise at the crack of dawn to stampede over one another for a flat screen TV – twelve hours after giving thanks for what they already have. I slept in and avoided the crowds. I tried to keep the thanks that abounded yesterday present in my spirit – but a gratitude hangover kept creeping in. The high (a very relative high) of being with family, loved ones, and surrounded by comfort had worn off – and a low set in. The aching, deep sadness welled up in my body and heart spilled out all day.
I took my grandma to her doctor's appointment. Walking into the clinic was incredibly hard. The smell of the waiting room brought back the trauma of the emergency room. The forms made me recall that night when they wouldn't tell me what was happening with your condition but they were asking me for IDs, co-pays, and insurance cards. Sitting in a doctor's office with that bed, different, but still so similar. I watched my grandma get her blood pressure tested and I knew my own was through the roof. I could hear my heartbeat in my temples. Deep breaths, I told myself.
Last spring, we went out for sushi with Chris and Cassie. I hadn't been feeling very well for a couple days, my stomach had been upset. After polishing off a boatload (literally) of sushi between the four of us, you and I left to go home. On the way home my stomach began to cramp like crazy. I lowered the passenger seat all-the-way back and moaned the whole drive home. You began to get very concerned. By the time we got home, the cramps had gotten unbearable. I had work to do and was dedicated to completing my deadline versus resting. My steadfast focus on work always drove you nuts, but especially in that moment. I laid in bed, gripped my stomach, cried, and laid out pages for my magazine in between running to the bathroom to vomit.
You were beside yourself with concern. I was convinced that I would be OK and tried to keep working. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You nearly dragged me to the car to head to the Emergency Room. I asked if I could bring my computer so I could continue working, you wouldn't hear of it. You were convinced it was appendicitis.
I had never seen you drive so fast. You were going seventy MPH down the strict thirty-five MPH zone on Broadway in Boulder. I joked, "You're going to kill us just getting there! Is this how you're going to drive when I'm in labor someday?" You looked at me and I saw that you had tears streaming down your cheeks. "Sami. This is not a joke, I don't know what I would do if something happened to you," you were dead serious. That was one of the moments when I realized how much you loved me and how you couldn't imagine life without me.
After ninety minutes in the ER, an IV, various failed attempts to hit a vein to insert said IV, a CT-scan, and a urinalysis – the diagnosis was in – it was a bad urinary tract infection and a sushi overdose. I left the ER at 2 am with a bunch of cranberry pills, a mild antibiotic, strict instructions to pee after sex, and a $10,000 bill (not an exaggeration).
As I slowly paid my bill off each month, I would remind you about your paranoia that night, about how you thought something was so wrong and it had been minor. Every time, you would insist that we had done the right thing. You would launch into a long explanation about how you wouldn't know how to go on without me, you had never been so scared in your life, and about how I was your everything. Despite the bill, I agreed with you. We had done the right thing. I would wrap my arms around you and promise that I would never leave you.
When the tables turned the night of your death, I acted in the exact same way that you did. The instant something seemed off, I called 911 – three numbers I had never dialed consecutively before. Three numbers I never, in my worst nightmare, expected I'd have to dial. Before panic set in, adrenaline filled my veins and I acted to the best of my ability. Except adrenaline and action weren't enough. We didn't get off lucky. We got off horribly, horribly wrong. And now, I am learning what life is like without you. And it's not OK. I am not OK. And in moments of sheer devastation, I scream at the sky, "How could you leave me? You said you would never leave me!"
Today, after my grandma's appointment, we went to a restaurant in Perrysburg to grab a salad. As my mom, grandma, and myself sat in a booth – we noticed some commotion behind us near the door. An elderly man had slipped and hit his head. He was passed out and a crowd of people were gathering around. Sheer panic began to fill my body, my hair stood up on my skin. "We already called 911!" I heard someone shout. I turned to my mom and said, "This is not going to be OK for me."
Within a few minutes (not sixteen...) I saw emergency lights flashing against the brick walls of the restaurant. "Do not turn around," my mom instructed. I turned around. EMTs filled the front of the restaurant responding to the man's needs. "He is going to be OK. He conscious," my mom said. I didn't turn around again. I gripped the booth with my fingernails, trying to ground myself. I took more deep breaths. I sat in that booth, quivered, and sobbed silent tears for the next ten minutes until the man left. He was OK. 'Why him. Why was he OK and Ted wasn't? He's an old, frail man and Teddy was only 34. Ted still had his whole life to live!' I tried not to think about it. After the commotion died down, I stood up to refill my coffee. My legs felt like jello. I thought, 'Oh great, now I'm going to pass out and they're going to have to come back for me.' The thought of myself in an ambulance made me snap out of it. I let it go.
The reaction of the trauma is nothing compared to the loss. But together, the pain and stress continue to snowball. I try to go on with my days, but they feel so empty. I try to put out of my mind what this holiday season was supposed to be for us, but it sneaks in. It was supposed to be so beautiful. It was supposed to be the happiest holiday season of our lives. And as I walked into stores today, holiday jingles chirping and evergreen candles casting out their nostalgic 'Oh what a wonderful time of year!' scent, I felt constricted with grief and emptiness.
I had a dream with you in it last night. I was snuggled up with you on a chair. We were arm-in-arm and my legs were draped over your lap. I asked you if you had any idea where we would be one-year from now. You said you didn't. You said, "I know where we will be ten years from now, but I do not know where we will be in one year." Then, I remembered that you were dead. I wrapped myself around you, started to cry, and begged you not to leave. Your skin changed to a grey color and you became cold and hard as I held you. You were gone. I wept as I embraced your stone body.
I do not know where I will be in one year. I do not know where I will be in ten years. And it is so hard, because just weeks ago, I KNEW. I knew where we were headed. I knew how beautiful it had all become, and that it was only getting more beautiful. We both shared with each other often that we felt that we deserved it – we deserved to finally be so happy. With you, I felt complete. I felt held. I felt loved. I felt whole. I felt fearless. I felt secure. I felt accepted. I felt creative. I felt nurtured. And for the first time in my life, I felt ready. And now, I feel none of that. I feel empty. I feel lost. I feel bewildered. And I feel lonely.
