Who was the asshole who said it gets easier with the passage of time? It sure isn't getting any easier for me. In fact, the more that time elapses, the sadder I get.
I lived by myself for the first ten years of my adult life, so it's not like I've never done it before, but this is so much different. After having Dennis with me every day for over 30 years, I'm having a great deal of difficulty adjusting to having no one around the house. I'm bombarded by memories everywhere I look. I can't get away from them—not that I want to; I'm just so fucking depressed when I'm alone now. Hell, I'm depressed when I'm surrounded by friends and/or co-workers.
After I had his Celebration of Life Party in January, my friend Donna phoned me. "I know it's down the road aways," she said, "but I don't want you to be by yourself on your birthday. Nancy and I usually visit the house in Palm Springs once a month. How'd you like to come down for a long weekend at the end of April? The last weekend of April turns into May 1 on that Sunday. If you take Thursday and Friday off, we'll have a four-day weekend that ends on your birthday. What do you think?"
"Well, you're right about it being down the road aways, but I can probably get the time off. They've been bending over backwards at the office trying to do what they can for me. Sure, why not? Plus, I've never been there before, so what the heck. I just thought of something else—I can look up my old friend Des, who lives in Cathedral City."
"Great," she replied. "I'll ask Tom to go too. It'll be just the three of us. If we're lucky, we can all be on the same flights coming and going. I usually rent a car when I'm down there, so we can all split that and whoever wants to use it can. I'm glad you're going to do it."
Now that sounds pretty good, doesn't it? But now that we're only a couple of days away from going, I'm a bit apprehensive because of my current state of mind. I'm not going to cancel—don't get me wrong. And I certainly appreciate what they're trying to do—take my mind off things. But now I'm afraid of bringing them into a depressed state, because this will be my first trip of any kind since Dennis died, and I don't know how I'm going to react by not having him with me. We always traveled together—just one more item into the equation of my grief process.
I'm also apprehensive of going back to visit his family this summer. I've never visited on my own before and I know it's going to be highly emotional. Don't get me wrong—I want to see them—they are wonderful and I love them all dearly. But the trip is going to be emotionally draining. And that just adds to the anxiety that this sense of depression is never going to end. It seems to be permeating into everything lately.
I didn't think it was possible to miss him more, but that's the situation I find myself in and I cannot see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hell, I can't even find the fucking tunnel, let alone the end of it. And you thought I was going to write fond memories about the early years again, didn't you? I guess I've still got "stuff" to get out; just not sure what it is that's coming out.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
The Early Years - Part 3
I've been trying to write chronologically but sometimes it's not possible, because I'll think of something that I want to write about and it's earlier than what I wrote about the previous entry. Such is the case today. This actually pre-dates the arrival of Dennis into my life.
After moving to the Detroit metropolitan area in December of 1976, my journey as a gay man among other gay people started then. I had never lived near a large city before, and even though Detroit had its drawbacks, it was a great place for me personally to come out as a gay man. Because the Detroit metro area is spread out for miles around, never once in my six years of living in the area while running errands did I run into anyone else that I knew. Not once. Compared to San Francisco now, it seems like I run into someone I know almost everytime I go out on an errand of some kind.
It was during the spring and summer of 1977 that I came across a group of volleyball players in the Palmer Park region of Detroit, just north of Six Mile Road. The immediate neighborhood was known as "the gay area" of Detroit, so I assumed that the group was composed of gay men. I was correct and ended up joining them. I hadn't played since high school, but I had been a pretty good setter at that time, so I figured it would all come back to me. Being of small stature, I knew I'd never be a spiker but I was good at setting them up. I ended up being part of a great bunch of guys, something that I had lacked while growing up. I looked forward to each Sunday that summer, hoping that the weather would cooperate so we could gather once more for spirited volleyball. Many times after play was over, we'd go as a group to eat or take in a movie.
In September that year, I found out that one of the traditions the volleyball team had established was an annual canoe trip on the Pine River outside of Cadillac in the northern part of the state. I had never canoed before but looked forward with anticipation to giving it a try. Cadillac is only about 50 miles south of Traverse City, where I primarily grew up, so I knew that even though it was September, nights could get quite cold, so I packed accordingly. After getting off work on Friday, I drove to Dan and Bruce's house, as I was going to ride up with them in Dan's pickup. The three of us were to be the first to arrive, secure the campground site on the river, and get things ready for the onslaught of guys. You never knew how many people would show up; everyone arrived at various times throughout the night. Once we got up Saturday morning, Jack had already built a fire and was getting ready to prepare breakfast. Jack was the "queen bee" of the group and could always be counted on to be in charge of the kitchen, even out here in the woods. The aroma of coffee and food brought everyone out of the tents into the cool morning air. After counting heads, we realized that we had 15 total but there's usually only two per canoe. Everyone turned and looked at me. Jack said, "Rick, since you're the smallest one here, you'll get to ride instead of paddle. But since you said earlier that you've never canoed before, this might be the best for you as you'll get a chance to see what it entails and be ready for the next time."
"Sounds okay to me, Jack. I won't mind riding," I said, a large grin on my face.
We all piled into some cars and drove to the canoe rental place. They drive you to a starting point, then you canoe to your campsite on Saturday, followed by campsite to end point on Sunday. It was all very organized and I was quite impressed. I rode with Jack and his partner on Sunday; because of three in a canoe, we were the slowest canoe. It was nearing noon, and Jack said, "Not too far around the next bend or two, we'll be stopping for lunch. It should be fun."
Little did I know that the guys had a surprise for me. As we rounded a bend in the river, I could see all the other guys already on shore. Dan spotted our canoe and shouted, "There they are." All twelve of them ran to the shore, lined up and started bowing while shouting, "Hail to Queen Cleo of the Pine River." All of us burst out with laughter, but from that point forward, I was "Cleo" as far as the volleyball team was concerned. I seldom heard my name from anyone in the group from that time forward. It's one of the reasons why the volleyball team will always hold a special place in my heart.
Between Autumn 1977 and Summer 1978, the volleyball group got more organized and found a like-minded group of players from Chicago. Between the two cities, we organized a two-city tournament, to be held Memorial Day weekend in Chicago. That first year, it was held in an outdoor setting and for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of the park in Chicago where it was held. Somewhere north of Wrigley Field, I'm pretty sure about that. But wherever, that was the beginning of an explosion of gay volleyball teams around the country. We had laid the groundwork for the first national volleyball tournament made up of gay men, which was held over Memorial Day weekend in 1979 in Chicago. This time it was an indoor venue and if I remember correctly, we used the gym facilities at DePaul University (don't quote me on it—that was a long time ago and this memory of mine can only bring up so many details). More than 20 teams arrived from around the country, from as far as Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle, to Houston, Atlanta, Indianapolis, Columbus, Minneapolis, and Madison, in addition to the teams we brought from Detroit and the ones representing Chicago. It was a wonderful experience; from that, we started having smaller regional tournaments. I ended up playing in Madison, Columbus and Atlanta, and in the summer of 1980, we hosted our own regional tournament. Our big event that weekend away from the volleyball courts was a swim party at one of the local bathhouses. We rented the entire place for a four-hour period and it was just volleyball players. I'm fairly certain more than swimming went on during the event.
It was during this time that Dennis and I were getting to know each other. He had moved into the upstairs of my house as my renter and over the summer we realized that it was turning into more than a landlord/tenant relationship. Dennis always said that he knew from the moment he saw me that I was "the one" but I didn't have that instant realization. He told me later that he had been getting very frustrated with my obliviousness to his charms, but as we all know now, he did break through my walls.
My previous entry in the blog told about our honeymoon in New York. After we got back from that trip, we were scheduled to go canoeing with the volleyball team. It was Dennis's first time on this annual canoe trip and it didn't turn out as well as the previous times, as rain spoiled the weekend. But we made the best of it, even creating make-shift raingear from garbage bags because we didn't have any raingear with us. The trip was in October, so that could have been part of the reason because weather was very iffy at that time of year.
After moving to the Detroit metropolitan area in December of 1976, my journey as a gay man among other gay people started then. I had never lived near a large city before, and even though Detroit had its drawbacks, it was a great place for me personally to come out as a gay man. Because the Detroit metro area is spread out for miles around, never once in my six years of living in the area while running errands did I run into anyone else that I knew. Not once. Compared to San Francisco now, it seems like I run into someone I know almost everytime I go out on an errand of some kind.
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| The volleyball team, summer 1978 |
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| Hard to stay dry on a canoe trip |
"Sounds okay to me, Jack. I won't mind riding," I said, a large grin on my face.
We all piled into some cars and drove to the canoe rental place. They drive you to a starting point, then you canoe to your campsite on Saturday, followed by campsite to end point on Sunday. It was all very organized and I was quite impressed. I rode with Jack and his partner on Sunday; because of three in a canoe, we were the slowest canoe. It was nearing noon, and Jack said, "Not too far around the next bend or two, we'll be stopping for lunch. It should be fun."
Little did I know that the guys had a surprise for me. As we rounded a bend in the river, I could see all the other guys already on shore. Dan spotted our canoe and shouted, "There they are." All twelve of them ran to the shore, lined up and started bowing while shouting, "Hail to Queen Cleo of the Pine River." All of us burst out with laughter, but from that point forward, I was "Cleo" as far as the volleyball team was concerned. I seldom heard my name from anyone in the group from that time forward. It's one of the reasons why the volleyball team will always hold a special place in my heart.
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| Rick claps after good play |
It was during this time that Dennis and I were getting to know each other. He had moved into the upstairs of my house as my renter and over the summer we realized that it was turning into more than a landlord/tenant relationship. Dennis always said that he knew from the moment he saw me that I was "the one" but I didn't have that instant realization. He told me later that he had been getting very frustrated with my obliviousness to his charms, but as we all know now, he did break through my walls.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Early Years - Part 2
I think it's about time I wrote some happy memories. I've been stuck for awhile writing about the past year and a half, so let's switch gears.
Dennis and I chose September 1, 1980 as our anniversary date, even though we had decided on Sunday August 31st to become partners. Dennis always believed that the sixth month opposite your birth month always brought out bad things, so he didn't want an anniversary in August as this was his "sixth month" from his February birthdate. That was fine with me as well.
