Even hangovers were fun with you.
I haven't had much to drink since you left us. For one, drinking is celebratory. I feel as though I have very little to celebrate these days. The love of my life is no longer in this world, and there's nothing to celebrate in that. Secondly, drinking can be numbing, which I'm trying to avoid.
I never knew pain before you died, Ted. I've been under the knife for
two back surgeries, I've lost ailing grandparents, I've had dogs run get
hit in traffic, and I've had my heart squashed a few times – but those
pains don't even approach the tail winds of this pain. I feel like I
need an entirely different word than 'pain' to distinguish this from
anything else.
It's been my course of action to feel everything, without numbing – and maybe eventually heal through actually feeling every drop of this wretched pain. Because the pain will be so intense that there's no deeper wound possible, and healing is the only option. Perhaps that's slightly self-harming, but perhaps I feel like I need to harm myself a bit. I mean, I was right there as you took your last breaths and I did not succeed at bringing you back. I did not save your life. I know I did everything I could, but it was not enough. You died, on my watch. So yes, maybe I feel like I need a big, bloody slab of self inflicted pain on top of this heart shattering devastation to remind myself of the most grievous failure any human could ever participate in.
So self-deprecating and preaching aside, yesterday I got drunk.
After attending the Warren Miller ski movie premiere with some members of my support squad, one beer turned into four and the liquid numbing agent dulled the pain for a few hours. I still ached the entire time without much relief, but I do remember at one point I actually laughed at a joke. A real laugh. The sound of my own laughter gave me chills and a dagger-like pain in the chest. But there was a laugh.
I woke up this morning, my body reeling from the depressant I'd poisoned it with. I couldn't get out of bed for two hours. It wasn't a bad hangover, in fact, if you were here I probably wouldn't even notice its presence. But alone, things are much harder.
When you and I had a hangover we would lay in bed until ten a.m. or so. Whichever one of us slept later would be awoken by a grumbly nuzzle from whomever awoke first. We would snuggle. We were fantastic at snuggling. If there were a gold medal for snuggling, we would be on the podium, hand-in-hand, gold medals shimmering around our necks. I would imagine intertwining every limb of my body in yours, like a double knot. We'd stay there, in our twist-tie of limbs, love, and morning breath. We'd chat about the fun we'd had the night before. Because we always had fun and we always fell asleep happy. Therefore, even with the cloud of a hangover, we still woke up happy. Foggy, but genuinely happy.
We would stay in our pajamas all day on hangover day. You would make us breakfast while I dramatically allowed you to wait on me. I would sprawl across the wood floor and moan about being in a hurt box. You would pop vitamins, make us fresh juice, fry bacon, and tell me about the most recent nutritional hangover cure you'd read about. I'd moan for coffee. You would make it, pour in the perfect amount of almond milk, and bring it to me in my favorite over-sized mug, setting it next to my face on the floor. You would bend down and give me a kiss and I would say, "Oh! That made my headache a bit better. Can I have another one?" You would kiss me again, "Gladly," you'd say.
We'd retire to the couch, where we would intend to stay all day. Hangover days were permission to put the real world aside. We'd switch on the Netflix or stolen HBO Go and catch up on the shows we liked, but rarely watched – The New Girl, The Mindy Project, Modern Family, Trophy Wife, or Hung. You'd man the remote, because I never really got a grasp on how it worked. "Just press all the buttons until you get the desired results," you'd joke about my remote-control tactics. I'd fall asleep a couple episodes in, my head in your lap. When I would wake up an hour or so later, I would hear The Simpsons or American Dad on in the background. You would watch cartoons when I slept because you knew they weren't my favorite. We'd watch the rest of the animated episode and you'd be stoked when you heard me laugh. "See! Cartoons are good," you'd convince me.