Black Friday – the day when Americans rise at the crack of dawn to stampede over one another for a flat screen TV – twelve hours after giving thanks for what they already have. I slept in and avoided the crowds. I tried to keep the thanks that abounded yesterday present in my spirit – but a gratitude hangover kept creeping in. The high (a very relative high) of being with family, loved ones, and surrounded by comfort had worn off – and a low set in. The aching, deep sadness welled up in my body and heart spilled out all day.
I took my grandma to her doctor's appointment. Walking into the clinic was incredibly hard. The smell of the waiting room brought back the trauma of the emergency room. The forms made me recall that night when they wouldn't tell me what was happening with your condition but they were asking me for IDs, co-pays, and insurance cards. Sitting in a doctor's office with that bed, different, but still so similar. I watched my grandma get her blood pressure tested and I knew my own was through the roof. I could hear my heartbeat in my temples. Deep breaths, I told myself.
Last spring, we went out for sushi with Chris and Cassie. I hadn't been feeling very well for a couple days, my stomach had been upset. After polishing off a boatload (literally) of sushi between the four of us, you and I left to go home. On the way home my stomach began to cramp like crazy. I lowered the passenger seat all-the-way back and moaned the whole drive home. You began to get very concerned. By the time we got home, the cramps had gotten unbearable. I had work to do and was dedicated to completing my deadline versus resting. My steadfast focus on work always drove you nuts, but especially in that moment. I laid in bed, gripped my stomach, cried, and laid out pages for my magazine in between running to the bathroom to vomit.
You were beside yourself with concern. I was convinced that I would be OK and tried to keep working. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You nearly dragged me to the car to head to the Emergency Room. I asked if I could bring my computer so I could continue working, you wouldn't hear of it. You were convinced it was appendicitis.
I had never seen you drive so fast. You were going seventy MPH down the strict thirty-five MPH zone on Broadway in Boulder. I joked, "You're going to kill us just getting there! Is this how you're going to drive when I'm in labor someday?" You looked at me and I saw that you had tears streaming down your cheeks. "Sami. This is not a joke, I don't know what I would do if something happened to you," you were dead serious. That was one of the moments when I realized how much you loved me and how you couldn't imagine life without me.
After ninety minutes in the ER, an IV, various failed attempts to hit a vein to insert said IV, a CT-scan, and a urinalysis – the diagnosis was in – it was a bad urinary tract infection and a sushi overdose. I left the ER at 2 am with a bunch of cranberry pills, a mild antibiotic, strict instructions to pee after sex, and a $10,000 bill (not an exaggeration).
As I slowly paid my bill off each month, I would remind you about your paranoia that night, about how you thought something was so wrong and it had been minor. Every time, you would insist that we had done the right thing. You would launch into a long explanation about how you wouldn't know how to go on without me, you had never been so scared in your life, and about how I was your everything. Despite the bill, I agreed with you. We had done the right thing. I would wrap my arms around you and promise that I would never leave you.
When the tables turned the night of your death, I acted in the exact same way that you did. The instant something seemed off, I called 911 – three numbers I had never dialed consecutively before. Three numbers I never, in my worst nightmare, expected I'd have to dial. Before panic set in, adrenaline filled my veins and I acted to the best of my ability. Except adrenaline and action weren't enough. We didn't get off lucky. We got off horribly, horribly wrong. And now, I am learning what life is like without you. And it's not OK. I am not OK. And in moments of sheer devastation, I scream at the sky, "How could you leave me? You said you would never leave me!"
Today, after my grandma's appointment, we went to a restaurant in Perrysburg to grab a salad. As my mom, grandma, and myself sat in a booth – we noticed some commotion behind us near the door. An elderly man had slipped and hit his head. He was passed out and a crowd of people were gathering around. Sheer panic began to fill my body, my hair stood up on my skin. "We already called 911!" I heard someone shout. I turned to my mom and said, "This is not going to be OK for me."
Within a few minutes (not sixteen...) I saw emergency lights flashing against the brick walls of the restaurant. "Do not turn around," my mom instructed. I turned around. EMTs filled the front of the restaurant responding to the man's needs. "He is going to be OK. He conscious," my mom said. I didn't turn around again. I gripped the booth with my fingernails, trying to ground myself. I took more deep breaths. I sat in that booth, quivered, and sobbed silent tears for the next ten minutes until the man left. He was OK. 'Why him. Why was he OK and Ted wasn't? He's an old, frail man and Teddy was only 34. Ted still had his whole life to live!' I tried not to think about it. After the commotion died down, I stood up to refill my coffee. My legs felt like jello. I thought, 'Oh great, now I'm going to pass out and they're going to have to come back for me.' The thought of myself in an ambulance made me snap out of it. I let it go.
The reaction of the trauma is nothing compared to the loss. But together, the pain and stress continue to snowball. I try to go on with my days, but they feel so empty. I try to put out of my mind what this holiday season was supposed to be for us, but it sneaks in. It was supposed to be so beautiful. It was supposed to be the happiest holiday season of our lives. And as I walked into stores today, holiday jingles chirping and evergreen candles casting out their nostalgic 'Oh what a wonderful time of year!' scent, I felt constricted with grief and emptiness.
I had a dream with you in it last night. I was snuggled up with you on a chair. We were arm-in-arm and my legs were draped over your lap. I asked you if you had any idea where we would be one-year from now. You said you didn't. You said, "I know where we will be ten years from now, but I do not know where we will be in one year." Then, I remembered that you were dead. I wrapped myself around you, started to cry, and begged you not to leave. Your skin changed to a grey color and you became cold and hard as I held you. You were gone. I wept as I embraced your stone body.
I do not know where I will be in one year. I do not know where I will be in ten years. And it is so hard, because just weeks ago, I KNEW. I knew where we were headed. I knew how beautiful it had all become, and that it was only getting more beautiful. We both shared with each other often that we felt that we deserved it – we deserved to finally be so happy. With you, I felt complete. I felt held. I felt loved. I felt whole. I felt fearless. I felt secure. I felt accepted. I felt creative. I felt nurtured. And for the first time in my life, I felt ready. And now, I feel none of that. I feel empty. I feel lost. I feel bewildered. And I feel lonely.