About mid-month in September, we did a quick honeymoon trip to New York City, meeting up with my friend Jose Gonzalez and his partner Bryan. By quick, I mean it was a 3-day weekend, just enough time to do a few fun things. Dennis and his ex-wife were married in NYC, his son Aragorn was born there too. But we were just going for fun—and fun is what we had. We took in two off-Broadway shows, both of which we enjoyed immensely—the musical review One Mo' Time and a one-woman show called I'm Getting My Act Together and Taking It on the Road, starring Phyllis Newman, a TV personality. Both plays were held in smaller theaters in the Greenwich Village area of New York. We had a wonderful time the entire weekend, and believe it or not, I have not been back to NYC since that time. The main reason: once we moved to San Francisco, most of our vacation time was spent in Hawaii. And if we didn't go to Hawaii, we usually ended up in Michigan visiting our respective families.
We had our first Christmas together that year as well. Because we were expecting to be together forever, we decided to buy something that we could carry throughout the years that represented Christmas to us. Dennis hated to go shopping, but I talked him into accompanying me so we could buy this "item" and he went along with it. We bought a rolly-polly Santa Claus candle, which is very cute. We ended up creating our own tradition—each Christmas season that came around, as soon as we unpacked the decorations, whoever found Santa first would hold him up so the other could see him, we then would smile at each other and say "Ho, ho, ho." This past Christmas, even though there were tears when I did it, we held to our tradition.
Mom and Dad's evolution of getting used to me being gay took an unexpectedly happy turn. Back when I had come out to them in the summer of 1976, Mom had written me a letter a couple months after that in which she stated that I would never be allowed to "bring a friend" to their home, but once we arrived in Traverse City that December 1980, she welcomed Dennis and matter of factly told us that we'd be sleeping in the back bedroom. No muss, no fuss; she just came out and stated it like it was the most natural thing to say. What a pleasant surprise, at least to me.
February 1981 brought us our first opportunity to take a vacation together. We decided on Key West as Dennis's ex-brother in law lived there. Dennis contacted him and he said we could stay with him (we were only going for one total week, and driving no less). We went about half way the first day, spending the night in Macon, Georgia. The next morning, we headed out to the Tampa region first to look up Dennis's best friend, Maurie. We spent the afternoon and evening with him before heading out the next day to Key West.
Once we arrived in Key West, we were in for another surprise. Bruce lived in a studio apartment, something he had neglected to tell Dennis. We ended up sleeping three to a bed; talk about strange. But since we were on vacation and we were only going to be there a couple of days, we made the best of it. We rented a tandem bicycle and rode around the island. A number of people found us pedaling around quite amusing as I had noticed people pointing at us and smiling. I'm sure they were laughing with us, not at us, right?
On the drive back home to Michigan, we detoured from I-75 to I-95 up the coast of Florida, as I wanted to go through Savannah, Georgia and look up my gay uncle and his partner. It was a comedy of missed opportunities—first, no one was at home at their carriage house. The next stop was at "The Pink House" a little caberet club where Uncle Maynard played piano. We missed them by about ten minutes, but were told they were going back to their house. We stopped one more time at their house, but no one was there, so we never did hook up with them. I had really wanted him to meet Dennis, but such is life. The trip back to Michigan was pretty uneventful, other than realizing that spring was right around the corner. It had been great getting away from cold Michigan for a week.
Dennis and I chose September 1, 1980 as our anniversary date, even though we had decided on Sunday August 31st to become partners. Dennis always believed that the sixth month opposite your birth month always brought out bad things, so he didn't want an anniversary in August as this was his "sixth month" from his February birthdate. That was fine with me as well.
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| In New York on our honeymoon, Sept. 1980 |
Mom and Dad's evolution of getting used to me being gay took an unexpectedly happy turn. Back when I had come out to them in the summer of 1976, Mom had written me a letter a couple months after that in which she stated that I would never be allowed to "bring a friend" to their home, but once we arrived in Traverse City that December 1980, she welcomed Dennis and matter of factly told us that we'd be sleeping in the back bedroom. No muss, no fuss; she just came out and stated it like it was the most natural thing to say. What a pleasant surprise, at least to me.
February 1981 brought us our first opportunity to take a vacation together. We decided on Key West as Dennis's ex-brother in law lived there. Dennis contacted him and he said we could stay with him (we were only going for one total week, and driving no less). We went about half way the first day, spending the night in Macon, Georgia. The next morning, we headed out to the Tampa region first to look up Dennis's best friend, Maurie. We spent the afternoon and evening with him before heading out the next day to Key West.
On the drive back home to Michigan, we detoured from I-75 to I-95 up the coast of Florida, as I wanted to go through Savannah, Georgia and look up my gay uncle and his partner. It was a comedy of missed opportunities—first, no one was at home at their carriage house. The next stop was at "The Pink House" a little caberet club where Uncle Maynard played piano. We missed them by about ten minutes, but were told they were going back to their house. We stopped one more time at their house, but no one was there, so we never did hook up with them. I had really wanted him to meet Dennis, but such is life. The trip back to Michigan was pretty uneventful, other than realizing that spring was right around the corner. It had been great getting away from cold Michigan for a week.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Where's Rick?
I'm finding that one of the hardest things to deal with is the loss of me. Who am I? Who am I becoming? It just hit me yesterday: not only have I lost Dennis, I've lost my identity. All of our friends in California only know "RickandDennis" or "DennisandRick"—you can't have one without the other. As our friend Rick Mariani stated: "you guys are like peas and carrots—separate but always together." Even though Dennis didn't like peas, I can certainly see Rick's analogy. I don't know who I am any longer. Half of my identity is missing and at the moment, I don't know what to do about it.
I'll use the pool league as an example of "the new me"—once upon a time, I could be counted on to finish off a game and gather the win for my team. Not necessarily so any more. My pool game careens around like a drunk driver. During two of my four games last night, it appeared that the "old Rick" was shooting, running out however many balls were left to get the out and the win. Then the other two games looked like I was wearing a blindfold. I'm up and down more than an elevator.
During both my individual and group grief counseling, it's been mentioned that you need to "give yourself some slack" but the way I look at it, I never have given myself some slack in the past, why should I start now? I've always been hard on myself; am I supposed to suddenly turn soft? Hell no! I always accomplish what I start out to do because I'm hard on myself. That's been the one constant in my life, and now I'm being told I need to change my ways.
I know Dennis will never be here again in the physical sense; I get that. I'm just finding it very difficult to get through the everyday activities that made me who I was and I'm trying to figure out what activities are going to evolve into creating the new Rick. All I can say is: I hope the "new Rick" turns out better than "new Coke"—remember that disaster?
Many friends have told me that they think I'm doing great. Of course, they aren't with me 24/7so while it may appear that I am indeed "doing fine"—think again. It's almost been four months since he died, and I'm still in a fog (and not just because I live in San Francisco). I really don't know how I function some times. And lately I seemed to have slipped back into a weepy phase—it might be a good idea to invest in Kleenex stock; they certainly disappear around here quickly enough. Reading has always been a great pleasure in my life, but lately, while I'm still reading, I just don't enjoy it like I used to. I guess that's what this blog is for: get it all down and out of my system. It seems that the hole in my life is just not getting any smaller. Lately, it's just getting bigger.
I'll use the pool league as an example of "the new me"—once upon a time, I could be counted on to finish off a game and gather the win for my team. Not necessarily so any more. My pool game careens around like a drunk driver. During two of my four games last night, it appeared that the "old Rick" was shooting, running out however many balls were left to get the out and the win. Then the other two games looked like I was wearing a blindfold. I'm up and down more than an elevator.
During both my individual and group grief counseling, it's been mentioned that you need to "give yourself some slack" but the way I look at it, I never have given myself some slack in the past, why should I start now? I've always been hard on myself; am I supposed to suddenly turn soft? Hell no! I always accomplish what I start out to do because I'm hard on myself. That's been the one constant in my life, and now I'm being told I need to change my ways.
I know Dennis will never be here again in the physical sense; I get that. I'm just finding it very difficult to get through the everyday activities that made me who I was and I'm trying to figure out what activities are going to evolve into creating the new Rick. All I can say is: I hope the "new Rick" turns out better than "new Coke"—remember that disaster?
Many friends have told me that they think I'm doing great. Of course, they aren't with me 24/7so while it may appear that I am indeed "doing fine"—think again. It's almost been four months since he died, and I'm still in a fog (and not just because I live in San Francisco). I really don't know how I function some times. And lately I seemed to have slipped back into a weepy phase—it might be a good idea to invest in Kleenex stock; they certainly disappear around here quickly enough. Reading has always been a great pleasure in my life, but lately, while I'm still reading, I just don't enjoy it like I used to. I guess that's what this blog is for: get it all down and out of my system. It seems that the hole in my life is just not getting any smaller. Lately, it's just getting bigger.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Lost Dreams
As stupid as this sounds, a saying on the inside of a piece of Dove Chocolate with Caramel candy that read: "Live your dreams - Love, Dove" really set me off today. I thought: how can I live my dreams when my dreams have been shattered with the death of Dennis? My dreams were "our" dreams: grow old together and just enjoy life together. He was only 59 when he died (fell short of 60 by about six weeks, but as bad off as his body was at the end, I would not have wanted him to try to last just to reach his birthday. His life would have been hell during that time); I turn 60 on May 1. That's not old, at least not by today's standards. We did have 30 great years together, but we wanted to have a 50th anniversary. I'm not looking forward to the next twenty anniversaries that come along, reminding me that he's not here. Eventually, those anniversaries will bring fond memories, and hopefully the 31st that will come later this year will ignite good memories. It's just that right now, because I was so involved with taking care of him as best I could the past 16 months, it's hard to remember the years before that time.
Even though it was difficult watching him slowly fade away, it brought us even closer together. We knew how much each other loved the other, and he knew that I would be there for him no matter what the situation. I did things I never knew I had the strength to do, especially things in the bathroom when things didn't go as planned. I had bought him a stool for the tub that had rubber feet, but he was still afraid to go in for a shower. One of the last times when he had an "accident" in the bathroom, I ordered him into the shower but told him that I'd be there right with him. I got both of us undressed, got him into the tub and sitting on the stool. Then I went in the by the other door, got the water going and to the right temperature and brought the hose and nozzle down from the wall. He wanted his hair washed first, so I hosed down his head and poured some shampoo into his hand and let him wash his own hair. I rinsed him off, then wet him down and gave him his washcloth and soap. I helped him stand when the time came, had him hold onto the grab bar and I washed his lower body while he held on, followed by me rinsing him off. We got him mostly dried off while still in the tub and I carefully got him back out of the tub. He talked about that shower for a couple weeks, about how much he'd enjoyed it. It had never occurred to me before that I'd be doing this type of activity at our age—when we were older, sure. But not at this time.