After a couple hours of guilty pleasures, we'd each take some time to accomplish something. You would bring your gear in from your last show and set up your drums. I would attend to emails and get ahead on the upcoming week's designs for the magazine. Within an hour or so, though, we would be back in the den on the couch, tying our bodies into a pretzel, once again. You'd switch on the Wii and we'd play Super Mario. Your Mario would race through world after world while my Luigi stumbled along behind you, falling in holes twenty times per level. You would take my controller and go win me a few dozen lives and then hand it back over for me to lose them all again within ten minutes. Our Nintendo games were immortal.
I would get frustrated and my thumbs would start to hurt from my exaggerated button pressing so we would stop playing. You would be hungry and we would pull up the menu for sushi delivery. There was no question about food. It was always sushi. Friends have questioned our love for sushi during a hangover, but sushi it was, every time. We had a system: you choose the sushi, I called to place the order, you would pay, I would answer the door, and you would hold the dog back. We would always order too much food and have sushi for breakfast the next day. You would plate dinner while I made us whiskey sours with organic maple syrup and lemons from our tree. We would feast.
We would watch some more TV during dinner. We didn't watch much TV in general, so hangover days (along with airplane rides) were a special treat. We generally chose comedies because we both preferred laughing to crying. But neither of us were afraid to cry. In fact, most likely at some point throughout our hangover day, we would both cry over a bittersweet video on social media. We'd kiss and our tears would merge as our faces touched.
Fat, happy, and minds abuzz with media overload, we would put our dishes in the sink and leave them for the next day. We'd head back to the den and boot the Wii back up. We'd play a few rounds of post-dinner Just Dance 3. We'd laugh and say it counted as a workout. You would win every time. I would scoff and say, "How is that possible? We both know I'm a fantastic dancer!" Then, I'd blame it on my controller. We'd swap controllers and you would win again. A not-very-sore-loser, I'd grin and decide I was over it. We'd strip down and get in the hot tub for a pre-bedtime soak. We'd finish our martinis as the bubbles surrounded us and the water massaged our lazy bodies. You'd turn off the jets, knowing that we both preferred the silence and stillness. We'd sit next to each other and laugh at jokes and replay stories. We'd chat about our upcoming week and we'd plan our beautiful lives together.
Fresh out of the hot tub, we'd head up to bed. I would splash water on my face and brush my teeth quicker than my electric toothbrush recommended. Still soaked in chlorine and too tired to care, I'd slide into a negligee and prance into bed, excited for you to join me. Most likely, I would usually be asleep by the time you finished your diligent hygiene routine: shower, towel-off, 2-minute toothbrushing session, floss, mouth rinse, fold clothes you'd worn, pee, drink water, and put on fresh pjs. You'd arrive in the bedroom and close the blinds, but when you got to the last one you'd gently wake me up and say, "Babe, what are you grateful for?" I'd half open my eyes and mumble "Your love. You?" "That's a good one, I'm grateful for your love too. And also for lazy days," you'd say. You'd climb in bed beside me, I would snuggle close to you, and murmur "mmhmm" from my slumber. We'd fade off together, happy.
Showing posts with label sushi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sushi. Show all posts
Ritual
As I write this morning, I'm sitting out on our deck. I can hear a woodpecker pecking at a tree. I wonder if it's the same bird that just a few weeks ago was hammering at our stucco as we sat in this same spot, enjoying the Colorado morning. You pelted the bird with one of the buckeyes your mom had sent from autumn Ohio. It flew off and then landed again, continuing to peck on another side of the house. We sat, in silence. You, staring into nature and sipping your tea. Me, checking social media, emailing with my co-workers, and drinking my daily half cup of coffee. "I wish there was a coffee cup that stayed warm so that my coffee wouldn't get cold by the time I'm halfway done," I'd say. "Maybe it's a sign you only need a half cup, you seem pretty awake already!" you'd joke. You, peaceful. Me, frantic, some minor work stress would have me yammering already.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
My phone buzzed, it was an old friend I rarely talk to, "Oh my goddddd, guess who it is?" One of the ones that it's probably best that I only rarely talk to. You, knowing this completely and knowing who it was, smiled understandingly and without a drop of judgment. You know how painstaking it is for me to cut off love and people I have cared about, you asked how she was. You sent her your love. I get up off my chair and scoot in next to you, throwing my arms around you, and more importantly, putting down my phone. We kiss. You tell me I taste like coffee. You like the taste of coffee.