What I know and what I don't know.
I can officially, without a drop of doubt in my mind, now say that the worst month of my life is behind me. You have been gone a month. It's been a month since we talked. It's been a month since we looked into each others eyes. It's been a month since we said "I love you". It's been a month since we kissed. And like all measures of time, it's one I can't take back.
Time is an interesting concept. One that I don't really even understand anymore, to be honest. I used to think we 'had time on our side'. That was not the case. Time robbed us. Or maybe something else robbed time. An hour seems long when you want it to be short. When you want an hour to last forever, it rushes by. Certain years of my life seem to have lasted ages, when others I had hardly remember because they whisked by. It seems like forever since I last saw you. But then it also seems like just a moment ago. I don't know what time is. I know you didn't either. We used to talk about quantum physics and agree, there was a lot more to space and time than humanity could calculate.
I remember our last kiss. It was at 8:20 pm on Friday, October 24th (2014). It was gentle and loving. We looked into each others eyes. It wasn't rushed. There is no way we could have ever known that was to be our last kiss, that you would take your last breath just five hours later. But considering it was, I have no regrets about that kiss. It was perfect.
I also remember our first kiss. It was on Sunday, January 27th 2013 at about 2 am. You said, "Can I kiss you now!?" It was as if you'd been waiting forever to do so. Maybe you had. Maybe you'd been waiting since our last lifetime together was cut short. No one knows when their first kiss will happen either. One may hope – or maybe it comes out of the blue. Eagerness and lust filling you up. Excitement standing in line with breath mints, chapstick, and impatience. Our first kiss was perfect.
I imagined our kiss on the altar thousands of times. The one that would happen after we got to say "I do". I imagined it as a collage of all the best romance movie kisses – expect better. It would be fueled with true love, excitement, passion, hope, destiny, and faith. It was going to be perfect. It still will be, someday, whatever that means.
What I never once imagined was that it wouldn't happen. I was so sure... wasn't I? Why hadn't I ever considered things could have taken a dark turn, as they did? Had I stuffed premonitions and ominous occurrences aside, and just assumed, with false hope, that we would get what we so thought we deserved – real happiness? Isn't that what the point of life is? Love? Did life deliver us what we deserved? Was our twenty months of true connection and love what life had in store for us? Did we get to squeeze as much love as most beings have in seventy years into that short time? I will never know.
There's not a lot of things I know right now. I am confused about this thing we call time. I am up in the air about the specifics of afterlife. I'm trying to decide if there's a difference between fate, destiny, and happenstance. I am hopeful, but not one-hundred-percent sure that you are watching over me. I'm not sure what to gather from the visions, the mediums, and the signs that have been appearing everywhere. I don't know where you are, I hope it's not just in dust and ashes inside of a cold urn. I don't know why you died. I don't know if there is anything I could have done. I don't know if this is a part of a master plan. I don't know what our children would have looked like, if they would have been blonde or brunette, like we often thought about. I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I don't know if we only have one soul mate. I don't know if I will ever love again. I don't know if you will come back as my child, like you told me you would. I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know how the hair is still growing on my legs and how my cycle continues to flow, when my heart feels like it has stopped, though I can hear it beat.... beat... beat. I don't know what's next.
But, there's a few things I do know.
"I know that I am glad we had this time together. I am glad we shared our love, even though time cut it short. I also know that I still have all the love. It didn't go anywhere. In fact, it still grows. As the grief grows, the love grows. I have all this love, you gave it to me, and that is your gift to me. That is the biggest gift anyone could receive. Because now I know love, I own love, and I have your love inside of me. And I can share it, like you did. I know that my life will never be the same. I will be a new kind of woman. I will be a new kind of teacher. I will be a new kind of lover. I will be you, in some ways. I KNOW that you are inside of me – not in all the ways I want (giggity) – but you are here. I know that I would not be able to wake up, get out of bed, carry on a conversation, take care of myself, eat, even laugh, for god's sake, without you being in me. I know you are carrying me. In what way that is, I do not know at all, and I never will – but I know you are and that you always will be."
I love you.
Time is an interesting concept. One that I don't really even understand anymore, to be honest. I used to think we 'had time on our side'. That was not the case. Time robbed us. Or maybe something else robbed time. An hour seems long when you want it to be short. When you want an hour to last forever, it rushes by. Certain years of my life seem to have lasted ages, when others I had hardly remember because they whisked by. It seems like forever since I last saw you. But then it also seems like just a moment ago. I don't know what time is. I know you didn't either. We used to talk about quantum physics and agree, there was a lot more to space and time than humanity could calculate.
I remember our last kiss. It was at 8:20 pm on Friday, October 24th (2014). It was gentle and loving. We looked into each others eyes. It wasn't rushed. There is no way we could have ever known that was to be our last kiss, that you would take your last breath just five hours later. But considering it was, I have no regrets about that kiss. It was perfect.
I also remember our first kiss. It was on Sunday, January 27th 2013 at about 2 am. You said, "Can I kiss you now!?" It was as if you'd been waiting forever to do so. Maybe you had. Maybe you'd been waiting since our last lifetime together was cut short. No one knows when their first kiss will happen either. One may hope – or maybe it comes out of the blue. Eagerness and lust filling you up. Excitement standing in line with breath mints, chapstick, and impatience. Our first kiss was perfect.
I imagined our kiss on the altar thousands of times. The one that would happen after we got to say "I do". I imagined it as a collage of all the best romance movie kisses – expect better. It would be fueled with true love, excitement, passion, hope, destiny, and faith. It was going to be perfect. It still will be, someday, whatever that means.
What I never once imagined was that it wouldn't happen. I was so sure... wasn't I? Why hadn't I ever considered things could have taken a dark turn, as they did? Had I stuffed premonitions and ominous occurrences aside, and just assumed, with false hope, that we would get what we so thought we deserved – real happiness? Isn't that what the point of life is? Love? Did life deliver us what we deserved? Was our twenty months of true connection and love what life had in store for us? Did we get to squeeze as much love as most beings have in seventy years into that short time? I will never know.