I don't know what brought on the latest bout of depression, but I've been missing him so much the past few days that I can hardly stand it. This "new me" is still floundering like the proverbial fish out of water. I've mentioned before that I read a book called On Grief and Grieving and it mentions the five stages of grief (taken from the author's five stages of death), one of which is anger (the other four are denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance). I've been getting angry at some pretty petty things lately, so I've been interpreting the anger as one of these five stages, though when they occur, I never correlate them to my grief. One of the statements we read before each session of the grief group I'm doing mentions that you should not compare your grief to someone else's grief. We all experience our grief in our own ways and while we were discussing it, I admitted that it had already happened to me, though not verbally.
I told the group, "I was talking with Dennis's sister Sandie and I had made the statement that I just really missed him. And she said, 'I know, Rick. I miss him so much, too.' And at the time I thought, 'you can't possibly miss him more than I do. At best, you've seen him once a year for the past few years, whereby I've been with him every single day for the past 30 years.' Luckily for me, I didn't verbalize those thoughts." I went on, "After I hung up the phone, I chastised myself for thinking like that, because I remembered that was one of the items mentioned in the book. I felt real bad but was glad that I had actually made myself aware of what I had just done."
Another time, I posted on my Facebook page that watching the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament just wasn't the same this year without my "watching partner" by my side. A couple friends commented, "he's there with you in spirit." And it pissed me off because I didn't care if he was "there in spirit" I wanted him there with me physically like we had been doing for the past 30 years. Once again, I didn't type that as a comment to their comments, but I thought it. I know they meant well but it just hit me wrong at the time. I've got so many emotions pulling me so many ways, I'm surprised I can even function. And please don't tell me "give it time"—I don't want to give it any god damn time. I guess I am angry that he's gone; I never realized it before. I'm not angry at him; how could I be? He certainly didn't ask for the damn disease. But I am angry that I'm left behind, so I hope writing about it will help get it out.
I think I'll stop for now. I've probably pissed enough people off for one day. Onward and upward. And above all else, I still love you dear and always will. No anger there.
Even though it was difficult watching him slowly fade away, it brought us even closer together. We knew how much each other loved the other, and he knew that I would be there for him no matter what the situation. I did things I never knew I had the strength to do, especially things in the bathroom when things didn't go as planned. I had bought him a stool for the tub that had rubber feet, but he was still afraid to go in for a shower. One of the last times when he had an "accident" in the bathroom, I ordered him into the shower but told him that I'd be there right with him. I got both of us undressed, got him into the tub and sitting on the stool. Then I went in the by the other door, got the water going and to the right temperature and brought the hose and nozzle down from the wall. He wanted his hair washed first, so I hosed down his head and poured some shampoo into his hand and let him wash his own hair. I rinsed him off, then wet him down and gave him his washcloth and soap. I helped him stand when the time came, had him hold onto the grab bar and I washed his lower body while he held on, followed by me rinsing him off. We got him mostly dried off while still in the tub and I carefully got him back out of the tub. He talked about that shower for a couple weeks, about how much he'd enjoyed it. It had never occurred to me before that I'd be doing this type of activity at our age—when we were older, sure. But not at this time.
I don't know what brought on the latest bout of depression, but I've been missing him so much the past few days that I can hardly stand it. This "new me" is still floundering like the proverbial fish out of water. I've mentioned before that I read a book called On Grief and Grieving and it mentions the five stages of grief (taken from the author's five stages of death), one of which is anger (the other four are denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance). I've been getting angry at some pretty petty things lately, so I've been interpreting the anger as one of these five stages, though when they occur, I never correlate them to my grief. One of the statements we read before each session of the grief group I'm doing mentions that you should not compare your grief to someone else's grief. We all experience our grief in our own ways and while we were discussing it, I admitted that it had already happened to me, though not verbally.
I told the group, "I was talking with Dennis's sister Sandie and I had made the statement that I just really missed him. And she said, 'I know, Rick. I miss him so much, too.' And at the time I thought, 'you can't possibly miss him more than I do. At best, you've seen him once a year for the past few years, whereby I've been with him every single day for the past 30 years.' Luckily for me, I didn't verbalize those thoughts." I went on, "After I hung up the phone, I chastised myself for thinking like that, because I remembered that was one of the items mentioned in the book. I felt real bad but was glad that I had actually made myself aware of what I had just done."
Another time, I posted on my Facebook page that watching the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament just wasn't the same this year without my "watching partner" by my side. A couple friends commented, "he's there with you in spirit." And it pissed me off because I didn't care if he was "there in spirit" I wanted him there with me physically like we had been doing for the past 30 years. Once again, I didn't type that as a comment to their comments, but I thought it. I know they meant well but it just hit me wrong at the time. I've got so many emotions pulling me so many ways, I'm surprised I can even function. And please don't tell me "give it time"—I don't want to give it any god damn time. I guess I am angry that he's gone; I never realized it before. I'm not angry at him; how could I be? He certainly didn't ask for the damn disease. But I am angry that I'm left behind, so I hope writing about it will help get it out.
I think I'll stop for now. I've probably pissed enough people off for one day. Onward and upward. And above all else, I still love you dear and always will. No anger there.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Going through the motions
Not a day goes by that I don't feel somewhat depressed. A lot of people will think I'm crazy, but I talk to his photo all the time. Of course, he never answers, but it helps me to "see" him when I'm talking. I'll say "see you later" each morning when I leave for work, followed by a heavy sigh and the thought "you won't be here though" when I get back. I leave the house every Monday through Friday with the same thought: another day going through life without him. Nothing is the same any longer. Just this hollowness that doesn't go away. I have plenty of friends and they're all here for me, but it's just not the same. I can't shake this feeling that I'm only going through the motions of living.
Last night (Friday, April 8) represented 15 weeks since he died. In the entire 30 plus years that we were together, the longest stretch of time that we were apart was three weeks, when I went back to Michigan for Dad's funeral and I stayed around with Mom. I can still remember the smile on his face and the strength of his hug when I returned. That's one of the hardest things to contend with—his actual physical presence is no longer here. I still find myself about to say something to him, then realize he's not there. I can't begin to tell you how many times our non-verbal communication was into overdrive. One of us would start to say something, and the other would say, "I was just thinking about that."
For the first time in my life, I feel lonely. I can pick up the phone and call any one of numerous friends, talk about everything and anything, laugh, cry—then feel lonely once the call is over. I don't feel whole any more—a huge piece is missing. The old "me" doesn't exist any longer, and I'm not sure what the new "me" is going to be like. I may look the same when I see myself in the mirror, but I sure don't feel the same.
About six weeks after he died, the hospice called to see how I was doing. Because I'm the survivor of their client, they offered me free grief counseling, both individual and group, if I had any interest—six individual sessions and eight group sessions. I decided to give it a try. I met with one of their grief counselors individually for three sessions, then we decided to take a break, as the next group session was going to start so I wanted to see how that would go before continuing on an individual basis. I've attended two group sessions so far. At the first one, there was supposed to be ten participants, but only six of us showed up—five women and me. When the second session started, I noticed that one of the women from the previous week didn't show, but two new people showed up, including another man, albeit a straight man, but hey, another masculine presence helped. The only thing I can say about it so far is that it's interesting. I've never done anything like this before, so I don't really have any expectations. I personally don't see how sitting around in a room full of strangers is going to help me get through this. Yeah, we're all grieving, but...
I did take a positive step about six weeks ago. On the President's Day holiday, I got up that morning and decided it was time to rearrange the kitchen to fit my needs. I had always considered the kitchen to be Dennis's territory, I just passed through on the way to the living room. We've always kept a step stool in the kitchen, as I'm only 5' 4" and can't reach a lot of the higher shelves in the cupboards. I rarely used it though, as I had my own personal "reacher" in Dennis, who was 6' 3" and never needed a stool to get anything out of the cupboards. I use it all the time now. The kitchen had been the largest selling point when we were searching for a house. Dennis loved the way it was arranged. There's five deep drawers across from the stove, and they were always filled with junk; one deep drawer next to the sink contained all the cooking utensils, but it took forever to find what you were looking for because you'd have to search through the entire drawer just to find a wooden spoon. That all changed that Monday.
My co-workers from our Los Angeles office wanted to do something for me but didn't know what. Renee called me at home, relayed how the people were feeling and wanted to know what they could do for me. After throwing out various possibilities, we came up with a gift card suggestion. I told her that I'd eventually be needing new bedding and linens, as I figured I'd be replacing the bed. They sent me a $100 gift card from Bed, Bath & Beyond. That morning, armed with my gift card, I drove down to the local BB&B and found all kinds of neat items that would come in handy. I purchased all kinds of drawer dividers in various sizes, picked up some hand soap dispensers, a smoky-glass one for the bathroom, a stainless steel one for the kitchen to match all the other stainless steel already there, a large ceramic utensil holder for the counter, and after totaling up my purchases, I realized I still hadn't hit the $100 mark yet, so I kept shopping. My last item was a small ottoman with a removable top that had a storage area. The detachable top opens up to become a laptop table.
Once I got back home from shopping, I went into overdrive. I emptied the drawers of all the accumulated junk, put in the dividers, rearranged and organized. When I was finished, I actually had room left over in some of the drawers. I apologized to Dennis for reorganizing "his kitchen" but also told him that if he were still here, he'd get used to what I did and would eventually even like the changes. I've had people over for dinner and they've mentioned how different the kitchen looks. But, it's my kitchen now and it has to be arranged to accommodate me. Even though I like what I've done, through force of habit I still find myself opening the wrong drawer sometimes when I'm reaching for the parchment paper, saran wrap, etc., but I just laugh when I do it.
I just need to figure out how to "arrange" my life instead of just "going through the motions."
