In the days after your death, my dear friend Natalia called me from Spain. She, along with her prayers, condolences, and love, told me, "Now is when your yoga practice really starts." Before I even got off the phone, I ridiculed her comment in the back of my mind. I thought to myself, 'I'm supposed to think about yoga, now!? My soul mate died and she tells me to do yoga?' And for one week, I didn't do yoga. And that was OK.
But after those seven days, my body started to mourn its practice. My back started to hurt and my lack of eating started to take its toll. I got dizzy spells. I threw up constantly, my brain was traumatized. My spine throbbed from laying in bed and rolling around in the fetal position. My body couldn't handle the grief I was inflicting on it. So, if only to ease the pain in my lumbar spine and encourage an appetite – I went back to yoga.
But what I've gotten from my yoga practice isn't just a prescription for my back pain, it's peace.
Five days after your death a bear came into our garage. He made my heart sing because you'd known I'd really wanted to see a bear – so I felt he was a sign from you. But he did something else too. He climbed up onto a bench and left muddy bear prints all over my yoga mat. I don't remember why my mat was out of the car that day, where it always lived, but it was. And I didn't notice the prints until I went to unroll it a couple days later. But now when I unroll my mat, I see those prints and those scratches, and I know that you're reminding me to practice.
You want me to practice my coming back to my breath – because my breath can't escape the now like my mind can. You want me to practice coming back to my body – because my body needs to be strong to support the loss of my heart. You want me to practice coming back to my drishti (my focus) – because I need supreme attention to recognize intuition. You want me to practice coming back home – home was with you, so I am now homeless – but through my yoga practice I'm reminded that home is actually inside of me. And since you are now infinite, you are here too.
When we met, you had never been to a yoga class. But you embodied the yogic limbs more than I certainly did. And while over the next year and ten months, I taught you asana – you taught me breath, you taught me stillness, you taught me peacefulness, you taught me moderation, you taught me self-study, you taught me compassion, you taught me to breathe, you taught me purity, you taught me awareness, you taught me truth, and you taught me to surrender. Here I was, new to town, and desperately searching for a teacher – when I had him right there all along. You were my teacher. And you were a sage.
Lately, as I've moved through my practice, I've felt a chill shudder over my skin.
Maybe it's a whisper from you that's awakening the hairs on my body. I
close my eyes and I think of you. My
breath deepens as I run through the pages in my memory of our love. The closest I get to intimacy now is the touch of my teacher. I close my eyes and imagine a conduit, a gentle caress from you. It's a desperate place to be. My body doesn't understand you're gone. My body craves you, but I can't give you to her. So I give her my practice, the other thing she knows.
So I am alone on my mat. I am alone with my breath, though it used to ebb and flow with yours. I am alone with my dance, though I used to have a partner. I am alone in my thoughts, making space for you to come join me. I am alone in my body, fantasizing about when I used to press it to
yours. But I am not alone in my surrender, because you are there too.
So now, I practice in sadness. I practice in a soulful search for a
crevice of peace. I practice in solitude because even if I'm in a room
full of breath, I can't hear yours. But in my practice, I commit to hunt
for the collective union of breath, for that "Om" that embodies me and
you and all of spirit.
Love Song
You told me you were going to write a song about me one day. I always wanted to be the subject of your verse. I tried to imagine what the lyrics would be; you spoke so eloquently so I had no doubt it would paint a picture of a woman more lovely than I am, and show the world how pure our love is. I used to joke that I'd be your muse. An emotional track of bliss: the musical definition of a love song. I wish I could hear the song you were going to write someday. I wish I had it as a keepsake to enjoy over and over. That way I could hear your poetry forever, etched through lyrics, percussion, and cadence. My writing and my memories are my love song to you.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
We felt a soul connection from the beginning. Two eyes each, two legs each, two arms each, but just one heart. We beat together as one. One rhythm. And true love, the love of a soul mate, goes beyond this life. Our souls have been on a journey together before this incarnation, before this grievous loss. We knew it from those first moments together. Our souls have embraced one another in a dance of many lifetimes, many adventures, and many bodies. And in my grief, my sorrow, and my helplessness – I have moments of doubt. But It would be breaking our promise for me to think we won't meet again. Because we were so sure we had met before. I have faith. In fact my faith is the child of our love. And I know, because I am strong at heart and steadfast in courage, that faith will conquer despair and love will win.