There's not a lot of things I know right now. I am confused about this thing we call time. I am up in the air about the specifics of afterlife. I'm trying to decide if there's a difference between fate, destiny, and happenstance. I am hopeful, but not one-hundred-percent sure that you are watching over me. I'm not sure what to gather from the visions, the mediums, and the signs that have been appearing everywhere. I don't know where you are, I hope it's not just in dust and ashes inside of a cold urn. I don't know why you died. I don't know if there is anything I could have done. I don't know if this is a part of a master plan. I don't know what our children would have looked like, if they would have been blonde or brunette, like we often thought about. I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I don't know if we only have one soul mate. I don't know if I will ever love again. I don't know if you will come back as my child, like you told me you would. I don't know how I'm still standing. I don't know how the hair is still growing on my legs and how my cycle continues to flow, when my heart feels like it has stopped, though I can hear it beat.... beat... beat. I don't know what's next.
But, there's a few things I do know.
"I know that I am glad we had this time together. I am glad we shared our love, even though time cut it short. I also know that I still have all the love. It didn't go anywhere. In fact, it still grows. As the grief grows, the love grows. I have all this love, you gave it to me, and that is your gift to me. That is the biggest gift anyone could receive. Because now I know love, I own love, and I have your love inside of me. And I can share it, like you did. I know that my life will never be the same. I will be a new kind of woman. I will be a new kind of teacher. I will be a new kind of lover. I will be you, in some ways. I KNOW that you are inside of me – not in all the ways I want (giggity) – but you are here. I know that I would not be able to wake up, get out of bed, carry on a conversation, take care of myself, eat, even laugh, for god's sake, without you being in me. I know you are carrying me. In what way that is, I do not know at all, and I never will – but I know you are and that you always will be."
I love you.
Lonely (Guest Blog by Kevin Watson)
By Kevin Watson (Teddy's Roommate & Great Friend)
--
People keep asking me “How are you?” I usually respond with, “I’m hanging in” or “Just taking it one breath at a time” or “I’m OK.” Most of those answers are true except one.
I’m not ok.
To be blunt, the best way to describe me is lonely. I’m really fucking lonely. Don’t get me wrong, I know I have people that love me and I have those people around me in abundance! So many amazing people have reached out in support. Many still check in regularly. And it’s been a blessing to be able to go through this grief with so many people who knew Ted and the light he beamed out constantly. We can share in what we miss. It’s not that I feel alone. I’m lonely.
Truth is, I was feeling lonely before Ted died. For whatever reason I’ve chosen that path in more ways than is obvious. I’ve never been in a relationship longer than 6 months. Why? Take your pick: my father’s death, high (irrational/quality) standards, being cheated on, self-sabatoge due to fear of commitment? I’d say it’s a combo of all these things but the one that keeps coming back to me, is having trouble willing to trust someone to completely love me. All of me. The shit. The shine. All of it. Or maybe that’s to say there’s a fear that no one actually could. Regardless of the reason, I’ve yet to find a lover that could be my best friend as well. Understand that I don’t regret my philosophy or course of action when it comes to such partnership. I chose that route for good reasons and I’m proud to say that I’ve never stayed with someone just to keep from being by myself. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely.
I’ve also chosen solitude in other endeavors as well. My passion for live music was fostered by going to bars and checking out music on my own. I basically flew solo at my first few music festivals, too, partly because I didn’t want to be slowed down by a group of friends but largely because my group of friends at the time weren’t into the music I like. I didn’t want to ask people to go do something they didn’t love just to keep me from being lonely. I remember very vividly the time I had the realization that I needed to be happy with who I was and I shouldn’t rely on others to make me feel that way. I guess these endeavors were some sort of exercise in those regards.
I still go eat dinner by myself, exercise by myself, and I definitely still go see music by myself. Fortunately, now I usually see plenty of friends from the scene. And while I genuinely call them “friends”, I know that there are different levels of friendship. The energy I get from their hugs and smiles and cheers are a big part of why I love live music. It’s not just the music, it’s the community. That being said, how many of those people truly know me? How many people knew that on top of Ted’s death, my nephew Bennett is sick? Or that I even have a nephew? Unfortunately, the music biz is filled with a lot of amazing people who don’t truly know you that well and vice versa.
And I have a beautiful, loving, supportive family back home in Oklahoma. We even have some ‘adopted’ families that are amazing as well. Sure, they know me and love me in ways that only family can. I’m so blessed to have a diverse family that loves each other unconditionally. But does that mean they really understand my conditions? Do I feel like any of them truly know what my life is like or understand who I am or why I act the way I do? I have to say no. I also understand that this is normal for most families. Does that make me less lonely? No.
These are just a few things that have left me feeling lonely on and off for years. Right now, though, I’m feeling waves of the most harrowing loneliness I may have ever known. Even worse than when my father died? Yes. Even worse than my suicidal depression of my teens? Yes. Why? Because I feel like at this point in my life, Ted not only UNDERSTOOD me and my character flaws and how I think and (over)analyze, and what makes me tick more than anyone else, HE LOVED ME FOR IT ALL! I can honestly say that the closest thing I’ve known to being both understood and accepted is gone. And it makes me fucking lonely.
This year I went to Burning Man for the first time. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a number of years. Ted had really pushed for me to go for a couple of years now. In 2013 I had planned on going so far as to have purchased a ticket. For a number of reasons it fell through. Teddy would always say, “The thing about going to Burning Man is you have to MAKE it happen! You can’t just think it will fall into place. You have to go do it.” Well, finally after a year of planning and saving, I made it happen. I didn’t camp with Ted’s crew for a few reasons, the biggest being that I would only know Ted and Sami and a couple others in a pretty large camp. I didn’t want to be Ted and Sami’s 3rd wheel the whole time, so I joined up with some other friends to form a small independent camp. I somehow didn’t realize though, that my core camp would consist of myself and 4 other couples. I went from 3rd wheel to 9th wheel! Ha! Don’t get me wrong, the people at my camp were and are outrageously amazing people and I made some great memories with them! But still everyone else had a wingman. I again was solo. And at first I was fine with it, as usual. I explored the vast desert city on my own, getting the lay of the land, finding some great adventures and meeting some interesting folks. By the third day though, all I wanted was to go find my roommates!!! And find them I did. Night after night.