Last night (Friday, April 8) represented 15 weeks since he died. In the entire 30 plus years that we were together, the longest stretch of time that we were apart was three weeks, when I went back to Michigan for Dad's funeral and I stayed around with Mom. I can still remember the smile on his face and the strength of his hug when I returned. That's one of the hardest things to contend with—his actual physical presence is no longer here. I still find myself about to say something to him, then realize he's not there. I can't begin to tell you how many times our non-verbal communication was into overdrive. One of us would start to say something, and the other would say, "I was just thinking about that."
For the first time in my life, I feel lonely. I can pick up the phone and call any one of numerous friends, talk about everything and anything, laugh, cry—then feel lonely once the call is over. I don't feel whole any more—a huge piece is missing. The old "me" doesn't exist any longer, and I'm not sure what the new "me" is going to be like. I may look the same when I see myself in the mirror, but I sure don't feel the same.
About six weeks after he died, the hospice called to see how I was doing. Because I'm the survivor of their client, they offered me free grief counseling, both individual and group, if I had any interest—six individual sessions and eight group sessions. I decided to give it a try. I met with one of their grief counselors individually for three sessions, then we decided to take a break, as the next group session was going to start so I wanted to see how that would go before continuing on an individual basis. I've attended two group sessions so far. At the first one, there was supposed to be ten participants, but only six of us showed up—five women and me. When the second session started, I noticed that one of the women from the previous week didn't show, but two new people showed up, including another man, albeit a straight man, but hey, another masculine presence helped. The only thing I can say about it so far is that it's interesting. I've never done anything like this before, so I don't really have any expectations. I personally don't see how sitting around in a room full of strangers is going to help me get through this. Yeah, we're all grieving, but...
I did take a positive step about six weeks ago. On the President's Day holiday, I got up that morning and decided it was time to rearrange the kitchen to fit my needs. I had always considered the kitchen to be Dennis's territory, I just passed through on the way to the living room. We've always kept a step stool in the kitchen, as I'm only 5' 4" and can't reach a lot of the higher shelves in the cupboards. I rarely used it though, as I had my own personal "reacher" in Dennis, who was 6' 3" and never needed a stool to get anything out of the cupboards. I use it all the time now. The kitchen had been the largest selling point when we were searching for a house. Dennis loved the way it was arranged. There's five deep drawers across from the stove, and they were always filled with junk; one deep drawer next to the sink contained all the cooking utensils, but it took forever to find what you were looking for because you'd have to search through the entire drawer just to find a wooden spoon. That all changed that Monday.
My co-workers from our Los Angeles office wanted to do something for me but didn't know what. Renee called me at home, relayed how the people were feeling and wanted to know what they could do for me. After throwing out various possibilities, we came up with a gift card suggestion. I told her that I'd eventually be needing new bedding and linens, as I figured I'd be replacing the bed. They sent me a $100 gift card from Bed, Bath & Beyond. That morning, armed with my gift card, I drove down to the local BB&B and found all kinds of neat items that would come in handy. I purchased all kinds of drawer dividers in various sizes, picked up some hand soap dispensers, a smoky-glass one for the bathroom, a stainless steel one for the kitchen to match all the other stainless steel already there, a large ceramic utensil holder for the counter, and after totaling up my purchases, I realized I still hadn't hit the $100 mark yet, so I kept shopping. My last item was a small ottoman with a removable top that had a storage area. The detachable top opens up to become a laptop table.
Once I got back home from shopping, I went into overdrive. I emptied the drawers of all the accumulated junk, put in the dividers, rearranged and organized. When I was finished, I actually had room left over in some of the drawers. I apologized to Dennis for reorganizing "his kitchen" but also told him that if he were still here, he'd get used to what I did and would eventually even like the changes. I've had people over for dinner and they've mentioned how different the kitchen looks. But, it's my kitchen now and it has to be arranged to accommodate me. Even though I like what I've done, through force of habit I still find myself opening the wrong drawer sometimes when I'm reaching for the parchment paper, saran wrap, etc., but I just laugh when I do it.
I just need to figure out how to "arrange" my life instead of just "going through the motions."
Thursday, April 7, 2011
A new pool team
Back in December, before I realized that Dennis would not live through the end of the month, I had planned on taking a season off from the pool league. The main reason why was because I figured that with Dennis getting worse, I couldn't live with myself by continuing to play pool on Tuesday evenings when he would be home alone. That was unacceptable in my mind. That changed once Dennis died. My entire mind set concerning the pool league changed. Fresh with grief, I didn't want to be a captain, I didn't want to play out of a bar that Dennis and I had had as a home bar, because I felt there would be too many "ghosts" to contend with. I realized there'd be "ghosts" no matter where I played because you don't play at your home bar each week, you also have to travel to other venues, but I was trying to lessen my exposure to a favorite bar. The past couple of season we had played out of the Hearth, the sponsor loved us, it was a great space to play pool but just entering the bar brought chills. I called Ray (the sponsor) and told him my thoughts about changing venues because of the death of Dennis. He was very understanding, expressed interest in sponsoring other teams, and he hoped that I'd be able to return with a team in the future.
My first "group outing" after he passed was to attend the season-ending awards party. The party was to be held at the Hotel Whitcomb, which the league was using as the venue for West Coast Challenge. It was a very emotional night for me. It had been less than two weeks since Dennis had died. People kept coming up to me expressing their thoughts of Dennis and they were all wondering how I was doing. I even ran into someone who was not aware that Dennis had died. I won't use his name (to avoid embarrassment to him), but he had come up to me, gave me a hug, then asked how Dennis was. It caught me off guard. I said, "I guess you haven't heard, but Dennis passed away on Christmas Eve."
"Oh, Rick. I am so sorry. I had not heard. Please accept my apologies and my condolences."
"You don't have to apologize. I realize that every once in a while, someone is going to be asking me about Dennis because they will not have heard the news. It's always a bit shocking, but it's also something that I have to deal with. He went peacefully at home, like we had talked about. Considering the subject matter, it was an honor to be there for him."
I found an empty spot at one of the tables that had mostly people I already knew. After everyone had eaten, league President Travis Bernard opened the awards ceremony. He began by asking for a moment of silence due to the passing of long-time league member Dennis Healy, which brought immediate tears to my eyes as he caught me by surprise; I had not realized he was going to do that. I was sitting next to Jerry Ball and he reached over and gave me a hug. "It's okay, Rick."
"I know; he just caught me off guard," I sniffed.
He then announced that it was a special night, because it was time to induct someone into the SFPA Hall of Fame. The recipient was Bernie King, former league president, multiple tournament winner, dedicated member who was always tirelessly doing something for the league. Bernie was also in ill health, as he had been diagnosed with brain cancer and we all knew he didn't have much longer to live. It was a very popular decision to put him into the Hall and he received an extended standing ovation when it was announced.
Once the awards were passed out, the party started to break up into the Grand Ballroom, where the WCC was going to be held and where the pool tables were located. It was time for the "Turkey Shoot" tournament they always hold after the awards party. It's a fun event, whereby all you have to do is pocket a ball to maintain your place in the mix of players. You are allowed "three strikes" (missed shot, foul, etc.); once you reach that point, you are eliminated from the tournament, so basically, it's a "last man standing" tournament. Dennis and I always declined to play and I kept up the tradition—I didn't participate.
Bob Schnatterly came up to me and wanted to know what I was planning on for the upcoming season.
"I really don't know at the moment, Bob. I was going to take the season off, because I figured I'd be taking care of Dennis and I didn't want to leave him alone on Tuesdays while I was out playing pool. That's not in play any longer. I do know I don't want to be a captain. Maybe I'll just find a team that needs a player. I've already contacted my old sponsor and told him I wouldn't be back; he was very understanding."
"You don't need to give me an answer right now, but I'd love to have you join my team. I'm sure everyone on the team would welcome you with open arms. Think about it, okay?"
"Thanks for asking, Bob. I will think about it. I've had a couple of other people ask me as well, but I also don't want to join a "high powered" team. I'd like to be on a team that's a contender, without being so competitive that there's no fun involved. I will definitely let you know before sign up night."
I ultimately decided to join Bob's team. They play out of a bar called "Route 101" on Van Ness and Bush, which makes it convenient for me because my best friend Tom lives about four blocks up the street, so he will be able to visit during home matches. Any time I can spend with Tom is always time well spent. We're ten weeks into the 14-week season, and my play has been erratic at best. It's very frustrating to me, because I've been a pretty good player for a long time and this roller coaster ride I'm on just doesn't allow me to be my best all the time. I feel very bad because I don't feel like I'm helping the team; I don't even have a .500 average yet and in my 56 seasons, I've only had four or five seasons under .500, so this is an anomaly. The team doesn't seem to be too concerned about it; they all say "look what you're going through." But I hate using that as an excuse. Even with my erratic play, I do enjoy being on this team. Everyone is super nice and not so serious as to exclude the fun part of pool—after all, it is a game, and while I'm serious about playing, I always try to have fun as well. It's just not the same without Dennis along the sidelines cheering me on. I particularly miss getting the good luck kiss before each game that we always exchanged. So many new things to get used to—I don't know if I'll ever adapt fully.
My first "group outing" after he passed was to attend the season-ending awards party. The party was to be held at the Hotel Whitcomb, which the league was using as the venue for West Coast Challenge. It was a very emotional night for me. It had been less than two weeks since Dennis had died. People kept coming up to me expressing their thoughts of Dennis and they were all wondering how I was doing. I even ran into someone who was not aware that Dennis had died. I won't use his name (to avoid embarrassment to him), but he had come up to me, gave me a hug, then asked how Dennis was. It caught me off guard. I said, "I guess you haven't heard, but Dennis passed away on Christmas Eve."
"Oh, Rick. I am so sorry. I had not heard. Please accept my apologies and my condolences."
"You don't have to apologize. I realize that every once in a while, someone is going to be asking me about Dennis because they will not have heard the news. It's always a bit shocking, but it's also something that I have to deal with. He went peacefully at home, like we had talked about. Considering the subject matter, it was an honor to be there for him."
I found an empty spot at one of the tables that had mostly people I already knew. After everyone had eaten, league President Travis Bernard opened the awards ceremony. He began by asking for a moment of silence due to the passing of long-time league member Dennis Healy, which brought immediate tears to my eyes as he caught me by surprise; I had not realized he was going to do that. I was sitting next to Jerry Ball and he reached over and gave me a hug. "It's okay, Rick."
"I know; he just caught me off guard," I sniffed.