Rumi said, 'Grief can be the garden of compassion'. You, my love, spread compassion like the ocean spreads waves. Your humble love touched so many souls. It continues to touch, like the ripples from the rocks you used to skip so gracefully. You didn't need any more grief to foster compassion. You needed freedom. On the day you died, you set an intention for your day. You told me your intention was "Freedom". Maybe the only kind of freedom that was left for you was behind the curtain of this life.
I pray that your soul is free. That you achieved your intention and bask in that lightness that so many others saw radiating through you, but you couldn't always see in yourself. And maybe it was through the loss of you that the Universe is planning to teach me about my own compassion. I thought I knew love. Eternal. Whole. Big. Encompassing. Love. But there is a fine line between loss and love. And until I tripped onto the other side of things, I never knew how blessed I was with the love we shared while you were here. And now, if I'm lucky to feel that love ever again in this lifetime and when I see that love in others, I will acknowledge its presence always. I will acknowledge it's grace. And I will acknowledge its absolute impermanence.
Life is a dance of birth and death. We, in our ego-minds and our Western culture, have created a system that fears death. But death always wins. No one has overcome him. So we ignore death as he loiters. We create our blind operation of birth>education>the real world>the good job>marriage>family>a vacation home>retirement and fuel our obsession with staying young, avoiding aging, and being kind to, but richer than, our neighbors. When, BAM, death can arrive at any time. Death can scoop you or your loved one up in the blink of an eye before you've gotten to step 5 or step 2 or step 8 of the process of life. Right when you think you've got it down and you've finally made it, you've arrived at joy, you've found the one, that happiness is inevitable – sorrow will shit on your face. ...How's my love song sounding?
Death is sovereign. Love will win. They can both be true. Because even though right now, death looks like a bad guy, in fact, the closest incarnation to the devil I can imagine – maybe he's not. Maybe he's just a screen that we can't see through – but behind the partition it is all the love imaginable. Behind it is Jesus, Moses, Buddha, Allah, and all the alien's gods too. They're all having a big fucking party just waiting for us to show up. And when we do, Teddy, I know you'll be dancing – dead front, dead center – just like you were in life. And you'll run over to me, grab me, and show me all the moves you've been learning. And we'll all laugh a bigger more righteous laugh than we ever could on Earth. Because suffering is nonexistent there. You, Me, Faith, Love, my Grandma, your Baba, your Sarah, my Sherry, your Big Ted, my Bompie, and all our furry friends: Deano, Mitzvah, Chelsea, Shamos, Casey, Ozzie, Becca, Charlotte, Gibby, Tramp, Nugget, and Hobo – we'll all be dancing in a conga line with Death. And Death will be on our side of the curtain – and he'll finally be able to say with an honest, but nervous voice, "See, I'm not a bad guy. I just wanted to bring you to the party!" By that time, my compassion will have grown, and I'll be able to look at Death, with tears of misjudgment, and forgive him from taking you from me too soon. And then, you will croon the love song that you've been waiting eternity to sing to me.
Hangover Days
Even hangovers were fun with you.
I haven't had much to drink since you left us. For one, drinking is celebratory. I feel as though I have very little to celebrate these days. The love of my life is no longer in this world, and there's nothing to celebrate in that. Secondly, drinking can be numbing, which I'm trying to avoid.