A few different mantras or lessons just kept hammering away at me while I was there. One big one was, “Why would you choose to do these things on your own when you could share the experiences with others? Not to mention people you love!?” Hanging out with Ted and Sami and our great friend Nate didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right. It was without insecurity or fear of judgment. There was no other place I would have rather been. (I also never felt like a 3rd wheel.) And while Sami and Nate are amazing friends, that confidence and comfort in those moments was a direct result of Ted’s friendship. It was a beautiful feeling. It felt like home.
Teddy had worked intently for a while on making me feel ‘at home’. I guess you could say we both worked on it together, but he insisted on it. I remember when we were preparing for my birthday in 2012. I had only lived in the house for around 4 months. I was nervous at first to ask Ted if I could have a large birthday dinner and then a party at the house. I never wanted to intrude on his world. Ted being Ted said, “A party!? Of course!!!” He didn’t know the majority of the people that would be attending yet he was happy to have them here. I remember inviting people and saying, “So we’re gonna have my birthday dinner up at Ted’s house then we’re gonna open it up to a big invite to whoever wants to come party. Do you have directions to Ted’s?” I can’t remember exactly how it came up. I think Ted heard me say something similar on the phone. I remember he cracked up about it though! “Why don’t you just tell everyone the party is at your house?”, he said with his sarcastic exaggerated tone. “I mean, this is your house isn’t it?” I replied saying that it wasn’t really my house, that he owned it. He insisted that I had ‘ownership’ in the house based on my actions: I made payments on the house (rent) and I took care of it like my own with maintenance and respect, so why would I not call it my house! It took me a long time to make the change from calling it ‘Ted’s house’ and even after everything I still have trouble calling it mine. I usually just refer to it as ‘the house’ or ‘our house’.
I came back from Burning Man feeling more at home than ever with Ted and Sami. There was an acceptance and appreciation for each other that reached farther than ever before. I came back feeling more comfortable in my own skin and in tune with who I am than I have in years. I remember joking with Ted about taking pride in the kind of men we are. “You are I gentle, compassionate, sensitive men! And if people have problems with it they can fuck off!!!” So gentle. So compassionate. Ha! Someone had recently asked me if I would ever consider moving to Denver. I told them that I think the only way I’d move out of ‘the house’ was when Sami and Ted got married and were starting a family. (Ted had told me to see this as my home until then, and had joked saying, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll need Uncle Kevin around then!”) I replied to my friend’s question that there obviously was a physical luxury that the house provided, but that’s just stuff. The biggest reason that I wouldn’t ever want to leave was the emotional and personal comfort that I found in my roommates. Honest communication. Understanding. Compassion. Acceptance. LOVE!!! Why would I ever go anywhere else!?
It’s beyond unfortunate why Sami and I are closer than ever before yet I’m so blessed by our friendship. I don’t know how I would be dealing with this without her. That being said, this home is shattered. Ted was her rock in a way I could never know! I guess I never really completely understood how much he was a rock for me. I feel like I never really took his friendship for granted; I have no regrets with how our friendship grew or where we were in it when he died. But that old cliché keeps popping up in my grief. “You never really know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
Now I know. Ted is gone. My brother is gone. And without him I’m lonelier than ever.
--
People keep asking me “How are you?” I usually respond with, “I’m hanging in” or “Just taking it one breath at a time” or “I’m OK.” Most of those answers are true except one.
I’m not ok.
To be blunt, the best way to describe me is lonely. I’m really fucking lonely. Don’t get me wrong, I know I have people that love me and I have those people around me in abundance! So many amazing people have reached out in support. Many still check in regularly. And it’s been a blessing to be able to go through this grief with so many people who knew Ted and the light he beamed out constantly. We can share in what we miss. It’s not that I feel alone. I’m lonely.
Truth is, I was feeling lonely before Ted died. For whatever reason I’ve chosen that path in more ways than is obvious. I’ve never been in a relationship longer than 6 months. Why? Take your pick: my father’s death, high (irrational/quality) standards, being cheated on, self-sabatoge due to fear of commitment? I’d say it’s a combo of all these things but the one that keeps coming back to me, is having trouble willing to trust someone to completely love me. All of me. The shit. The shine. All of it. Or maybe that’s to say there’s a fear that no one actually could. Regardless of the reason, I’ve yet to find a lover that could be my best friend as well. Understand that I don’t regret my philosophy or course of action when it comes to such partnership. I chose that route for good reasons and I’m proud to say that I’ve never stayed with someone just to keep from being by myself. However, that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely.
I’ve also chosen solitude in other endeavors as well. My passion for live music was fostered by going to bars and checking out music on my own. I basically flew solo at my first few music festivals, too, partly because I didn’t want to be slowed down by a group of friends but largely because my group of friends at the time weren’t into the music I like. I didn’t want to ask people to go do something they didn’t love just to keep me from being lonely. I remember very vividly the time I had the realization that I needed to be happy with who I was and I shouldn’t rely on others to make me feel that way. I guess these endeavors were some sort of exercise in those regards.
I still go eat dinner by myself, exercise by myself, and I definitely still go see music by myself. Fortunately, now I usually see plenty of friends from the scene. And while I genuinely call them “friends”, I know that there are different levels of friendship. The energy I get from their hugs and smiles and cheers are a big part of why I love live music. It’s not just the music, it’s the community. That being said, how many of those people truly know me? How many people knew that on top of Ted’s death, my nephew Bennett is sick? Or that I even have a nephew? Unfortunately, the music biz is filled with a lot of amazing people who don’t truly know you that well and vice versa.
And I have a beautiful, loving, supportive family back home in Oklahoma. We even have some ‘adopted’ families that are amazing as well. Sure, they know me and love me in ways that only family can. I’m so blessed to have a diverse family that loves each other unconditionally. But does that mean they really understand my conditions? Do I feel like any of them truly know what my life is like or understand who I am or why I act the way I do? I have to say no. I also understand that this is normal for most families. Does that make me less lonely? No.