He then announced that it was a special night, because it was time to induct someone into the SFPA Hall of Fame. The recipient was Bernie King, former league president, multiple tournament winner, dedicated member who was always tirelessly doing something for the league. Bernie was also in ill health, as he had been diagnosed with brain cancer and we all knew he didn't have much longer to live. It was a very popular decision to put him into the Hall and he received an extended standing ovation when it was announced.
Once the awards were passed out, the party started to break up into the Grand Ballroom, where the WCC was going to be held and where the pool tables were located. It was time for the "Turkey Shoot" tournament they always hold after the awards party. It's a fun event, whereby all you have to do is pocket a ball to maintain your place in the mix of players. You are allowed "three strikes" (missed shot, foul, etc.); once you reach that point, you are eliminated from the tournament, so basically, it's a "last man standing" tournament. Dennis and I always declined to play and I kept up the tradition—I didn't participate.
Bob Schnatterly came up to me and wanted to know what I was planning on for the upcoming season.
"I really don't know at the moment, Bob. I was going to take the season off, because I figured I'd be taking care of Dennis and I didn't want to leave him alone on Tuesdays while I was out playing pool. That's not in play any longer. I do know I don't want to be a captain. Maybe I'll just find a team that needs a player. I've already contacted my old sponsor and told him I wouldn't be back; he was very understanding."
"You don't need to give me an answer right now, but I'd love to have you join my team. I'm sure everyone on the team would welcome you with open arms. Think about it, okay?"
"Thanks for asking, Bob. I will think about it. I've had a couple of other people ask me as well, but I also don't want to join a "high powered" team. I'd like to be on a team that's a contender, without being so competitive that there's no fun involved. I will definitely let you know before sign up night."
I ultimately decided to join Bob's team. They play out of a bar called "Route 101" on Van Ness and Bush, which makes it convenient for me because my best friend Tom lives about four blocks up the street, so he will be able to visit during home matches. Any time I can spend with Tom is always time well spent. We're ten weeks into the 14-week season, and my play has been erratic at best. It's very frustrating to me, because I've been a pretty good player for a long time and this roller coaster ride I'm on just doesn't allow me to be my best all the time. I feel very bad because I don't feel like I'm helping the team; I don't even have a .500 average yet and in my 56 seasons, I've only had four or five seasons under .500, so this is an anomaly. The team doesn't seem to be too concerned about it; they all say "look what you're going through." But I hate using that as an excuse. Even with my erratic play, I do enjoy being on this team. Everyone is super nice and not so serious as to exclude the fun part of pool—after all, it is a game, and while I'm serious about playing, I always try to have fun as well. It's just not the same without Dennis along the sidelines cheering me on. I particularly miss getting the good luck kiss before each game that we always exchanged. So many new things to get used to—I don't know if I'll ever adapt fully.
Monday, April 4, 2011
First day back in the office
It's Tuesday January 18th—my first day back at the office. I unlock the front door, notice that the alarm is off, so someone is here already. I go up the stairs. Everything looks the same. I hang up my shoulder bag and my coat, turn on the computer and head to the kitchen to make coffee. I run into someone I don't recognize. It's the new "Executive Assistant" to Clare and Michelle, Sherrie Dye. She gives me a strange look, as if to say: "Who are you?" I give the same look right back at her, and say, "I'm Rick. I've been off on bereavement. Who are you?"
She breaks into a smile and says, "I'm Sherrie, Clare and Michelle's assistant. I've heard a lot about you; nice to meet you finally. How are you doing?"
"Nice to meet you too; I'm doing about as well as can be expected. My emotions are still all over the map. I think it's nice to be back, just not sure yet."
It turned out to be a pretty strange day. Of course, everyone had to come up and say how nice it was to have me back, and they naturally wanted to know how I'm doing, which leads me to conversations I don't really want to have, because I know I'll probably be weepy off and on all day long—and that's what came to pass. I was never so glad when 5pm arrived and I could get out of there.
Be careful what you wish for, surprises can appear. I had made it through the first full day back at the office. I picked up the mail from the mailbox before heading up the stairs to the front door. I stopped at the door and just couldn't bring myself to put the key in the lock. It really hit me emotionally—I'm coming into an empty house. It wasn't the first time I'd come back to an empty house, but it was the first time since getting "back into a work routine" so it just seemed strange. I finally put the key in the lock, unlocked the door and went inside. In looking through the mail, I noticed that Dennis's sister Sandie had sent yet another card. I've been receiving so many cards from Sandie (all very much appreciated) that I was beginning to wonder if she had stock options in Hallmark...LOL. I opened the envelope, and I started to read the outside of the card, which was talking about "a new star in the sky tonight" and I just lost it. With Dennis being an Aquarian and with his head "always in the stars" anyhow, the words just got to me. I cried my way into the living room, sat down and just sobbed for about 20 minutes, non-stop. It was a good, cleansing cry, and I really did feel better afterwards.
My friend Lisa Duncan had told me during one of our conversations that I should watch for "signs" that Dennis was out there, watching over me. She's a fellow Aquarian and she and Dennis had a very spiritual friendship. After I parked the car by the office the next morning, I started walking towards the office just before 8am. As you are probably aware, a lot of the time you can still see the moon in the morning, even though the sky is getting lighter with the sunrise. I happened to look up in the sky while walking, and noticed the moon and what I figured was Venus a bit below and to the right of the moon, as many times in the mornings you can see Venus as it's usually pretty bright. A couple minutes later, I looked up in the sky again, saw the moon but "Venus" was no longer there. I stopped and just stared for a minute. I thought, "Where did that star go? I know I saw it just a minute ago." Then it hit me. I smiled and said, "Was that you, dear? Did you just wink at me with that disappearing star?" Coincidence? I don't really believe in coincidences, so I'm ready to believe that he was sending me a message—I'm right here for you.
She breaks into a smile and says, "I'm Sherrie, Clare and Michelle's assistant. I've heard a lot about you; nice to meet you finally. How are you doing?"
"Nice to meet you too; I'm doing about as well as can be expected. My emotions are still all over the map. I think it's nice to be back, just not sure yet."
It turned out to be a pretty strange day. Of course, everyone had to come up and say how nice it was to have me back, and they naturally wanted to know how I'm doing, which leads me to conversations I don't really want to have, because I know I'll probably be weepy off and on all day long—and that's what came to pass. I was never so glad when 5pm arrived and I could get out of there.
Be careful what you wish for, surprises can appear. I had made it through the first full day back at the office. I picked up the mail from the mailbox before heading up the stairs to the front door. I stopped at the door and just couldn't bring myself to put the key in the lock. It really hit me emotionally—I'm coming into an empty house. It wasn't the first time I'd come back to an empty house, but it was the first time since getting "back into a work routine" so it just seemed strange. I finally put the key in the lock, unlocked the door and went inside. In looking through the mail, I noticed that Dennis's sister Sandie had sent yet another card. I've been receiving so many cards from Sandie (all very much appreciated) that I was beginning to wonder if she had stock options in Hallmark...LOL. I opened the envelope, and I started to read the outside of the card, which was talking about "a new star in the sky tonight" and I just lost it. With Dennis being an Aquarian and with his head "always in the stars" anyhow, the words just got to me. I cried my way into the living room, sat down and just sobbed for about 20 minutes, non-stop. It was a good, cleansing cry, and I really did feel better afterwards.
My friend Lisa Duncan had told me during one of our conversations that I should watch for "signs" that Dennis was out there, watching over me. She's a fellow Aquarian and she and Dennis had a very spiritual friendship. After I parked the car by the office the next morning, I started walking towards the office just before 8am. As you are probably aware, a lot of the time you can still see the moon in the morning, even though the sky is getting lighter with the sunrise. I happened to look up in the sky while walking, and noticed the moon and what I figured was Venus a bit below and to the right of the moon, as many times in the mornings you can see Venus as it's usually pretty bright. A couple minutes later, I looked up in the sky again, saw the moon but "Venus" was no longer there. I stopped and just stared for a minute. I thought, "Where did that star go? I know I saw it just a minute ago." Then it hit me. I smiled and said, "Was that you, dear? Did you just wink at me with that disappearing star?" Coincidence? I don't really believe in coincidences, so I'm ready to believe that he was sending me a message—I'm right here for you.
The party's over — where did everyone go?
The Celebration of Life Party that I threw for Dennis on Friday January 7th turned out to be a total blast. It was great seeing people I had not seen in years. The love in the room that night was unbelievable. It's nice to know that we have friends like this; we don't always see everyone a lot, but when they're needed, they are there for me/us. Dennis would have been very pleased with the turnout of people.
It's now the week after the party, and I'm starting to wonder: where did everyone go? The past two weeks have been filled with people dropping by the house, people phoning me to see how I'm doing—it's almost been too much. I can only do so many social things. But I have noticed that this week, it's changing. Not too many people are dropping by now, the phone is not ringing as much. It seems kind of strange. I had a phone meeting with Michelle and Claire from the office, to discuss when I'll be returning to work. Before placing the phone call, I had decided that I needed to set a deadline for being off and a definite date for returning to work. Once I started the phone call, the first thing I said was: "I've only got two things to discuss. When I am going to return and how do I get paid for my time off in January? I know I've got some vacation time that I'm carrying over, but there's not that much to cover the amount of time I've been off this month. If I agree to use all the outstanding vacation time, can the company cover the rest of the time as paid bereavement leave?"
Michelle said, "That sounds fine to me; we can certainly give you additional bereavement time because you're a long-time employee and we want to do what we can for you. You said you had two things to bring up. What's the second item?"
"I've decided that I'm coming back to work on Tuesday, January 18, the day after Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday on Monday the 17th. I've set a deadline and I want to stick to it. I don't really know how it's going to go once I get back, but that's the date that I've set."
"Are you sure you want to come back that quickly? You can have more time if you need it, Rick," said Michelle.
"I'm not too sure about anything at the moment, Michelle. But I can't stay away forever. I have to get back to some kind of routine whether I'm ready or not. I have to try and we'll just see how it goes. That's the way I'm looking at it right now."
"Okay, it's your decision. We can't wait to get you back, but I can tell you, if things just don't work out yet, you can have more time. I'm in agreement—let's just see how it goes. Is there anything else you want to discuss while we're all on the phone?"
"Not from this end; I've covered what I wanted to talk to you about. I'll see everyone on Tuesday the 18th."