I never knew pain before you died, Ted. I've been under the knife for two back surgeries, I've lost ailing grandparents, I've had dogs run get hit in traffic, and I've had my heart squashed a few times – but those pains don't even approach the tail winds of this pain. I feel like I need an entirely different word than 'pain' to distinguish this from anything else.
It's been my course of action to feel everything, without numbing – and maybe eventually heal through actually feeling every drop of this wretched pain. Because the pain will be so intense that there's no deeper wound possible, and healing is the only option. Perhaps that's slightly self-harming, but perhaps I feel like I need to harm myself a bit. I mean, I was right there as you took your last breaths and I did not succeed at bringing you back. I did not save your life. I know I did everything I could, but it was not enough. You died, on my watch. So yes, maybe I feel like I need a big, bloody slab of self inflicted pain on top of this heart shattering devastation to remind myself of the most grievous failure any human could ever participate in.
So self-deprecating and preaching aside, yesterday I got drunk.
After attending the Warren Miller ski movie premiere with some members of my support squad, one beer turned into four and the liquid numbing agent dulled the pain for a few hours. I still ached the entire time without much relief, but I do remember at one point I actually laughed at a joke. A real laugh. The sound of my own laughter gave me chills and a dagger-like pain in the chest. But there was a laugh.
I woke up this morning, my body reeling from the depressant I'd poisoned it with. I couldn't get out of bed for two hours. It wasn't a bad hangover, in fact, if you were here I probably wouldn't even notice its presence. But alone, things are much harder.
When you and I had a hangover we would lay in bed until ten a.m. or so. Whichever one of us slept later would be awoken by a grumbly nuzzle from whomever awoke first. We would snuggle. We were fantastic at snuggling. If there were a gold medal for snuggling, we would be on the podium, hand-in-hand, gold medals shimmering around our necks. I would imagine intertwining every limb of my body in yours, like a double knot. We'd stay there, in our twist-tie of limbs, love, and morning breath. We'd chat about the fun we'd had the night before. Because we always had fun and we always fell asleep happy. Therefore, even with the cloud of a hangover, we still woke up happy. Foggy, but genuinely happy.
We would stay in our pajamas all day on hangover day. You would make us breakfast while I dramatically allowed you to wait on me. I would sprawl across the wood floor and moan about being in a hurt box. You would pop vitamins, make us fresh juice, fry bacon, and tell me about the most recent nutritional hangover cure you'd read about. I'd moan for coffee. You would make it, pour in the perfect amount of almond milk, and bring it to me in my favorite over-sized mug, setting it next to my face on the floor. You would bend down and give me a kiss and I would say, "Oh! That made my headache a bit better. Can I have another one?" You would kiss me again, "Gladly," you'd say.
We'd retire to the couch, where we would intend to stay all day. Hangover days were permission to put the real world aside. We'd switch on the Netflix or stolen HBO Go and catch up on the shows we liked, but rarely watched – The New Girl, The Mindy Project, Modern Family, Trophy Wife, or Hung. You'd man the remote, because I never really got a grasp on how it worked. "Just press all the buttons until you get the desired results," you'd joke about my remote-control tactics. I'd fall asleep a couple episodes in, my head in your lap. When I would wake up an hour or so later, I would hear The Simpsons or American Dad on in the background. You would watch cartoons when I slept because you knew they weren't my favorite. We'd watch the rest of the animated episode and you'd be stoked when you heard me laugh. "See! Cartoons are good," you'd convince me.
After a couple hours of guilty pleasures, we'd each take some time to accomplish something. You would bring your gear in from your last show and set up your drums. I would attend to emails and get ahead on the upcoming week's designs for the magazine. Within an hour or so, though, we would be back in the den on the couch, tying our bodies into a pretzel, once again. You'd switch on the Wii and we'd play Super Mario. Your Mario would race through world after world while my Luigi stumbled along behind you, falling in holes twenty times per level. You would take my controller and go win me a few dozen lives and then hand it back over for me to lose them all again within ten minutes. Our Nintendo games were immortal.