Cuddled up on the patio sofa, we quietly admire Boulder from the top of our mountain. You sing, quoting your favorite band, "Colorado bluebird sky, we could live a mile high...Colorado, bluebird sky!" I snuggle in more, you know it's because I love when you sing. Our 'castle in the sky,' we called it. Thirty-six acres of untouched nature. You planned on making secret trails, rock formations, and forts hidden throughout the property, so that one day our children would find them when exploring.
Kira meanders through the ripped screen door, one of her doggy-boyfriends had busted through it a few months ago, and we decided to wait for the renovations before fixing it. Kira sniffs into the Colorado air, her tail gently wags as she reminds us how happy she is here, now a mountain-dog instead of an Austin-Texas-suburbia-dog.
Kira lays down on the edge of the deck, her front paws fit under where the deck's railing begins, and her chin resting gently on one of the grates. "She's so adorable when she lays like that," you say. Her ears perk as she spots deer. "They're looking for the salt-lick, I need to remember to pick one up from McGuckin's," you say. Kira watches the deer intently. She'd never seen deer in her 9-years until moving to Colorado. I grab my phone and hop up from my perch next to you and sprawl across the deck as I capture a picture of both Kira's cuteness and the deer in the distance. I send the picture to my old friend. You throw another buckeye at the woodpecker who's returned to the stucco above us, an odd act of violence considering your constant gentle nature. You miss drastically. I think it's adorable.
I hear your stomach rumble and automatically we get up to go make breakfast together. As we walk back inside we stop to watch a hummingbird at the feeder. "Damnit, I need to fill that feeder too," you remember. "I will do it right now," I respond. It's still not done. Another hummingbird arrives and scares off the first. You tell me a fact about how hummingbirds are one of the most aggressive birds despite their cuteness.
As we walk inside, we slide into our customary morning ritual. You make the breakfast salads: soft boiled eggs over organic salad greens, avocado, hemp seeds, broccoli sprouts, tomatoes, pickled-something, and any other leftovers from the fridge that make sense, topped with health tonic or a mix of apple cider vinegar, coconut aminos, tumeric, cayenne, Himalayan sea salt, and olive oil. I make the fruit salad: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and maybe a peach or mango dressed with lemon juice, honey, cinnamon, and shredded pickled ginger. You have a distinct nutritional reason for each ingredient. I don't remember them, but trust you. We chat about our day as we glide around each other in the kitchen. I notice you glancing at the clock. You like to be in front of your drum-kit practicing by nine, and it's 8:39. Twenty-one minutes is not much time for you to eat. You like to move slow, especially in the mornings. "You should chew each bite at least ten-times in order to get the full nutritional value of the food," you'd remind me often as I wolfed down my meals. One of the very few things we differed on was our pace. Why did you die so quickly, Teddy? Why didn't you take your time?
We finish the food prep and sit down at the table together. We chat about what yoga class we want to go to that day. We would go to yoga together a few times a week, but also felt comfortable attending classes independently, always honoring the practice, teacher, and timing that worked for each others mood or schedule. You fill me in on the latest detail about a rehearsal or upcoming gig. I'd offer my thoughts or request a song for the setlist. I'd let you know how many pages I was planning to design that day for my magazine. I'd tell you about a certain interview or celebrity we were featuring and read you a pull-quote I thought you'd like from the content. Whichever one of us felt less crunched for time would offer to do the dishes. We'd say "I love you," hug, kiss, and then part ways – you down to the music studio in the basement, me up to my office upstairs. Morning ritual complete.
Yesterday was really hard.