It's now the week after the party, and I'm starting to wonder: where did everyone go? The past two weeks have been filled with people dropping by the house, people phoning me to see how I'm doing—it's almost been too much. I can only do so many social things. But I have noticed that this week, it's changing. Not too many people are dropping by now, the phone is not ringing as much. It seems kind of strange. I had a phone meeting with Michelle and Claire from the office, to discuss when I'll be returning to work. Before placing the phone call, I had decided that I needed to set a deadline for being off and a definite date for returning to work. Once I started the phone call, the first thing I said was: "I've only got two things to discuss. When I am going to return and how do I get paid for my time off in January? I know I've got some vacation time that I'm carrying over, but there's not that much to cover the amount of time I've been off this month. If I agree to use all the outstanding vacation time, can the company cover the rest of the time as paid bereavement leave?"
Michelle said, "That sounds fine to me; we can certainly give you additional bereavement time because you're a long-time employee and we want to do what we can for you. You said you had two things to bring up. What's the second item?"
"I've decided that I'm coming back to work on Tuesday, January 18, the day after Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday on Monday the 17th. I've set a deadline and I want to stick to it. I don't really know how it's going to go once I get back, but that's the date that I've set."
"Are you sure you want to come back that quickly? You can have more time if you need it, Rick," said Michelle.
"I'm not too sure about anything at the moment, Michelle. But I can't stay away forever. I have to get back to some kind of routine whether I'm ready or not. I have to try and we'll just see how it goes. That's the way I'm looking at it right now."
"Okay, it's your decision. We can't wait to get you back, but I can tell you, if things just don't work out yet, you can have more time. I'm in agreement—let's just see how it goes. Is there anything else you want to discuss while we're all on the phone?"
"Not from this end; I've covered what I wanted to talk to you about. I'll see everyone on Tuesday the 18th."
Saturday, April 2, 2011
The New Year is here — A "Celebration of Life Party" is on the horizon
The New Year brings with it the realization that it's also a "New Year" for me as well. A new year of going it alone, with memories, family and friends as my only companions. Not that it isn't helpful, but it's not quite the same, and I mean no disrespect to anyone with that statement, but I also feel fairly sure that people will understand where I'm coming from. The majority of our friends are through the San Francisco Pool Association (SFPA), a team-oriented 8-ball league that I discovered the summer of 1983, after we had moved here. I had three seasons under my belt before Dennis got the "pool bug" and wanted to join the league too. He and another friend of ours, Donna, joined our team in February 1985. The SFPA is affiliated with like-leagues in Los Angeles, San Diego and Long Beach. Every six months, in January and July, each city on a rotating basis, hosts an event called West Coast Challenge (WCC). The team champions, individual champs, women champs, and a Hi-Lo team from each city compete at the WCC. As it turned out, it was the SFPA's turn to host the event. I approached the board about using the WCC space they had rented for a "Celebration of Life Party" for Dennis on Friday night, after the WCC's pool matches were over. They agreed immediately, and I set in motion the planning for the party.
I met with the hotel's event coordinator, chose the food that would be served, had her extend the bartender's hours so that I could have a cash bar available. The SFPA informed me that they would cover the cost of the bartender because they wanted to help out in whatever way they could. I was overwhelmed and very appreciative. Previously, our friend Lisa Duncan had told me that her dad had left her some money and she wanted to use some of it in helping me pay for the party so once the bill came in a month later, she was true to her word and sent me a check for 50% of the bill.
Much to my surprise, right before the party was to start, I was told that Doug Robertson, friend and former teammate, was going to be available to do the filming of interviews for people who wanted to make video statements instead of written ones in the "memory book" that I had provided. I also had made up a tri-fold event presentation board, mounted numerous photos on it, along with some of his pool trophies alongside to make up a display that was visible as soon as you entered the doorway. I should mention at this point that the party was held in the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Whitcomb, a famous hotel in San Francisco. It has been through many name changes over the years, but that's what it's called at the moment. It is a very ornate room, with a mezzanine around the upper rim where you can usually stand and watch all the action being played out on the eight pool tables brought in the for the event. But unfortunately, that area was closed to traffic (the first time it hadn't been available and we've been holding the WCC here for many years now).
During the evening, somewhere between 75-100 people showed up to honor Dennis. The air was electric, everyone had smiles on their faces, tales were told, strangers were encouraged to just walk up to someone, introduce themselves, say how they knew Dennis and the rest would take care of itself. It certainly appeared that everyone was having a grand time. I barely had time to mingle; I was caught at the entrance because people just kept coming in. It was wonderful. I had worn one of Dennis's favorite purple shirts, his purple Izod style pullover. I felt like he was hugging me all evening long. I forgot to mention up the page a ways, that Doug is not only a friend and former teammate, he is also a filmmaker. That's why I was so stunned when I was informed that he would be doing the DVD. The DVD is now a reality. As soon as I figure out how to upload it, I will and then you should be able to view it right here. Here's the link:
http://www.vimeo.com/22541760
Once it's here, I hope you enjoy it. Let me tell you a little about it. There's some soundtrack, there's the interviews with over 30 of our friends and coworkers, there are still photos mixed in between the interviews. It's really wonderful. The first thing you will hear is the first few notes of "Little Wing" by Jimi Hendrix, Dennis's favorite Hendrix song. The song continues throughout the scrolling obituary and works perfectly as a backdrop song. Listen to the words and see if you agree. Later on there's a photo montage of Dennis and I throughout the years, with "Walking on the Moon" by the Police playing in the background. I've told this story in a previous post, but it's worth repeating. Right after we became partners in September 1980, this song came on the radio and Dennis grabbed me from behind in a hug. "Do you know why I like this song so much?" he asked.
"No, why?"
"Because it's how I've felt ever since I've met you."
I know, awww. That's one of the reasons I loved him so much...still do. The next song you will hear is "Pride and Joy" by Stevie Ray Vaughan, one of Dennis's favorite artists. It's the background of photos from Dennis's childhood through the weekend family reunion we had in September 2010. "Walking on the Moon" is heard at the end of the DVD as well. I know you will not know a lot of the people (depending on who's viewing), but it's a very powerful display of human emotion and great memories of a wonderful man.
I met with the hotel's event coordinator, chose the food that would be served, had her extend the bartender's hours so that I could have a cash bar available. The SFPA informed me that they would cover the cost of the bartender because they wanted to help out in whatever way they could. I was overwhelmed and very appreciative. Previously, our friend Lisa Duncan had told me that her dad had left her some money and she wanted to use some of it in helping me pay for the party so once the bill came in a month later, she was true to her word and sent me a check for 50% of the bill.
Much to my surprise, right before the party was to start, I was told that Doug Robertson, friend and former teammate, was going to be available to do the filming of interviews for people who wanted to make video statements instead of written ones in the "memory book" that I had provided. I also had made up a tri-fold event presentation board, mounted numerous photos on it, along with some of his pool trophies alongside to make up a display that was visible as soon as you entered the doorway. I should mention at this point that the party was held in the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Whitcomb, a famous hotel in San Francisco. It has been through many name changes over the years, but that's what it's called at the moment. It is a very ornate room, with a mezzanine around the upper rim where you can usually stand and watch all the action being played out on the eight pool tables brought in the for the event. But unfortunately, that area was closed to traffic (the first time it hadn't been available and we've been holding the WCC here for many years now).
During the evening, somewhere between 75-100 people showed up to honor Dennis. The air was electric, everyone had smiles on their faces, tales were told, strangers were encouraged to just walk up to someone, introduce themselves, say how they knew Dennis and the rest would take care of itself. It certainly appeared that everyone was having a grand time. I barely had time to mingle; I was caught at the entrance because people just kept coming in. It was wonderful. I had worn one of Dennis's favorite purple shirts, his purple Izod style pullover. I felt like he was hugging me all evening long. I forgot to mention up the page a ways, that Doug is not only a friend and former teammate, he is also a filmmaker. That's why I was so stunned when I was informed that he would be doing the DVD. The DVD is now a reality. As soon as I figure out how to upload it, I will and then you should be able to view it right here. Here's the link:
http://www.vimeo.com/22541760
Once it's here, I hope you enjoy it. Let me tell you a little about it. There's some soundtrack, there's the interviews with over 30 of our friends and coworkers, there are still photos mixed in between the interviews. It's really wonderful. The first thing you will hear is the first few notes of "Little Wing" by Jimi Hendrix, Dennis's favorite Hendrix song. The song continues throughout the scrolling obituary and works perfectly as a backdrop song. Listen to the words and see if you agree. Later on there's a photo montage of Dennis and I throughout the years, with "Walking on the Moon" by the Police playing in the background. I've told this story in a previous post, but it's worth repeating. Right after we became partners in September 1980, this song came on the radio and Dennis grabbed me from behind in a hug. "Do you know why I like this song so much?" he asked.
"No, why?"
"Because it's how I've felt ever since I've met you."
I know, awww. That's one of the reasons I loved him so much...still do. The next song you will hear is "Pride and Joy" by Stevie Ray Vaughan, one of Dennis's favorite artists. It's the background of photos from Dennis's childhood through the weekend family reunion we had in September 2010. "Walking on the Moon" is heard at the end of the DVD as well. I know you will not know a lot of the people (depending on who's viewing), but it's a very powerful display of human emotion and great memories of a wonderful man.
My first massage
It was Friday, December 31st—New Year's Eve. It was also one week since Dennis had died. It had been a task-laden week and I needed a break. I had picked up the latest BAR and went to their ad sections. I found some listed websites for massage therapists, found one, called and made an appointment for 7pm that evening. It was in his home on York Street around 25th and Bryant. I was familiar with the neighborhood and it was no more than ten minutes away, and that was through city streets.
I arrived just before seven o'clock. When Joe answered the door, he pretty much looked exactly like the photo on his web page but in person, he was actually a bit cuter...not that there's anything wrong with that. I was asked to remove my shoes at the top of the stairs, so I did and followed him into the massage room. I sat on the loveseat and he brought out an electronic massage machine for my feet, and asked me if I'd like hot packs for my back and shoulders. I agreed to both, so I was feeling quite relaxed. He hauled out a chair, along with a clipboard and forms. He wrote down the basics, asked how I found him, etc.
I asked, "What's the difference between 'therapeutic massage' and 'sensual massage' as I noticed you were listed in both categories?"
He smiled at me and said, "The sensual massage has a nude option, so that is something to think about."