These are just a few things that have left me feeling lonely on and off for years. Right now, though, I’m feeling waves of the most harrowing loneliness I may have ever known. Even worse than when my father died? Yes. Even worse than my suicidal depression of my teens? Yes. Why? Because I feel like at this point in my life, Ted not only UNDERSTOOD me and my character flaws and how I think and (over)analyze, and what makes me tick more than anyone else, HE LOVED ME FOR IT ALL! I can honestly say that the closest thing I’ve known to being both understood and accepted is gone. And it makes me fucking lonely.
This year I went to Burning Man for the first time. It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a number of years. Ted had really pushed for me to go for a couple of years now. In 2013 I had planned on going so far as to have purchased a ticket. For a number of reasons it fell through. Teddy would always say, “The thing about going to Burning Man is you have to MAKE it happen! You can’t just think it will fall into place. You have to go do it.” Well, finally after a year of planning and saving, I made it happen. I didn’t camp with Ted’s crew for a few reasons, the biggest being that I would only know Ted and Sami and a couple others in a pretty large camp. I didn’t want to be Ted and Sami’s 3rd wheel the whole time, so I joined up with some other friends to form a small independent camp. I somehow didn’t realize though, that my core camp would consist of myself and 4 other couples. I went from 3rd wheel to 9th wheel! Ha! Don’t get me wrong, the people at my camp were and are outrageously amazing people and I made some great memories with them! But still everyone else had a wingman. I again was solo. And at first I was fine with it, as usual. I explored the vast desert city on my own, getting the lay of the land, finding some great adventures and meeting some interesting folks. By the third day though, all I wanted was to go find my roommates!!! And find them I did. Night after night.
A few different mantras or lessons just kept hammering away at me while I was there. One big one was, “Why would you choose to do these things on your own when you could share the experiences with others? Not to mention people you love!?” Hanging out with Ted and Sami and our great friend Nate didn’t just feel comfortable, it felt right. It was without insecurity or fear of judgment. There was no other place I would have rather been. (I also never felt like a 3rd wheel.) And while Sami and Nate are amazing friends, that confidence and comfort in those moments was a direct result of Ted’s friendship. It was a beautiful feeling. It felt like home.
Teddy had worked intently for a while on making me feel ‘at home’. I guess you could say we both worked on it together, but he insisted on it. I remember when we were preparing for my birthday in 2012. I had only lived in the house for around 4 months. I was nervous at first to ask Ted if I could have a large birthday dinner and then a party at the house. I never wanted to intrude on his world. Ted being Ted said, “A party!? Of course!!!” He didn’t know the majority of the people that would be attending yet he was happy to have them here. I remember inviting people and saying, “So we’re gonna have my birthday dinner up at Ted’s house then we’re gonna open it up to a big invite to whoever wants to come party. Do you have directions to Ted’s?” I can’t remember exactly how it came up. I think Ted heard me say something similar on the phone. I remember he cracked up about it though! “Why don’t you just tell everyone the party is at your house?”, he said with his sarcastic exaggerated tone. “I mean, this is your house isn’t it?” I replied saying that it wasn’t really my house, that he owned it. He insisted that I had ‘ownership’ in the house based on my actions: I made payments on the house (rent) and I took care of it like my own with maintenance and respect, so why would I not call it my house! It took me a long time to make the change from calling it ‘Ted’s house’ and even after everything I still have trouble calling it mine. I usually just refer to it as ‘the house’ or ‘our house’.
I came back from Burning Man feeling more at home than ever with Ted and Sami. There was an acceptance and appreciation for each other that reached farther than ever before. I came back feeling more comfortable in my own skin and in tune with who I am than I have in years. I remember joking with Ted about taking pride in the kind of men we are. “You are I gentle, compassionate, sensitive men! And if people have problems with it they can fuck off!!!” So gentle. So compassionate. Ha! Someone had recently asked me if I would ever consider moving to Denver. I told them that I think the only way I’d move out of ‘the house’ was when Sami and Ted got married and were starting a family. (Ted had told me to see this as my home until then, and had joked saying, “Who knows? Maybe we’ll need Uncle Kevin around then!”) I replied to my friend’s question that there obviously was a physical luxury that the house provided, but that’s just stuff. The biggest reason that I wouldn’t ever want to leave was the emotional and personal comfort that I found in my roommates. Honest communication. Understanding. Compassion. Acceptance. LOVE!!! Why would I ever go anywhere else!?
It’s beyond unfortunate why Sami and I are closer than ever before yet I’m so blessed by our friendship. I don’t know how I would be dealing with this without her. That being said, this home is shattered. Ted was her rock in a way I could never know! I guess I never really completely understood how much he was a rock for me. I feel like I never really took his friendship for granted; I have no regrets with how our friendship grew or where we were in it when he died. But that old cliché keeps popping up in my grief. “You never really know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
Now I know. Ted is gone. My brother is gone. And without him I’m lonelier than ever.
It’s a Boy (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
Luke and I are expecting our third child in April. It’s a boy. He’ll have two older sisters as his traveling companions in our family.
Ted knew that I was pregnant. When we told him the good news, we didn’t yet know the sex of the baby. He was hoping for another nephew—wanting to even up the score. I was hoping for another girl. We found out it was a boy about a week before Ted died, but we never got around to telling him. He knows now.
I was a little disappointed when we found out. I was already immersed in little girl stuff and was ready to add another one to the gang. I thought that raising three girls would feel like year-round summer camp. I didn’t know quite what to think when the nurse told me, “It’s a boy!”
I sat with a friend the day after we heard the good news and talked it over with her. I finally came around to the idea of raising a boy when I mentioned, “I love having a brother. Now our girls will get to have one too.” And that thought did a complete 180 on my disappointment.
Less than a week later, I lost my brother. And now, I couldn’t be more thrilled to bring a little boy into our family. What a gift our kids will be to one another. My girls don’t even know how lucky they are to get to grow up with a brother. They will, all three of them, learn so much from each other and I can’t wait to see it unfold.
As Luke and I walk through our house, imagining what it will be like to have three kids running around, I explain to him a little about what to expect. Luke grew up with only one sister who is 13 years older. He didn’t have quite the same experience as I did and can’t quite anticipate the chaos that is about to ensue.