I haven't 'heard' from you in a while. I saw the bear over a week ago. The high of your memorial has passed, and a dreary lull has set in. Your friends who all flew in are now gone, back at work. I'd been asking to see a fox for over a week, with no luck. I've only seen two foxes ever, so it's no surprise.
When we first started dating and were still long-distance, you went on a hut trip with a group of friends. You told me a story about how it was late at night and you all decided to go on a long hike. Most of the people had been drinking throughout the evening, but you were sober and led the way. You all hiked up Vail mountain, the moonlight reflected on the white snow as your guide. You made it to your destination, only a few people left in the group, most having turned back along the way, probably ready to pass out or refill a flask. Once at the top, you told me how you sat down on a rock or a log to eat a Kind-Bar, you snacked nearly every hour. Suddenly, you noticed a fox standing very nearby. You slowly held out the bar, and shockingly, the fox came and ate it, right out of your gloved-hand, then darted off. You were incredibly moved. Since then, you decided your spirit animal must be a fox.
Months later, when I was visiting you in Boulder, we went into a gem shop and read about animal totems. I read you the fox and the bear. I felt that you fit the bear description more, and later, purchased you a Native-American bear carving which I'd strung to a necklace and given you for your 34th birthday. But I knew you still loved the fox, especially after that incident.
A year after I gave you that gift, yesterday, your 35th birthday, I went into the Bill Cronin Goldsmiths with your Aunt Ginny. The aunt that I'd deeply connected with every time I'd talked to her during your life. The aunt whose incredible book I inhaled, feeling as though I was reading her intimate journal. The aunt I called that night of the sirens and the detectives as I watched the ambulance pull away from our house, the EMS refusing to let me ride along. The aunt who caught me in the hospital, as I fell to the ground screaming, after a stoic male nurse ushered us into a windowless, chair-less closet and said, "David is no longer with us." His name is Ted.
Ginny and I went to the jewelers together to hear the story of the engagement ring you had designed for me. I was doing OK yesterday morning until I walked through those doors. A girl who worked there said, "Are you Sami?" Her voice was thick with pity. "Yes." I started to cry. She told me how sorry she was. "Thank you," I muttered, my most repeated words of the past couple weeks. The jewelers, Bill and Carrie, took us and a box of Kleenex into the back room. They told me about how they are generally so lucky to work with people during the happiest times of their lives, during the birth of new partnerships, the anniversaries of love, the precious moments. Not deaths before engagements. "Nothing like this has ever happened," they tell me. I'm relieved for that, relieved that no one else has had to feel this despair. But why me? I thought that a lot yesterday.
They told me how they see couples all the time. They see men choosing rings for women daily. And because of that, they have an eye for the 'good ones'. You were a good one. We were a good one. They told me that you took more care and interest than most men in the process of creating this beautiful ring: designing it hand-in-hand with them, incorporating diamonds from your grandparent's broach, and choosing a flawless center pear-shape stone, just like the one I'd shown you. You were going to pick it up last Thursday. Five days after your death. They cried. Ginny cried. I cried. Probably some of the only tears of sadness that have ever hit the floor of that goldsmith shop. This was not how it was supposed to be.
I went to yoga again yesterday. I remembered how we had gone to yoga together on my 30th birthday this year. No one else had shown up for class, so it was a private for just you and I. I knew that, no matter how hard it was, it was important to go to yoga on your birthday. For you and for me, our ritual. I went to a different studio and a different teacher than I had a few days ago when I'd returned to my practice for the first time since this disaster. I'm being incredibly careful with the classes I choose because I'm so incredibly vulnerable right now. Elizabeth joined me. We went to the back. Her on one side, a wall on the other. Before your death, I was front and center, now I hide. The class didn't go as well as I expected. The room was packed, mat to mat. The music was loud, lyrical, and sad. The teacher had us balancing a lot, on one foot, with bound-arm variations. I sensed immediately that I don't need to be balancing in yoga right now. I don't need to be on one-foot, with my arms wrapped asymmetrically. My life is already the most chilling, bound-up balancing act I've ever experienced, by far. I need to be low to the earth, on two feet, grounded. I want to hug the earth for security, not try to fly. I was flying two weeks ago, soaring. And I crashed.