I smiled back. "We might as well go directly to 'sensual massage' then because I don't see the point in getting a massage with my clothes on."
"Okay. Do you need to use the restroom before we start?"
"I think I will, thanks."
He showed me where the bathroom was, I did my business and came back into the room. I put my clothes on the coatrack and climbed onto the table. I hadn't realized it at the time, but he also was nude. It actually did make me feel more comfortable and I knew I was not there for the 'erotic massage' category (Joe wasn't listed in that one; yes I did look at it but only as a lark). I had also signed up for the longer, one-and-one-half hour massage. I had told him it was my first time and I was pretty much up for whatever he wanted to do, depending on what he found when he was working on any particular muscle. In a couple of areas, we did some resistance stretches and it really helped the area we were working on. I've now seen Joe four times, and at the last appointment, signed up for four more with discounted rates because of the booking done at the same time. I've gotten to know him more over the months and like him. He has a gentle nature that reminds me slightly of Dennis, so that's nice too. I now do them once a month and find them to be quite relaxing, always scheduling them on a Friday evening, at week's end.
I arrived just before seven o'clock. When Joe answered the door, he pretty much looked exactly like the photo on his web page but in person, he was actually a bit cuter...not that there's anything wrong with that. I was asked to remove my shoes at the top of the stairs, so I did and followed him into the massage room. I sat on the loveseat and he brought out an electronic massage machine for my feet, and asked me if I'd like hot packs for my back and shoulders. I agreed to both, so I was feeling quite relaxed. He hauled out a chair, along with a clipboard and forms. He wrote down the basics, asked how I found him, etc.
I asked, "What's the difference between 'therapeutic massage' and 'sensual massage' as I noticed you were listed in both categories?"
He smiled at me and said, "The sensual massage has a nude option, so that is something to think about."
I smiled back. "We might as well go directly to 'sensual massage' then because I don't see the point in getting a massage with my clothes on."
"Okay. Do you need to use the restroom before we start?"
"I think I will, thanks."
He showed me where the bathroom was, I did my business and came back into the room. I put my clothes on the coatrack and climbed onto the table. I hadn't realized it at the time, but he also was nude. It actually did make me feel more comfortable and I knew I was not there for the 'erotic massage' category (Joe wasn't listed in that one; yes I did look at it but only as a lark). I had also signed up for the longer, one-and-one-half hour massage. I had told him it was my first time and I was pretty much up for whatever he wanted to do, depending on what he found when he was working on any particular muscle. In a couple of areas, we did some resistance stretches and it really helped the area we were working on. I've now seen Joe four times, and at the last appointment, signed up for four more with discounted rates because of the booking done at the same time. I've gotten to know him more over the months and like him. He has a gentle nature that reminds me slightly of Dennis, so that's nice too. I now do them once a month and find them to be quite relaxing, always scheduling them on a Friday evening, at week's end.
Dazed and confused
Once I was back being by myself after everyone had left on Sunday, the feelings of being dazed and confused surfaced. I still couldn't believe he was gone. I knew that I had many tasks to accomplish—deal with the mortuary, deal with Social Security, deal with his credit card company, try to write an obituary. I decided I needed to do one thing at a time, one day at a time until the tasks were complete.
I phoned the mortuary Monday morning and arranged to come down and complete the paperwork for his cremation. My friend, Florence, had come to my aid as I found it impossible to deal with the mortuary while he was still alive, even though I knew it was something that had to be done. Florence was a godsend—she downloaded all the paperwork from the mortuary's web site, filled out all the forms, then emailed them to me. All I had to do was print them, sign them and take them to the mortuary. I printed them on December 23rd, but because he had started really fading, I didn't contact them that day, and of course, as we all now know, he passed away the next day.
I phoned Carl, told him about the appointment at noon. He said he'd take me and stay with me during the whole time. I had used this same mortuary when our friend Victor died, but this time it felt different. It wasn't just a friend this time; it was Dennis. Surprisingly, I got through the ordeal without breaking down, though I did have a few sniffles. Afterwards, Carl and I went to lunch. I suggested BJs, a family-owned restaurant that I used to frequent when the office was only two blocks away. I had gotten to know the owners, Nasser and Reem, a young couple just starting out. I wanted to go there so I could pass along the news about Dennis, but unfortunately, they were closed between Christmas and New Year's, so we found another restaurant nearby and ate. One task down.
Tuesday morning I phoned Social Security, using all his numbers as if he were the person calling. When the lady finally answered (after I had gone through voice mail hell), she said, "Is this Mr. Healy?"
"No, my name is Rick Bradford. I am calling to report that Mr. Healy passed away last week. I was his domestic partner for the past 30 years. I'm hoping you can tell me whether this phone call is all that I have to do."
"First, let me express my condolences, Mr. Bradford. Once I take the information from you, that will be all that you have to do."
I gave her the details; I could hear her keyboard through the earpiece. This went on for about ten minutes, she expressed her condolences again and that was it. Not as bad as I thought it would be. Two tasks down.
I then went and broke my own rule—one task per day. Since the call with Social Security went so well, I decided I'd call his credit card company and ask for the paperwork for the insurance to pay off his balance. The call went about the same way it had before—they expressed condolences and told me I'd have the paperwork within ten business day. All I had to do was follow the instruction in the cover letter that would accompany the forms. I know this will sound a bit devious, but when Dennis had been diagnosed with ALS, I knew in the back of my head that I didn't really care what he did with his credit card, I'd use the insurance that you're required to carry and pay for on the card. I had filed a claim when Victor died, as he had no money to pay off his card. That's what insurance is for, why not use it? Three tasks down.
Wednesday morning and it's time to call about his life insurance. Once again, I was pleasantly surprised at how compassionate the people were on the other end of the phone. I guess the fact that it's just two people talking instead of a total corporate environment that makes the difference. They also told me that I'd receive the paperwork within ten business days. Four tasks down.
Thursday morning turned into the most difficult of the tasks—writing his obituary. At first, I sat in my chair in the living room with a pad of paper and a pen. It practically flowed out of me onto the paper. I emailed it along with a photo to the San Francisco Chronicle (the Bay Area's largest newspaper) and to the Bay Area Reporter (BAR), a weekly paper aimed at the gay community. Even though it was the same obituary, the Chronicle charges for it, it's free in the BAR. It follows:
I phoned the mortuary Monday morning and arranged to come down and complete the paperwork for his cremation. My friend, Florence, had come to my aid as I found it impossible to deal with the mortuary while he was still alive, even though I knew it was something that had to be done. Florence was a godsend—she downloaded all the paperwork from the mortuary's web site, filled out all the forms, then emailed them to me. All I had to do was print them, sign them and take them to the mortuary. I printed them on December 23rd, but because he had started really fading, I didn't contact them that day, and of course, as we all now know, he passed away the next day.
I phoned Carl, told him about the appointment at noon. He said he'd take me and stay with me during the whole time. I had used this same mortuary when our friend Victor died, but this time it felt different. It wasn't just a friend this time; it was Dennis. Surprisingly, I got through the ordeal without breaking down, though I did have a few sniffles. Afterwards, Carl and I went to lunch. I suggested BJs, a family-owned restaurant that I used to frequent when the office was only two blocks away. I had gotten to know the owners, Nasser and Reem, a young couple just starting out. I wanted to go there so I could pass along the news about Dennis, but unfortunately, they were closed between Christmas and New Year's, so we found another restaurant nearby and ate. One task down.
Tuesday morning I phoned Social Security, using all his numbers as if he were the person calling. When the lady finally answered (after I had gone through voice mail hell), she said, "Is this Mr. Healy?"
"No, my name is Rick Bradford. I am calling to report that Mr. Healy passed away last week. I was his domestic partner for the past 30 years. I'm hoping you can tell me whether this phone call is all that I have to do."
"First, let me express my condolences, Mr. Bradford. Once I take the information from you, that will be all that you have to do."
I gave her the details; I could hear her keyboard through the earpiece. This went on for about ten minutes, she expressed her condolences again and that was it. Not as bad as I thought it would be. Two tasks down.
I then went and broke my own rule—one task per day. Since the call with Social Security went so well, I decided I'd call his credit card company and ask for the paperwork for the insurance to pay off his balance. The call went about the same way it had before—they expressed condolences and told me I'd have the paperwork within ten business day. All I had to do was follow the instruction in the cover letter that would accompany the forms. I know this will sound a bit devious, but when Dennis had been diagnosed with ALS, I knew in the back of my head that I didn't really care what he did with his credit card, I'd use the insurance that you're required to carry and pay for on the card. I had filed a claim when Victor died, as he had no money to pay off his card. That's what insurance is for, why not use it? Three tasks down.
Wednesday morning and it's time to call about his life insurance. Once again, I was pleasantly surprised at how compassionate the people were on the other end of the phone. I guess the fact that it's just two people talking instead of a total corporate environment that makes the difference. They also told me that I'd receive the paperwork within ten business days. Four tasks down.
Thursday morning turned into the most difficult of the tasks—writing his obituary. At first, I sat in my chair in the living room with a pad of paper and a pen. It practically flowed out of me onto the paper. I emailed it along with a photo to the San Francisco Chronicle (the Bay Area's largest newspaper) and to the Bay Area Reporter (BAR), a weekly paper aimed at the gay community. Even though it was the same obituary, the Chronicle charges for it, it's free in the BAR. It follows:
Dennis J. Healy – February 2, 1951 to December 24, 2010
"Dennis Healy, one of the gentlest and sweetest men you could ever hope to meet, lost his battle to ALS and left this earthly plane on Christmas Eve. It was a peaceful passing, in his home with his partner of 30 years, Rick, holding his hand. The last words he heard were “I love you.” He took his last breath seconds later. He is survived by his partner Rick Bradford, two sisters – Sandie Bohnenstiehl and Eileen Pulker of Franklin, MI, one brother – John Healy of Apache Junction, AZ, his son Aragorn Healy of San Francisco, and his grandson Calvin. He also leaves behind many relatives and extended family from the San Francisco Pool Association, of which he was a member for 26 years, holding numerous 8-ball tournament wins. His ready smile and gentle nature will be missed by everyone who knew him."
Needless to say, to this day, I still do not know how I wrote it, because it took me more than a month before I could read it without weeping and not making it through the entire text. It appeared in the December 31, 2010 issue of the Chronicle and in the January 6, 2011 issue of the BAR.