I would get frustrated and my thumbs would start to hurt from my exaggerated button pressing so we would stop playing. You would be hungry and we would pull up the menu for sushi delivery. There was no question about food. It was always sushi. Friends have questioned our love for sushi during a hangover, but sushi it was, every time. We had a system: you choose the sushi, I called to place the order, you would pay, I would answer the door, and you would hold the dog back. We would always order too much food and have sushi for breakfast the next day. You would plate dinner while I made us whiskey sours with organic maple syrup and lemons from our tree. We would feast.
We would watch some more TV during dinner. We didn't watch much TV in general, so hangover days (along with airplane rides) were a special treat. We generally chose comedies because we both preferred laughing to crying. But neither of us were afraid to cry. In fact, most likely at some point throughout our hangover day, we would both cry over a bittersweet video on social media. We'd kiss and our tears would merge as our faces touched.
Fat, happy, and minds abuzz with media overload, we would put our dishes in the sink and leave them for the next day. We'd head back to the den and boot the Wii back up. We'd play a few rounds of post-dinner Just Dance 3. We'd laugh and say it counted as a workout. You would win every time. I would scoff and say, "How is that possible? We both know I'm a fantastic dancer!" Then, I'd blame it on my controller. We'd swap controllers and you would win again. A not-very-sore-loser, I'd grin and decide I was over it. We'd strip down and get in the hot tub for a pre-bedtime soak. We'd finish our martinis as the bubbles surrounded us and the water massaged our lazy bodies. You'd turn off the jets, knowing that we both preferred the silence and stillness. We'd sit next to each other and laugh at jokes and replay stories. We'd chat about our upcoming week and we'd plan our beautiful lives together.
Fresh out of the hot tub, we'd head up to bed. I would splash water on my face and brush my teeth quicker than my electric toothbrush recommended. Still soaked in chlorine and too tired to care, I'd slide into a negligee and prance into bed, excited for you to join me. Most likely, I would usually be asleep by the time you finished your diligent hygiene routine: shower, towel-off, 2-minute toothbrushing session, floss, mouth rinse, fold clothes you'd worn, pee, drink water, and put on fresh pjs. You'd arrive in the bedroom and close the blinds, but when you got to the last one you'd gently wake me up and say, "Babe, what are you grateful for?" I'd half open my eyes and mumble "Your love. You?" "That's a good one, I'm grateful for your love too. And also for lazy days," you'd say. You'd climb in bed beside me, I would snuggle close to you, and murmur "mmhmm" from my slumber. We'd fade off together, happy.
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.
Samanthics
The experience of sudden loss is jolting. I am left aimless and alone in our house with remnants of you everywhere, but you are not to be found. It's confusing.
I see your things. I can't walk into my closet without walking through yours. I see your shirts – hung meticulously and color-coded ready for your next wear. I see your hats – arranged in order of preference on a shelf meant for shoes, still smelling of your sweat and hair. I see your yoga shorts – waiting for your next Downward Facing Dog and quickly improving Kundinyasana. I see your pajama pants – the ones that say 'Dog Gone Tired' with cartoons of sleepy pups that you would lounge in on our lazy days. Your towel still hangs on its hook by the shower. I have been using it to dry off. Some days I don't though, instead I just grab it between my hands and smell it as deeply as I can, as if maybe I'll find you in the scent. I'm looking for you in everything, Teddy.
Yesterday I walked into a restaurant we only went to once. I was there to pick up some to-go salads for April and I. I made a quick choice on what to eat, my appetite is nothing like it used to be. I didn't allow my eyes arrive to the spot on the menu that contained sandwiches, because I knew that's what we'd shared that day we dined there together a few months ago. Conscious avoidance is key for me right now. They handed me a buzzer to notify me of my order being up. Damn, this was so familiar.