I was the middle child with Ted less than two years older and Berkley, about three years younger. We were a three-pronged unit. We were three slamming bedrooms doors. Three sets of coats, hats, mittens and snow boots. Three bikes in the garage. Three different favorite cereals. Three seats taken up in the minivan, three lifejackets in the boat. Three performers in the “shows” we put on for obliging family and guests. We were totally different from one another—people often congratulated my parents on raising three complete individuals. But we were always three.
I tear up (and often all-out sob) when I anticipate our next family gathering. Ted’s absence will be a force. There will be only two of us siblings taking up spots at the table. Two siblings exchanging in sarcastic banter.
I’ve come to realize that Berkley and I will be now known as the two remaining Welles kids. But what we actually are is two-thirds. We will not be a whole number. ‘Two’ does not acknowledge our missing and missed brother. We will be a pie chart where 33% is left unshaded.
As sad as this realization makes me—and it hits me again and again like punches in the face, I am so very glad that I will get to raise my own three-pronged unit. I will teach them to love and appreciate each other. To be their own person but to also remember that they’re a team and to stand up for one another. Hopefully they will grow to learn that a sibling is never to be taken for granted and perhaps the greatest gift their parents ever gave them.
Victim
When the small talk dies down, the room gets quiet, and the stimulation of being in nature wears off, I am hit with the reality of your death over and over and over and over. It's a reverse nightmare. When I wake – whether from sleep or distraction – I remember that the worst of any terror doesn't even begin to explain this truth. You are gone. My best friend, my lover, my soul mate, my philosopher, my buddy, my role model, my comedian, my teacher, my fiancé... is gone.
I've tried to stay busy over the past couple weeks. I've made a goal for myself to do one thing every day. I have committed to saying "yes" when good friends who are in-the-know ask me to do something. I can't make a decision for the life of me, but I can join the crowd. It's not easy, but I've managed to stay busy, stay healthy, and stay active in a yin way – long walks, hikes, and yoga. The amount of people who have reached out to me via social media, text, and phone has been overwhelming, and while I haven't had time to thank everyone individually, I am appreciative. Your parents, sisters and extended relatives, who are dealing with their own immeasurable amount of grief that I can't even begin to comprehend, have treated me with pure love and truly as family. I have also had the beautiful benefit of having wonderful friends and family arrive in Boulder with plans to take me somewhere, to nurture me, to do my dishes, laundry, pull me off the floor, and simply to be there as a shoulder to cry on. In the support realm, I have been blessed.
But no matter the amount of support, it doesn't purge the suffering. The grief process is unleashing itself in agonizing and unmapped ways.
In some moments – in nature, good music, during a heartfelt conversation, or when I'm writing to you – I feel somewhat strong. I feel like I might even thrive some day. There's always an underlying haze of sadness that doesn't let up – but mostly in those moments, I feel like you live on – in the nature, in the music, in the story, or in the words. But the times of strength are few and far between; I'm thwarted by their opposite.
A hiccup occurs, it's my reverse nightmare. I remember all over again what has happened. The trauma of the actual circumstance that night – your last words, the sudden shaking of your body, your eyes rolling back into your skull, your unresponsiveness when I tried to hold your hand, the panic of calling 911, the sixteen-minutes of trying to bring you back without success, the sirens, the flashing lights, your lack of pulse, the EMTs drilling holes in you and shocking your heart, Kira licking your face with concern, the ambulance, the emergency room, the guttural and unrecognizable sounds of my own wailing when they told me you were gone, shaking and kissing your lifeless body, laying on the gurney with 'you' for hours screaming and pleading for you to come back... the torture floods back like a ricochet of images from a flip book from hell.
I've refused to watch a horror movie since my teens. I avoided them because I get scared easily and didn't want to contend with the horrid circumstances they etched in my imagination. So instead, life decided to be a cunt and deliver one to me directly – front row seat, set in my own basement, participation required, and worst of all, a harrowing end. I can't get the scene out of my head – no matter how many good people are surrounding me, no matter how much I walk in nature, no matter how loud I turn up the music, and no matter how often I pour my words out to you through sobs or writing.
I like to think I've been doing a lot of work on myself, particularly for about the past four years. Yoga trainings, practice, reading philosophy, personal growth forums, surrounding myself with healthy and smart people, and then meeting you. You were the trophy for the woman I'd become. You made me a better person. The fact that a man with a soul, mind, and body as beautiful as yours fell in love with me was a testament to my dedication, or so I thought.
One thing I've really tried to master is not victimizing myself. It's a narcissistic behavior to think that happenstance occurs because of the self. But this situation has been really hard to navigate with a commanding, 'This has nothing to do with me,' attitude. Really fucking hard. Because this tragedy has ripped my life and future to bloody shreds, not to mention, the life and future of other people who love you too. But I feel like the Universe has played a cruel joke on me.
The woman I was when I was with you is struggling. She's confronting some big demons that she thought she'd left in the dust. The pure joy, love, and belief that she trusted has been derailed. Now, she's irritable and mournful. She doesn't live with pure faith. She's suspicious. She's melancholy and sarcastic about life's misgivings. She's not a woman I like to be around.
We come in and out of life alone. But along the way, we cross paths with extraordinary people. Ted, you were more than just extraordinary. You were a beacon of truth. You were a radiating example of the existence of true love. At the risk of sounding like a victim, I got teased by true love. It was dangled in front of me, I sucked on its sweetness, I tasted its lusciousness, and then, once addicted to it, to you, to your coddling love – it was ripped away. Now, I'm left alone – wanton, dry, barren, and lost.
No matter how much I coax myself to be strong, the truth of matter is that you are gone. I will not see your face ever again. I will never be able to kiss your lips. I will never hear your laugh. I will never hear you ask me, "Will you marry me?" I will never touch your soft skin. I will never be able to see you as a father. I will never be able to wake up with you. I will never hold your hand again. I will never again hear your words of wisdom. I will never be able to steal bites of food from your plate. I will never be able to impress you with a dirty joke. I will never be able to hold your hand during svasana again. And worst of all, I will never love the way I have loved with you. I was taunted with the pinnacle of love. The best love. I was given a gift that most people never get to experience. I was given a love that was glorious and absolute. And at the risk of being greedy, I want it back.
