I've become an energy sponge these last couple weeks. My mood and strength are very impressionable. I'm porous and vulnerable. My therapist gave me sound advice. She said to notice my surroundings during the moments when I feel closest to you – where I am, how many people I'm with, who those people are, what's happening in the background – and to keep doing those things.
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
Showing posts with label sudden loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sudden loss. Show all posts
The way we move
I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
When we first started seeing each other, you would come to see me in Austin. It was early in the relationship and we were still figuring out each others' patterns. I remember during your first visit, you arrived with your own Ziplock-bag full of teas. Even though I am a yoga teacher and lived with another one, you were still (correctly) concerned that these coffee-addicted yogi girls may not have your proper types of tea: Everyday Detox, Green (but not Jasmine!), Smooth Move (just in case), Peppermint, and Ginger Peach. You had made the right call. We had plenty of tea, but most were caffeinated and tasted like women's perfume.
In those days, you and I were still figuring out how each other moved through life.
But after ten months of daily Google Hangouts that lasted into the wee hours of each morning, bi-monthly visits (we were very fortunate), and simply getting to know one another, we realized how synchronized our paths were. While maybe we chose different hot beverages, you used an electric toothbrush and I (initially) used a manual, you ate eggs on salad for breakfast and I often skipped the meal, and you did laundry all the time and I waited until it piled up – we actually meshed really well. The slight differences became aligned, either by embracing our independent choices, a la tea or coffee, or a gentle compromise, like you purchasing me a Sonicare toothbrush for my 29th birthday, ensuring that I also completed my full two-minutes twice daily. I took on the breakfast egg salad with ease, realizing quickly that breakfast indeed was "the most important meal of the day". You generally did the laundry, but I bought you a bunch more boxers so you could wait longer in between loads. But the 'big stuff' came easy.
It was on your very first visit to Austin, in fact it was the first night of that first visit, when I asked you if you believed in marriage and wanted children. I did it as smoothly as I could muster, which was not very smoothly at all, and you later loved to remind me of that. But you said, "Yes". You believed in the sanctity and you wanted to be a daddy. You weren't in a big rush, but the answer was firm. You weren't freaked out by the forwardness of my question, in fact you respected it. I remember a weight lifting from my chest. Thank God, I thought, because I really like this guy. I didn't want to jump into something with the wrong guy, again. I had very recently come out of the worst-decision-relationship of my life and was, wisely, not totally trusting my own choices in men. But the more I got to know you, the more I realized you were what all of the bad-choices and the good-choices-for-the-time-being and the learning-relationships had been for.
We didn't just agree on marriage and family. We also agreed on politics. We agreed on commitment. We agreed on bedtimes and wake-up times. We agreed on the importance of exercise. We agreed on music, although you ruled that roost and that was fine. We agreed on how tidy we liked our home. We agreed on the temperature on the thermostat. We agreed on sides-of-the-bed. We agreed on what nights we wanted to party and what nights we wanted to lay low. We agreed on diet. We agreed on money, you allowed me to contribute regularly. We agreed on making the bed. We agreed on religion, you obliged to raising our eventual-kids Jewish. We agreed on humor: dirty, fun of witty puns, and constant. We agreed on education, the Waldorf school in Boulder. We agreed on communication, only love, never fight, little to no sarcasm. We agreed on sex, daily, at least. We agreed on honesty. We agreed on where to get takeout meals from. We agreed on independence. We agreed on personal space. We agreed on public display of affection. We agreed on nearly everything, and it wasn't because we were co-dependent or overly compromising, we just fucking agreed. Simply, we fit. It was easy.
Yesterday, I went to a party here in Steamboat. It was the 8th annual chili-cookoff for a friend of my weekend hosts. I felt OK about going... considering. Operating on auto-pilot, which I'm learning very well, I dressed myself and brushed my hair. I put on a smile, waterproof-mascara, and big sunglasses. I walked into the house surrounded by my support-group of our hosts, my dad, and three close friends.
As I entered the door, in front of me thirty joyful people mingled, mostly coupled-off and many holding babies and gripping the hands of curious toddlers. I blinked back the tears that immediately welled without warning. I took three deep breaths, which you always told me to do in situations like this. I saw a couple members of my team staring at me with pity and concern, noticing the reaction. This was going to be really, really hard, I thought. I considered spinning on my heels and bolting out the door.