Buzzer in hand I walked over to the high-top tables to wait. I saw the table we'd sat in that day. I studied the man who was sitting there alone now. I noticed how much he was not you. I felt the new and familiar sense of panic land in my gut. I was about to cry. I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in before the tears hit. It was a single restroom and in the midst of my onset of panic, I remembered how I'd gone pee three times during our lunch together that day. We'd been drinking hibiscus tea throughout our meal. I'd sweetened mine with stevia. You didn't sweeten yours. The bathroom felt all too familiar. I gripped the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Ugly tears streamed down my face. "Teddy," I cried out. I felt needy.
Even though it was a place we'd visited just a single time, it still carried our shared experience. And every experience we shared was so beautiful. Just that one lunch was special, even though it may have been mundane at the time – you and I never let anything be insignificant. I remembered sharing our plates, passing them back and forth. "I win!" one of us would claim, happier with our own meal. Then, we'd swap dishes, making sure the other person got half of the winner. I stood in that bathroom so alone yesterday. I knew that the last time I'd walked out of that stall, I'd walked back to you sitting at the table where now a stranger was seated, unbeknownst to my pain. And this time, I'd walk back to a buzzer buzzing to let me know that my salad, for one person, was ready. And that there would be no you to share it with from across the table. No you to win.
Coming back to the house after nearly a week of traveling and wandering has been heavy. Things are in order, thanks to compassionate friends and family, but items are starting to be put in different places. And to be completely honest, it's irritating me. Your Playboy magazines peep at me throughout every bathroom stack. They used to always be on top, your favorite 'reading' material, but now they've moved lower in the tiers; family and guests have shifted them more out of sight. I always loved that you read Playboy, one of your boyish habits that kept you unpredictable. In the kitchen, the salt and pepper shaker isn't in the window sill where you kept them, tidily. The olive oil is left on the counter, instead of put back in the pantry. The food in the fridge isn't organized in the way you put it and the selection has shifted. I think your almond butter has been eaten. 'Justin's,' we would call it – an inside joke, because the brand was actually 'Justine's' and I'd pronounced it incorrectly one day. We just decided that's what we'd call it instead, 'Justin's', no mind the mistake.
You always adored my incorrect pronunciations or mashed up linguistic expressions. A few months ago we sat on the couch in the den. "Killed two birds of a feather together!" I said, after booking airplane travel and a car rental on one website for an upcoming trip. The edges of your eyes brightened, your smile lines deepening, "I think you mean, 'Killed two birds with one stone,'" you said, "or maybe, 'Birds of a feather flock together,' but that doesn't really make sense." I blushed. You laughed. We both looked at each other and at the same time said, "Samanthics!" It was our made-up word for Samantha-semantics. They occurred often enough to deserve a nickname. You never criticized me when I made a mistake. You'd correct me maybe fifty percent of the time, but often let it slide with just a hint of an all-knowing smile on your face. You appreciated my imagination just as much as proper English.
Now I'm sitting on the same couch in our den where we booked those tickets. We were planning our trip to Chicago, which we took just weeks before your death. We went to visit your new, and unexpectedly early arriving nephew, William. We flew directly to Chicago. I got very nauseous on the flight, you rubbed my back and made sure I stayed hydrated. We took a taxi to your sister Berkley and her husband, Bob's, house in Roscoe Village. The taxi ride was more nauseating then the flight. When we arrived, my headache disappeared and the joyous reunion with your sister and my great friend/someday-sister-in-law ensued. I'd never been to her house before.
We laughed as we told Berkley and Bob the story of how I'd lied to my mom on the first night you and I had gotten together, nearly two years prior, also in Chicago. It was the night of the first Pink Party, a fundraiser Berk and Bob hosted for their late baby girl, Jane. They'd created a foundation in honor of Jane and were raising money for local maternity wards. We had both come to Chicago independently to support them. That was the night I reconnected with you after nearly sixteen years.
