See, what happens is this:
You come home from work one night; you just worked a double, your allergies have smacked you upside the face, you're running on 6 hours of sleep between two days and spent the entire day before clear across the state at a dear friend's wedding.
Your voice. Is gone.
You walk into your apartment and it is eerily quiet inside. Your roommate is cleaning the bathroom, kinda manic-like--which is additionally weird because you've never seen her clean anything--and it smells like gardenias and bleach and the tiles look impeccable. And that's amazing.
You wave (because you can't speak), and ball up like a caterpillar on your couch.
After 20 minutes of silence underscored with desperate scrubbing and seemingly tuneless humming, your roommate ambles out into the hallway, and stares at the wall.
"So. My Grandmother died today."
You croak out some version of Oh no! and make to hug her.
"No no. It's fine. She had some kind of Alzheimer's so, she's pretty much been gone for awhile." And she stares at the wall. "I'm fine. I am."
Silence. And staring.
"They're cremating her. Which she didn't want, but my Mom decided it's more practical. So they are."
You are stare at her, she continues to stare ahead.
"She was my Grandmother." ...
"My Mom told me I'm not supposed to grieve." You mouth WHAT?! "She says she was dead already, so it'd be a waste of time and energy. Life goes on and then it stops, and that's that."
You find some Post-Its on the coffee table and start writing in a flurry:
You take your time and grieve as you see fit.
"I don't know."
Do it!
"But what if she's right, my Mom, like maybe I should just accept it, get over it. Right?"
No.
"Why, though?"
She was your Grama, you're allowed to be sad, and you should.
"...Yeah..."
I totally believe that no one should compromise how they grieve or mourn for anyone. It's a need that you have to fulfill.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I'm serious.
...
"So I started cleaning. It felt good. Better."
I get it.
"Yeah?"
Yeah. I do.
"Like a distraction or something. And I needed one. So..."
...
And then she finally looks at you. "Thanks."
Of course.
I have a lot that I could say about Death.
...
And then what happens is this:
You're at work for your second double in a row; you're running on an additional five hours of sleep so you're feeling pretty buoyant and just in a generally good mood.
Your voice. Still gone. But less gone--and that's fine.
All of a sudden, two of your closest friends from your favorite MidWestern city (your grad school city) show up. They've just moved to New York, and you're giddy to have them so close so you croak Holy crap, come sit with me. You need to stay for like three hours. Or more. ...I'm getting you drunk, OK? Great.
They're there for half an hour when another friend from grad school shows up (HOORAY!!!) and settles into their booth.
Fifteen minutes later, another grad school buddy is at their table (HOORAYYYYYYYYY!!!!); he lives in Philly now, but is in town just for the day.
Within the next 20 minutes, you have six of your closest friends from grad school sitting at that table. It's busy as hell, but you don't care; simply having them there is enough, and is lifting you up in a surprising way.
Running past their table:
"Git it, Girl."
"Best server ever!"
"Be done soon! Come sit!"
"Love you, Angie!"
"Love youuuuuuuuuu!!!!"
...And you wonder what you did to deserve any of this. And you feel sappily glorious.
...
And then what happens is this:
Two hours later, you're finishing up your shift; your last two friends have cozied up to the bar and are watching the last chunk of a baseball game.
Your voice. Is tired. And so are you.
But you're biding your time--there's only an hour left, and you don't have much to do. And so, you decide to check your phone. Because you can.
And there is a text from your boyfriend.
And it tells you that a man named Gary Holcombe--your mentor from grad school--has just died. Suddenly. A few hours ago.
You run up to the bar to share your news--and then you mentally check-out.
...
I am not a girl who allows myself to cry in public.
This could not be helped.
...
Who was Gary? A lot of different men rolled up into one tall slender body. A man commonly referred to as The Silver Fox because of both his beautiful head of hair, and "knack with the ladies".
A man who grew up in podunk nowhere-Kentucky and, like so many men his age, went to fight in Vietnam. Where he was a sniper. And saw too much. And perhaps did too much. And then chose to bury all of it as deep and far away from the surface as was possible.
And then, he went to a music conservatory.
And then, he was on Broadway.
And then, he ran around on a zillion tours, and banged a zillion women, later marrying an equally-as-successful-equally-as-carnal woman.
They then chose to settle down in that MidWestern-place, where they lived and worked and thrived and inspired for over twenty years.
Gary was the man responsible for bringing me into my grad program.
I remember auditioning for him and putting on my most brave and bubbly face--feeling entirely terrified.
"Are you always this upbeat and...smiley?"
...Yes. Actually yeah. I am.
"Really?!"
I promise. ...Is that OK?
And he smiled this huge shit-eating grin from behind his table. "If you're not lying to me, and don't you dare lie to me...goddammit, we could use you."
For three years, we were as tight as tight could be. Everything he said was thoroughly bold but without threat--he made you believe in him, and made you believe in yourself.
He was the guy who would stop a song or a scene mid-rehearsal and scream, "Angela, you are fucking so much better than that! Don't you fucking cheat me, goddammit!"
And once class was over: "Goddamn, girl, your ass looks amazing in those pants. Your boyfriend better appreciate that."
He does.
"Well, I do."
GARY!!!
"...Heartbreaker."
You dirty dirty son-of-a-bitch.
"Hell yes, mama." And he'd cackle. "Love you."
Love you, too.
"And GO HOME AND WORK ON THAT SONG, goddammit!!!"
I will.
"Open this." And he'd jab towards his chest.
Yes, Sir.
"...You fucking tease."
GodDAMMIT, Gary!
He fought for us to live up to our fullest potential.
He fought for others to believe in us the way that he did.
He fought. Always.
"You're a good egg. You know you're a good egg."
"You know who that character is better than he does, don't you fucking compromise your gut instinct."
"Don't you fucking let him push you around."
"Go out there and get it. For me. You can and you will."
"You're a unique thing. Go out there and give it, give You. It's more than enough."
"I love you."
"I love you."
"I love you. ...Goddammit, if I were 30 years younger..."
Gary. See, I have this boyfriend...
"Oh, right. ...He can come, too."
Perfect.
"Love you."
And you knew that he meant it. And it meant the world.
A couple of years ago, the demons from years past that he buried so deep came back to haunt him. And he fought hard to ward them off, but just couldn't anymore.
We stopped being phone buddies.
He started going in and out of hospitals.
We started knowing less and less of his status and whereabouts.
...And now, he's just gone. And there's this huge part of my heart that has just been broken apart.
I am thankful. I am thankful to have had such an important and lovely influence at such an important and selfish time in my life. I wish that I could have said more. I wish that I could have done more. And I wish that I could have held onto him longer--but that's just not the way the world works.
The world can set you up for Loss. The world will never keep Loss from you.
...
This Irina loves her Chebutykin.
This Blondie loves her Silver Fox.
This Angela misses her Gary. Tremendously. Now and always. And thanks him for the world.
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