I haven't been drinking any alcohol or using anything since your death. Besides for a natural sleep tincture, I had decided keeping my system clear of depressants and sedatives is important for this process. Maybe it's a bit self-harming but I want to feel all of the pain, not compartmentalize it or stuff it into a box or a pill. This is the saddest and darkest I've ever been, by leagues and leagues, so I may as well sit with it in its entirety. I didn't know how long this plan would last for and I honestly didn't have an expectation for myself other than "take care of yourself" and "be cautious".
After those three deep breaths and those concerned looks, I excused myself into the bathroom. I couldn't breath. Tears streamed down my face. My hands pulled into tight fists. I stared at my own eyes in the mirror and said, "Holy fucking shit, Ted. I miss you," out-loud. If I was going to buck up and do this, I was going to need a beer, and that was OK. I accepted my own decision to drink some social lubricant and take the edge off. I'm glad I did, because that beer and those deep breaths got me through the next three-hours. It got me through tasting and voting on chilis and cornbread. It got me through meeting dozens of people. It got me through small talk. It got me through people seeing my left finger and assuming I was betrothed in the typical way. It got me through talking about my careers. It got me through chatting with a couple I had met before, at my own birthday party a few months ago. They knew you. They send their condolences. It got me through a conversation that included friendly flirtation. It even got me through hearing and participating in laughter. Laughing hurts a lot, the moment the sound is emitted, daggers of pain pillage my chest. But it didn't get much easier. As the party settled and people snuggled into chairs and onto sofas, I watched the couples pair off.
I thought of how at a Superbowl Party at your cousin Hunter's house last year we had operated in that same fashion. We chatted with friends, we ate and drank a couple beers, and you introduced me to people. We split off: me, hanging with the girls, and you, making fun of the game while the other guys watched with fervor. Then, within a short amount of time, we made our way back to one another. We wrapped our arms around each other and found a spot on a couch, disinterested in the game but enjoying the company. We snuggled up and shared chips, salsa, and seven-layer dip. We sat, as a pair, and contributed to the party together, as our own team of doubles. We bounced jokes off each other, giggled together, and made eyes at one another. Eventually, I laid my head on your shoulder and whispered in your ear, "Let's go home." You looked at me, also bored of the game and ready to retire, "Yes. Lets," you responded. And we left, together. Just how we came. Happy and whole, as a pair. It was simply the way we moved together.
I miss the way we move together.
Formaldehyde
I still woke up today. The sun still rose, flirting with the edges of the blinds, peeking in to let me know that despite the darkness in my heart, it was still casting red to pink to iridescent white light over the tops of the mountains. I got up, and made our bed again. I washed my hair for the first time in 4 days. What's the point? You can't run your fingers through it. The shower is so lonely without you.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
One week
November 1, 2014
Somehow I've had the courage the past few days to muster the strength to stay busy and to stay surrounded by your friends and family. Last night, I put on my favorite fuzzy hat of yours (a bear!) and dressed up for Halloween. I went to The Motet show, who we wanted to play at our wedding. While their dedication of their set to you and the solace of all of love and hugs imaginable was truly moving, nothing can compare to the huge vast hole of your absence.
The pain grows intensely. It's like there is a miner stationed near my heart. Constantly digging, and tossing away all plans, our future, all the love we still had to make. Every morning we still had to wake up together, our family we were to build, so many laughs I'll never have. My desperation for you is unfathomable, my love.
I can't believe it's been a week. A week since your heart stopped in my own fucking arms and I couldn't bring you back. A week from the horror of sirens and ambulances and holding your body for hours on a gurney after your spirit had gone. And over a week since I woke up to your beautiful cheer, your positive light that you had for every morning, every new day and moment we got to create together: our little sculpture to mold.
Somehow I've had the courage the past few days to muster the strength to stay busy and to stay surrounded by your friends and family. Last night, I put on my favorite fuzzy hat of yours (a bear!) and dressed up for Halloween. I went to The Motet show, who we wanted to play at our wedding. While their dedication of their set to you and the solace of all of love and hugs imaginable was truly moving, nothing can compare to the huge vast hole of your absence.
The pain grows intensely. It's like there is a miner stationed near my heart. Constantly digging, and tossing away all plans, our future, all the love we still had to make. Every morning we still had to wake up together, our family we were to build, so many laughs I'll never have. My desperation for you is unfathomable, my love.
I can't believe it's been a week. A week since your heart stopped in my own fucking arms and I couldn't bring you back. A week from the horror of sirens and ambulances and holding your body for hours on a gurney after your spirit had gone. And over a week since I woke up to your beautiful cheer, your positive light that you had for every morning, every new day and moment we got to create together: our little sculpture to mold.
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