I'd told my mother that I'd gone back to Berk and Bob's house and fallen asleep on the couch until six a.m after the party, which was why I hadn't come back to the hotel room my mom and I were sharing. The truth was, I'd spent that night with you, in your hotel room at the Trump International after the Pink Party. A night that was prompted by flirty conversation, champagne, and you looking incredibly dashing in a well-fitting suit and a pink tie. I claimed I was on a 'man-strike', coming off a terrible breakup and a questionable choice in a previous partner. You ended my strike. I suddenly wished I'd shaved over the past month, an act that was supposed to prevent me from entering into a situation such as this one. My self control was drunk and disorderly.
That night that turned into the early morning too quickly. You whisked me past the concierge into your room, a suite I didn't know at the time was adjoined with your parent's suite. The turn-down service had left opera playing. We made love to an aria. We whispered, laughed, and told each other our deepest secrets until the sun began to rise. I kissed you goodbye and left, hair a mess, shoes in-hand, a run-of-the-mill walk of shame from the concierge's perspective. But it was a night that couldn't end there, because the next day, as I reconnected with my mom in Chicago and you flew to Florida with your family, we couldn't stop thinking about each other. Lust skipped in my stomach like a bouncy ball. I thought of the fancy suite and the good sex, but more, I thought of the laughter, the conversation, and simply the way you made me feel when I'd shared my secrets with you. As we continued to converse after that night: through texts, Facebook, phone calls, and online hangouts – we nervously agreed that the lust wasn't fading, that we had more in common then we knew how to handle, and that we had to give this, us, fate, a shot.
A year and a half later, Berkley and Bob welcomed a healthy baby into their lives. We were there, in their home, the day William came home from the hospital. We watched them, nervous new parents, as they sat his carrier on the kitchen counter. The cat sniffed him cautiously. The dog hid in a corner, nervous about the new noises, the new smells, and the audience. Berk and Bob watched their baby, hand-in-hand, not sure what to do next, they looked around like, 'OK. Baby's here. What now?' They'd been waiting for years for a healthy child in their life. They'd experienced a grievous and painful journey to get there, and now they were there. Still missing their daughter, but delirious at the arrival of their son. Ted, you took one photo with William on that trip. You held and oogled him. My ovaries screamed at me with giddy excitement as I watched you cuddle your nephew, a pure tiny infant. You looked over at me, "Uh oh!" you said when you saw my face, turned on by the sight of my soul mate loving on a baby. We laughed, a knowing laugh. We were both excited – for William, for Berkley and Bob, and for the future and cousins we would create someday.
You died less than a month after that trip. You died before knowing that your other sister, Hopie, was also going to give you a new nephew. You died before knowing what I could give you. And now I sit here, on our couch, in our den, snuggled up in a blanket that is made for two. A blanket we used to playfully fight over, and then share, both winning, as we sat, watching a sitcom at the end of our day. Now I have no one to share the blanket with, no one to share my meal with, no one to book travel with, no one to tell me not to end this sentence with a preposition with, and no one to fantasize about our future family with. I have lost and I am aimless.
I see your things. I can't walk into my closet without walking through yours. I see your shirts – hung meticulously and color-coded ready for your next wear. I see your hats – arranged in order of preference on a shelf meant for shoes, still smelling of your sweat and hair. I see your yoga shorts – waiting for your next Downward Facing Dog and quickly improving Kundinyasana. I see your pajama pants – the ones that say 'Dog Gone Tired' with cartoons of sleepy pups that you would lounge in on our lazy days. Your towel still hangs on its hook by the shower. I have been using it to dry off. Some days I don't though, instead I just grab it between my hands and smell it as deeply as I can, as if maybe I'll find you in the scent. I'm looking for you in everything, Teddy.
Yesterday I walked into a restaurant we only went to once. I was there to pick up some to-go salads for April and I. I made a quick choice on what to eat, my appetite is nothing like it used to be. I didn't allow my eyes arrive to the spot on the menu that contained sandwiches, because I knew that's what we'd shared that day we dined there together a few months ago. Conscious avoidance is key for me right now. They handed me a buzzer to notify me of my order being up. Damn, this was so familiar.