After yoga, on my drive home, I was crying so hard that it looked like I was driving through a storm. I pull over, unwilling to drive recklessly. I cry loudly and call out your name. I punch the steering wheel and scream at the heavens. Why??? It's his birthday!!! I realize that I'm really, really missing you, my best friend. I think about how during yoga, the teacher had played the same song that she had a couple weeks before. I'd come home and you'd asked me how class was. "Good. But she played the world's worst song for yoga," I'd answered. A quiz! You lit up, and started guessing. "Krishna Das?" You joked. Knowing I liked him, you always referred to him as drunk Eddie Veder.' "Wagon-wheel!?" Getting warmer. I couldn't wait, "FREE-FALLING!" "Noooooooooooooo," you replied. We laughed. Who would I tell these stories to now? Who would I tell that this time, not only had she played it again, but it had been a cover, sung by a woman, which obviously topped the badness-chart in comparison to the original.
I wiped my eyes and drove home. I cried the whole way, the most crying I'd done in a few days. Helpless, woeful, and really sad. Keeping my eyes wiped only to look for other drivers on the road and mostly, a fox. I was exhausted, but knew I had to pull it together. I was going out with thirty of your friends for sushi, your all-time favorite meal, to celebrate your birthday. Without you. I sure hope they serve sushi in heaven.
Dinner was touching. I quietly wondered what the turnout would have been if you were still alive. Uni was ordered in your honor. Quail-egg shots were slurped. Boat after boat of sushi arrived. I ordered some of your favorites, even though they weren't mine, like saba and tobiko. I thought of you as every piece of roe exploded and gushed in my mouth. A cheers was made, "To Ted's life! Kampai" Glasses were clinked, smiles all around.
I couldn't do it. I excused myself to the bathroom. I wasn't ready for their smiles, I want your smile. The girls knocked at the door. The girls who just a few weeks ago were the girlfriends of your friends who I was just getting to know, but now are my roots and my lifeline and so incredibly important to me. They hugged me, understanding. No words needed.
On the drive home I was so tired. Luckily, I've been able to sleep a lot throughout this nightmare, completely exhausted. I keep telling myself that it's you helping me get through the nights. I am not certain, because there's no way to prove it, which drives me nuts. But I try to have faith that your soul is snuggling up with me every night, guiding me to sleep, and holding me in your wings as I dream peacefully and wake up with no memory of what I've dreamt. Strange, because I used to always remember my dreams. So, I curl up in the back of the car as Kevin drives and my dad sits shotgun – they talk about music and I drift off to sleep like a baby in a carseat, rocked by the rhythm of the road.
Suddenly, Kevin yells, "SAMI! Wake up!" I shoot up, we're nearing our driveway, angling around the last turn on our road. Off to the right of the road, where I instinctively looked, stands a small red fox. We make eye contact, then he disappears into the darkness.
Eulogy
Delivered at Ted's memorial on Wednesday Oct 29, 2014
--
Thank you all so much for being here. I had no doubt the outpouring of love and support today would be so huge. Teddy was a beacon of light and love to every single person he touched, even indirectly.
I’ve known Ted and his family for 18 years. But Ted and I really met on Jan. 26, 2013 at a fundraiser celebration for his sister Berkley’s late daughter Jane. It’s said love finds you when you aren’t looking for it, and that’s exactly what happened for us.
The love that we have together is indefinable. We use the word “love” to describe so many things that its true depth can be tarnished. It’s different than the love we felt for say – our animals, or our favorite vacation destination, sushi, bacon or mayonnaise. The closest words Ted and I had was “soul mates.”