I've tried to stay busy over the past couple weeks. I've made a goal for myself to do one thing every day. I have committed to saying "yes" when good friends who are in-the-know ask me to do something. I can't make a decision for the life of me, but I can join the crowd. It's not easy, but I've managed to stay busy, stay healthy, and stay active in a yin way – long walks, hikes, and yoga. The amount of people who have reached out to me via social media, text, and phone has been overwhelming, and while I haven't had time to thank everyone individually, I am appreciative. Your parents, sisters and extended relatives, who are dealing with their own immeasurable amount of grief that I can't even begin to comprehend, have treated me with pure love and truly as family. I have also had the beautiful benefit of having wonderful friends and family arrive in Boulder with plans to take me somewhere, to nurture me, to do my dishes, laundry, pull me off the floor, and simply to be there as a shoulder to cry on. In the support realm, I have been blessed.
But no matter the amount of support, it doesn't purge the suffering. The grief process is unleashing itself in agonizing and unmapped ways.
In some moments – in nature, good music, during a heartfelt conversation, or when I'm writing to you – I feel somewhat strong. I feel like I might even thrive some day. There's always an underlying haze of sadness that doesn't let up – but mostly in those moments, I feel like you live on – in the nature, in the music, in the story, or in the words. But the times of strength are few and far between; I'm thwarted by their opposite.
A hiccup occurs, it's my reverse nightmare. I remember all over again what has happened. The trauma of the actual circumstance that night – your last words, the sudden shaking of your body, your eyes rolling back into your skull, your unresponsiveness when I tried to hold your hand, the panic of calling 911, the sixteen-minutes of trying to bring you back without success, the sirens, the flashing lights, your lack of pulse, the EMTs drilling holes in you and shocking your heart, Kira licking your face with concern, the ambulance, the emergency room, the guttural and unrecognizable sounds of my own wailing when they told me you were gone, shaking and kissing your lifeless body, laying on the gurney with 'you' for hours screaming and pleading for you to come back... the torture floods back like a ricochet of images from a flip book from hell.
I've refused to watch a horror movie since my teens. I avoided them because I get scared easily and didn't want to contend with the horrid circumstances they etched in my imagination. So instead, life decided to be a cunt and deliver one to me directly – front row seat, set in my own basement, participation required, and worst of all, a harrowing end. I can't get the scene out of my head – no matter how many good people are surrounding me, no matter how much I walk in nature, no matter how loud I turn up the music, and no matter how often I pour my words out to you through sobs or writing.
I like to think I've been doing a lot of work on myself, particularly for about the past four years. Yoga trainings, practice, reading philosophy, personal growth forums, surrounding myself with healthy and smart people, and then meeting you. You were the trophy for the woman I'd become. You made me a better person. The fact that a man with a soul, mind, and body as beautiful as yours fell in love with me was a testament to my dedication, or so I thought.
One thing I've really tried to master is not victimizing myself. It's a narcissistic behavior to think that happenstance occurs because of the self. But this situation has been really hard to navigate with a commanding, 'This has nothing to do with me,' attitude. Really fucking hard. Because this tragedy has ripped my life and future to bloody shreds, not to mention, the life and future of other people who love you too. But I feel like the Universe has played a cruel joke on me.
The woman I was when I was with you is struggling. She's confronting some big demons that she thought she'd left in the dust. The pure joy, love, and belief that she trusted has been derailed. Now, she's irritable and mournful. She doesn't live with pure faith. She's suspicious. She's melancholy and sarcastic about life's misgivings. She's not a woman I like to be around.
We come in and out of life alone. But along the way, we cross paths with extraordinary people. Ted, you were more than just extraordinary. You were a beacon of truth. You were a radiating example of the existence of true love. At the risk of sounding like a victim, I got teased by true love. It was dangled in front of me, I sucked on its sweetness, I tasted its lusciousness, and then, once addicted to it, to you, to your coddling love – it was ripped away. Now, I'm left alone – wanton, dry, barren, and lost.
No matter how much I coax myself to be strong, the truth of matter is that you are gone. I will not see your face ever again. I will never be able to kiss your lips. I will never hear your laugh. I will never hear you ask me, "Will you marry me?" I will never touch your soft skin. I will never be able to see you as a father. I will never be able to wake up with you. I will never hold your hand again. I will never again hear your words of wisdom. I will never be able to steal bites of food from your plate. I will never be able to impress you with a dirty joke. I will never be able to hold your hand during svasana again. And worst of all, I will never love the way I have loved with you. I was taunted with the pinnacle of love. The best love. I was given a gift that most people never get to experience. I was given a love that was glorious and absolute. And at the risk of being greedy, I want it back.
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.
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.
The first night in our bed
October 28, 2014 - 4 am.
Tonight's the first night I'm back in our bed, Teddy. I can't sleep. I miss your arms. Your lips. Your snuggles. Your gentle murmurs of love when you're still asleep but know I'm awake. Your softness. I'm laying on your side, in your clothes, I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush, I'm smelling your hat, I'm encased in our pillows wishing they were your body. I said my gratitudes before closing the last blind, like we did nightly. Kira and Beats are still up somewhere in the house, waiting for you to come home. I'm searching everywhere to find you. I even tore all the pillows off and looked under the bed like it's all a joke. I never knew I could cry so much, so loudly, like a terribly sad movie. I drink water just so my tears don't dry up. I am a shell of a human without you. I need to find you so you can fill me back up. Please show me your light.
Tonight's the first night I'm back in our bed, Teddy. I can't sleep. I miss your arms. Your lips. Your snuggles. Your gentle murmurs of love when you're still asleep but know I'm awake. Your softness. I'm laying on your side, in your clothes, I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush, I'm smelling your hat, I'm encased in our pillows wishing they were your body. I said my gratitudes before closing the last blind, like we did nightly. Kira and Beats are still up somewhere in the house, waiting for you to come home. I'm searching everywhere to find you. I even tore all the pillows off and looked under the bed like it's all a joke. I never knew I could cry so much, so loudly, like a terribly sad movie. I drink water just so my tears don't dry up. I am a shell of a human without you. I need to find you so you can fill me back up. Please show me your light.
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