Buzzer in hand I walked over to the high-top tables to wait. I saw the table we'd sat in that day. I studied the man who was sitting there alone now. I noticed how much he was not you. I felt the new and familiar sense of panic land in my gut. I was about to cry. I made it to the bathroom and locked myself in before the tears hit. It was a single restroom and in the midst of my onset of panic, I remembered how I'd gone pee three times during our lunch together that day. We'd been drinking hibiscus tea throughout our meal. I'd sweetened mine with stevia. You didn't sweeten yours. The bathroom felt all too familiar. I gripped the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Ugly tears streamed down my face. "Teddy," I cried out. I felt needy.
Even though it was a place we'd visited just a single time, it still carried our shared experience. And every experience we shared was so beautiful. Just that one lunch was special, even though it may have been mundane at the time – you and I never let anything be insignificant. I remembered sharing our plates, passing them back and forth. "I win!" one of us would claim, happier with our own meal. Then, we'd swap dishes, making sure the other person got half of the winner. I stood in that bathroom so alone yesterday. I knew that the last time I'd walked out of that stall, I'd walked back to you sitting at the table where now a stranger was seated, unbeknownst to my pain. And this time, I'd walk back to a buzzer buzzing to let me know that my salad, for one person, was ready. And that there would be no you to share it with from across the table. No you to win.
Coming back to the house after nearly a week of traveling and wandering has been heavy. Things are in order, thanks to compassionate friends and family, but items are starting to be put in different places. And to be completely honest, it's irritating me. Your Playboy magazines peep at me throughout every bathroom stack. They used to always be on top, your favorite 'reading' material, but now they've moved lower in the tiers; family and guests have shifted them more out of sight. I always loved that you read Playboy, one of your boyish habits that kept you unpredictable. In the kitchen, the salt and pepper shaker isn't in the window sill where you kept them, tidily. The olive oil is left on the counter, instead of put back in the pantry. The food in the fridge isn't organized in the way you put it and the selection has shifted. I think your almond butter has been eaten. 'Justin's,' we would call it – an inside joke, because the brand was actually 'Justine's' and I'd pronounced it incorrectly one day. We just decided that's what we'd call it instead, 'Justin's', no mind the mistake.
You always adored my incorrect pronunciations or mashed up linguistic expressions. A few months ago we sat on the couch in the den. "Killed two birds of a feather together!" I said, after booking airplane travel and a car rental on one website for an upcoming trip. The edges of your eyes brightened, your smile lines deepening, "I think you mean, 'Killed two birds with one stone,'" you said, "or maybe, 'Birds of a feather flock together,' but that doesn't really make sense." I blushed. You laughed. We both looked at each other and at the same time said, "Samanthics!" It was our made-up word for Samantha-semantics. They occurred often enough to deserve a nickname. You never criticized me when I made a mistake. You'd correct me maybe fifty percent of the time, but often let it slide with just a hint of an all-knowing smile on your face. You appreciated my imagination just as much as proper English.
Now I'm sitting on the same couch in our den where we booked those tickets. We were planning our trip to Chicago, which we took just weeks before your death. We went to visit your new, and unexpectedly early arriving nephew, William. We flew directly to Chicago. I got very nauseous on the flight, you rubbed my back and made sure I stayed hydrated. We took a taxi to your sister Berkley and her husband, Bob's, house in Roscoe Village. The taxi ride was more nauseating then the flight. When we arrived, my headache disappeared and the joyous reunion with your sister and my great friend/someday-sister-in-law ensued. I'd never been to her house before.
We laughed as we told Berkley and Bob the story of how I'd lied to my mom on the first night you and I had gotten together, nearly two years prior, also in Chicago. It was the night of the first Pink Party, a fundraiser Berk and Bob hosted for their late baby girl, Jane. They'd created a foundation in honor of Jane and were raising money for local maternity wards. We had both come to Chicago independently to support them. That was the night I reconnected with you after nearly sixteen years.