We both truly believe that our souls have traveled together for many lives. Last Thursday night, Ted and I watched Robin Williams in “What Dreams May Come.” For those who haven’t seen it, it’s about a man’s journey through Earth, heaven and hell to reconnect with his soul mate. Ted wept deeply as we watched it and asked me if I thought we’d been life partners in a previous life. I told him I felt that we’d traveled together for many lifetimes and realms but that this was finally the chance we had to be together forever. He agreed.
I guess our time together was just a preview. A preview that I am so lucky to have had but also beyond the depths devastation to be physically over. I have SO much more love to give Teddy. I had barely started.
Some of Ted’s family and close friends informed that that Ted was planning to propose in the coming weeks. I knew it was about to happen – we’d talked about our wedding and future plans every day. I thought maybe it would happen on his birthday, a week from today.
We dreamt of celebrating our love with hundreds of friends and family somewhere that displayed nature’s spirit in a beautiful and sublime way. We wanted to have purple flowers. We wanted to honor little Jane, his niece, for bringing us together. He wanted String Cheese, the Motet, N8tron and the Drunken Hearts to play on multiple stages.
We wanted the love that filled the space to be unlike anything anyone had ever witnessed, because that’s truly how our love is. And we wanted to write our own vows. I’ve thought about those vows since just weeks after we began dating. And now, while a wedding, a ring and all of those “things” seem so inconsequential, my love and my vows to him remain. This is what I promise because of who he is and what we were together.
Teddy, my heart:
I vow to shower you in the everlasting embrace of my love forever. No ‘till death do us part.’ This is only the beginning.
I vow to look at situations, people, and happenstance not just at face value with silver linings but with a deep introspection for the love, the good and the lesson within.
I vow to always believe you are with me as an angel because you were nothing short of that here on Earth.
I vow to be grateful for something everyday, no matter how hopeless I feel at times not having you there to do it with me.
I vow to take care of my body and mind – just like you did up until your last breath.
I vow to cherish the memory of your enrapturing spirit, your brilliant mind, your teachings, and your gorgeous, beautiful and perfect body.
I vow to create something that will allow your legacy to live on, so you can still shine your bright light, your hope, and your pure, pure innocent love out to others – just like you spoke of doing for the family we wanted to create.
And I vow to not give up on loving again, only because I know you wouldn’t want me to. And because on the Sunday before you left us, you told me if you ever died, you would return as my child. I was so upset at the time for you bringing up something so devastating. But now, I see that as a glimmer of hope that I’ll see you again while I’m on this Earth. This time.
When Ted and I attended Burning Man last August, we watched Andrew Horn give a TedX Talk entitled “Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late.” Andrew spoke of the term “eulogy” which translated from Greek to “good words.” He spoke about how our culture has assigned a eulogy to accompany a death, when actually those “good words” should be constant throughout life.
Teddy was very generous with the amount of “good words” he gave out. As our friend Dave Nelson told me this week: “You’d have to be a real asshole for Ted not to love you.” I’m also very confident that Ted knows the love he shared was reflected right back to him intensely. He heard it. He hears it.
Ted often said that glitter is like energy. It cannot be destroyed, only changed from one form to another. Ted’s love is like glitter: sparkling magic that will never disappear. Also, we’re blessed that some of Ted’s physical body lives on too. We were notified that his tissue went on to help 50 people. That’s so Ted.
I stand here before you mainly speaking of Ted’s love. And I’ve now learned that as powerful as love is, grief is its equal. Many of us have never met, or only in passing, but we are now the container for Ted’s memory. We can all lead bigger lives to carry on his spirit.
You are all the stardust of what remains of my shining star, Ted.
Thank you.
--
Thank you all so much for being here. I had no doubt the outpouring of love and support today would be so huge. Teddy was a beacon of light and love to every single person he touched, even indirectly.
I’ve known Ted and his family for 18 years. But Ted and I really met on Jan. 26, 2013 at a fundraiser celebration for his sister Berkley’s late daughter Jane. It’s said love finds you when you aren’t looking for it, and that’s exactly what happened for us.