I'd told my mother that I'd gone back to Berk and Bob's house and fallen asleep on the couch until six a.m after the party, which was why I hadn't come back to the hotel room my mom and I were sharing. The truth was, I'd spent that night with you, in your hotel room at the Trump International after the Pink Party. A night that was prompted by flirty conversation, champagne, and you looking incredibly dashing in a well-fitting suit and a pink tie. I claimed I was on a 'man-strike', coming off a terrible breakup and a questionable choice in a previous partner. You ended my strike. I suddenly wished I'd shaved over the past month, an act that was supposed to prevent me from entering into a situation such as this one. My self control was drunk and disorderly.
That night that turned into the early morning too quickly. You whisked me past the concierge into your room, a suite I didn't know at the time was adjoined with your parent's suite. The turn-down service had left opera playing. We made love to an aria. We whispered, laughed, and told each other our deepest secrets until the sun began to rise. I kissed you goodbye and left, hair a mess, shoes in-hand, a run-of-the-mill walk of shame from the concierge's perspective. But it was a night that couldn't end there, because the next day, as I reconnected with my mom in Chicago and you flew to Florida with your family, we couldn't stop thinking about each other. Lust skipped in my stomach like a bouncy ball. I thought of the fancy suite and the good sex, but more, I thought of the laughter, the conversation, and simply the way you made me feel when I'd shared my secrets with you. As we continued to converse after that night: through texts, Facebook, phone calls, and online hangouts – we nervously agreed that the lust wasn't fading, that we had more in common then we knew how to handle, and that we had to give this, us, fate, a shot.
A year and a half later, Berkley and Bob welcomed a healthy baby into their lives. We were there, in their home, the day William came home from the hospital. We watched them, nervous new parents, as they sat his carrier on the kitchen counter. The cat sniffed him cautiously. The dog hid in a corner, nervous about the new noises, the new smells, and the audience. Berk and Bob watched their baby, hand-in-hand, not sure what to do next, they looked around like, 'OK. Baby's here. What now?' They'd been waiting for years for a healthy child in their life. They'd experienced a grievous and painful journey to get there, and now they were there. Still missing their daughter, but delirious at the arrival of their son. Ted, you took one photo with William on that trip. You held and oogled him. My ovaries screamed at me with giddy excitement as I watched you cuddle your nephew, a pure tiny infant. You looked over at me, "Uh oh!" you said when you saw my face, turned on by the sight of my soul mate loving on a baby. We laughed, a knowing laugh. We were both excited – for William, for Berkley and Bob, and for the future and cousins we would create someday.
You died less than a month after that trip. You died before knowing that your other sister, Hopie, was also going to give you a new nephew. You died before knowing what I could give you. And now I sit here, on our couch, in our den, snuggled up in a blanket that is made for two. A blanket we used to playfully fight over, and then share, both winning, as we sat, watching a sitcom at the end of our day. Now I have no one to share the blanket with, no one to share my meal with, no one to book travel with, no one to tell me not to end this sentence with a preposition with, and no one to fantasize about our future family with. I have lost and I am aimless.
Mr. Chipmunk
Since you've been gone, you have only shown up in nightmares. My therapist tells me that the nightmares are occurring because my mind knows there's been a trauma involving you, so it spends the whole night imagining the worst case scenario. Unfortunately for my imagination, reality is worse. But I've spent many a night over the past three weeks seeing you cheat on me with other women, tell me you didn't love me, come to me as a ghost reminding me that you are dead, break up with me, turn your back on me when I'm crying, and die over and over again. The nightmares have been better than the waking moments because at least I get to see you, but painful nonetheless.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
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.
Destination Boulder
It's cold and snowy today. Winter has arrived. It's more frigid then ever.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
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