The love that we have together is indefinable. We use the word “love” to describe so many things that its true depth can be tarnished. It’s different than the love we felt for say – our animals, or our favorite vacation destination, sushi, bacon or mayonnaise. The closest words Ted and I had was “soul mates.”
We both truly believe that our souls have traveled together for many lives. Last Thursday night, Ted and I watched Robin Williams in “What Dreams May Come.” For those who haven’t seen it, it’s about a man’s journey through Earth, heaven and hell to reconnect with his soul mate. Ted wept deeply as we watched it and asked me if I thought we’d been life partners in a previous life. I told him I felt that we’d traveled together for many lifetimes and realms but that this was finally the chance we had to be together forever. He agreed.
I guess our time together was just a preview. A preview that I am so lucky to have had but also beyond the depths devastation to be physically over. I have SO much more love to give Teddy. I had barely started.
Some of Ted’s family and close friends informed that that Ted was planning to propose in the coming weeks. I knew it was about to happen – we’d talked about our wedding and future plans every day. I thought maybe it would happen on his birthday, a week from today.
We dreamt of celebrating our love with hundreds of friends and family somewhere that displayed nature’s spirit in a beautiful and sublime way. We wanted to have purple flowers. We wanted to honor little Jane, his niece, for bringing us together. He wanted String Cheese, the Motet, N8tron and the Drunken Hearts to play on multiple stages.
We wanted the love that filled the space to be unlike anything anyone had ever witnessed, because that’s truly how our love is. And we wanted to write our own vows. I’ve thought about those vows since just weeks after we began dating. And now, while a wedding, a ring and all of those “things” seem so inconsequential, my love and my vows to him remain. This is what I promise because of who he is and what we were together.
Teddy, my heart:
I vow to shower you in the everlasting embrace of my love forever. No ‘till death do us part.’ This is only the beginning.
I vow to look at situations, people, and happenstance not just at face value with silver linings but with a deep introspection for the love, the good and the lesson within.
I vow to always believe you are with me as an angel because you were nothing short of that here on Earth.
I vow to be grateful for something everyday, no matter how hopeless I feel at times not having you there to do it with me.
I vow to take care of my body and mind – just like you did up until your last breath.
I vow to cherish the memory of your enrapturing spirit, your brilliant mind, your teachings, and your gorgeous, beautiful and perfect body.
I vow to create something that will allow your legacy to live on, so you can still shine your bright light, your hope, and your pure, pure innocent love out to others – just like you spoke of doing for the family we wanted to create.
And I vow to not give up on loving again, only because I know you wouldn’t want me to. And because on the Sunday before you left us, you told me if you ever died, you would return as my child. I was so upset at the time for you bringing up something so devastating. But now, I see that as a glimmer of hope that I’ll see you again while I’m on this Earth. This time.
When Ted and I attended Burning Man last August, we watched Andrew Horn give a TedX Talk entitled “Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late.” Andrew spoke of the term “eulogy” which translated from Greek to “good words.” He spoke about how our culture has assigned a eulogy to accompany a death, when actually those “good words” should be constant throughout life.
Teddy was very generous with the amount of “good words” he gave out. As our friend Dave Nelson told me this week: “You’d have to be a real asshole for Ted not to love you.” I’m also very confident that Ted knows the love he shared was reflected right back to him intensely. He heard it. He hears it.
Ted often said that glitter is like energy. It cannot be destroyed, only changed from one form to another. Ted’s love is like glitter: sparkling magic that will never disappear. Also, we’re blessed that some of Ted’s physical body lives on too. We were notified that his tissue went on to help 50 people. That’s so Ted.
I stand here before you mainly speaking of Ted’s love. And I’ve now learned that as powerful as love is, grief is its equal. Many of us have never met, or only in passing, but we are now the container for Ted’s memory. We can all lead bigger lives to carry on his spirit.
You are all the stardust of what remains of my shining star, Ted.
Thank you.
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