"His ready smile and gentle nature" is really missed by me.
Championship group hug
Sunday December 26 brought our championship pool team together. At around 9:30am, Hugh phoned to say that he and EZ would be coming by the house in a couple hours. As soon as I hung up the phone, I thought to myself, "Hugh, EZ, me; hmmm."
I phone Carl. When he answered, I said, "Carl, can you reach Evan and both of you come over? Hugh just called and he and EZ are going to be here in a couple hours. If you and Evan come at the same time, we can have a championship team reunion. I'm sure that will please Dennis."
I phone Carl. When he answered, I said, "Carl, can you reach Evan and both of you come over? Hugh just called and he and EZ are going to be here in a couple hours. If you and Evan come at the same time, we can have a championship team reunion. I'm sure that will please Dennis."
"Sounds great, Rick. I'll hop right on it and see you in a couple of hours."
 |
| Cinchkronicity - Champs Spring 2001 |
Dennis and I played together in the San Francisco Pool Association for 26 years (I'm still playing). During that entire time, our team only managed to win one team title. In the photo (from left to right) are Carl, EZ, Evan, Dennis, Hugh, and me. My sister Mary took the photo; she was out visiting SF with her former sister-in-law and the day they were in town was our Awards Party. She and Sue came to the party, got to meet a lot of our friends; after the party, we went back to the house, as she had never seen it before (other than photos).
Carl and Evan arrived first, followed by EZ and his girlfriend, Nancy; Hugh arrived last. I proposed a group hug so we could share our memories of Dennis. Nancy got up from the couch to join but I stopped her. "Not yet, Nancy. You can join us in a minute, but this time it's just the team first. Okay?"
"I understand, Rick. You guys go ahead."
I was already crying, and found it hard to talk. "We're gathered here today to honor Dennis, who was much more than just a teammate to all of us. He was my soulmate, he was a great friend to all of you. His wonderful spirit, gentle demeanor, and that fantastic smile will be missed by all of us. Here's to you my love. We miss your presence, but you will always be with us in spirit and in our hearts."
After a moment of silence, we asked Nancy to join us. "Thank you, Nancy, for allowing us the team time before you joined us. I appreciate your understanding."
Sitting around after the hug, we all had our stories to tell. Looking at the photo of us that his nephew John took of us at the family reunion in September, a thought occurred to me. I started laughing and everyone turned to look at me.
"See this photo? Not only is Dennis smiling, I think at the moment he's laughing at me, in a good-natured way. I just realized something. The night he died, I had been making a pot of coffee, going back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. After I did the first pour, when I came back to the living room, Dennis's eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling, at least that's what it looked like to me. At first, I thought he had died and I missed it, but I saw his chest moving so I knew he was still here. I returned to the kitchen for the second pour, and when I came back in, he was in the same exact state—eyes open, staring at the ceiling. I went to my chair, sat down, and said, 'Are you awake, dear?' He didn't respond, so I knelt next to him, kissed his forehead, held his hand and told him, 'I love you, dear.' Within seconds of that, I heard a small gurgle in his throat and he was gone. What I just realized is that he probably could not talk at the very end and by having his eyes open and staring off into space, he was trying to get my attention. The reason I feel he's laughing at me in this photo is because I was always the slow one when it came to 'getting it' with regards to spiritual matters. I was the grounded Taurean, he was the Aquarian airhead, but he 'got it' a lot sooner than I did. So I want to say to Dennis, 'I'm sorry dear, you know it always takes me a while to catch on.' But the one thing I did right—I was here for him, just like we had discussed."
Having the old pool team together, even for just a few hours, meant the world to me. The people we know from the pool league are and will always be life-long friends. I know they are all here for me to help get through this difficult time.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Christmas Day in a purple haze
It's been five days since I blogged last; reliving that last entry really took it out of me. It was still Christmas Eve, Carl had just left and I was alone in the house for the first time. As I write this, it's April 1, 2011. It's been fourteen weeks since Dennis passed, and Friday nights are still not the same (Christmas Eve was a Friday). I relive his last day every Friday night, especially at 7:45pm—the time he passed. I'm still haunted and the hole in my heart has not gotten any smaller.
I awoke Christmas morning, took a leak, nuked a cup of coffee, and grabbed the paper from the front porch. As I entered the living room, I stopped. He wasn't there, in his chair. I started choking up, put the cup of coffee on the table next to my chair, sat down, dropped the paper and started crying. I didn't think I'd ever stop, but I did. It just couldn't be; he couldn't be dead; we had so many things we wanted to do. I turned the cable box to the blues channel, Dennis's favorite. I felt like he'd be happy and maybe he's actually right here watching over me. I'd like to think so. I got through the paper and the coffee, poured a bowl of cereal and ate in front of the computer, like I usually do each morning. It was still early, so I couldn't call anyone, even though numerous people had said "call any time" — I just couldn't do it.
The phone rang about 9:30am. It was Carl, checking in on me. We talked for a little while and he said he'd be over later. By the time we got done talking, it was close to ten o'clock, so I wanted to call Aragorn and give him the news. I had called him the night before but got the answering machine, leaving a message to call me no matter what the time. Since he had not called, I did so, figuring he knew what I had called for the night before. Instead of the machine, this time he answered.
"Aragorn, it's Rick. I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but your Dad passed away last night. It was real peaceful, I was with him, holding his hand. The last words he heard were 'I love you, dear' and he went seconds later. It all happened so fast."
"Is it okay if I come over for a while?"
"Sure, I'm going to be here all day. I have a feeling that once the word starts getting around, the phone will be non-stop and most likely people will be dropping by all day long. Come on by any time you'd like."
While waiting for Aragorn to show up, I made a few phone calls. I really dreaded making any of them but knew I had to, so I started with Lisa Duncan first. When she picked up, she sounded in a very holiday festive spirit.
"Hi Lisa, it's Rick."
"Hey baby, Merry Christmas. It's nice to hear from you."
I had started choking up, but I had to get the words out. "I'm not calling about Christmas, Lisa. I've got bad news—"
"No, no, don't tell me," she sobbed. "Please don't tell me Dennis is gone."
I was crying pretty hard by then, so she knew, but I tried to get the words out. "I'm sorry, Lisa, but he passed away last night about eight o'clock. It was real peaceful and I was with him holding his hand. The last thing he heard was me saying 'I love you, dear' and he went seconds later." It was difficult getting the words out between the sobs.
We were both sobbing into the phone. "Honey, we'll be over later. We had some plans, but we'll cancel them. You're much more important now."
The rest of the phone calls were pretty much the same way. I'd break down when telling them, they'd break down in turn. It was a vicious cycle and this merry-go-round wasn't going to stop anytime soon. I had people stopping in throughout the day. Aragorn arrived first, and stayed for about an hour and a half. Jim and Greg stopped by while he was here; Greg had made a huge lasagna because he knew I'd be too consumed with grief to worry about fixing myself dinner, so it was very nice of them to do that—plus it was delicious. I stretched that lasagna out for over two weeks. They stayed for only a few minutes as they were heading somewhere for the day; when they left, Aragorn did as well. Lisa, Miranda and Tom arrived next, follwed by Marquita and Kim. We shared stories, cried together, laughed together—true friends who will always be there for me.
It was about 5pm by the time everyone had come and gone for the day. The phone rang. It was Hugh, wondering if it was okay if he stopped by. I told him of course and to please do so. He was also the bearer of food items when he arrived. He didn't want me to starve either. He brought a prime rib meal with mash potatoes, collard greens, creamed corn, and corn bread. When I looked at the prime rib, I exclaimed, "My god, Hugh, you could feed India with that amount of meat." After we stopped laughing, I continued, "No really, I'll probably cut that up and make three or four meals out of it for me. I'll tell you, Hugh, before he passed away, Dennis would sit on a stool here in the kitchen and taught me how he cooked so I'd be able to do the same after he was gone. Can you believe it? He's dying, and he's worried about me?"
"It just goes to show how much he loved you, Rick. He was a special man. We're all going to miss him."
Hugh stayed and visited with me for about an hour. I had made it through the first 24 hours. I collapsed in my chair, rolled a good-sized joint and took off for a while. I hadn't smoked all day, though it seemed the day had a purple haze quality to it. Jimi Hendrix was one of Dennis's favorite artists. I had always been somewhat ambivalent about him—until the time Dennis and I did acid during the Haight Street Fair in 1985. We put Jimi Hendrix on the stereo when the acid was hitting us. I had never before in my life heard a guitar talk like that. As Dennis then said, "Now you understand Jimi Hendrix."
I awoke Christmas morning, took a leak, nuked a cup of coffee, and grabbed the paper from the front porch. As I entered the living room, I stopped. He wasn't there, in his chair. I started choking up, put the cup of coffee on the table next to my chair, sat down, dropped the paper and started crying. I didn't think I'd ever stop, but I did. It just couldn't be; he couldn't be dead; we had so many things we wanted to do. I turned the cable box to the blues channel, Dennis's favorite. I felt like he'd be happy and maybe he's actually right here watching over me. I'd like to think so. I got through the paper and the coffee, poured a bowl of cereal and ate in front of the computer, like I usually do each morning. It was still early, so I couldn't call anyone, even though numerous people had said "call any time" — I just couldn't do it.
The phone rang about 9:30am. It was Carl, checking in on me. We talked for a little while and he said he'd be over later. By the time we got done talking, it was close to ten o'clock, so I wanted to call Aragorn and give him the news. I had called him the night before but got the answering machine, leaving a message to call me no matter what the time. Since he had not called, I did so, figuring he knew what I had called for the night before. Instead of the machine, this time he answered.
"Aragorn, it's Rick. I'm sorry I have to tell you this, but your Dad passed away last night. It was real peaceful, I was with him, holding his hand. The last words he heard were 'I love you, dear' and he went seconds later. It all happened so fast."
"Is it okay if I come over for a while?"
"Sure, I'm going to be here all day. I have a feeling that once the word starts getting around, the phone will be non-stop and most likely people will be dropping by all day long. Come on by any time you'd like."
While waiting for Aragorn to show up, I made a few phone calls. I really dreaded making any of them but knew I had to, so I started with Lisa Duncan first. When she picked up, she sounded in a very holiday festive spirit.
"Hi Lisa, it's Rick."
"Hey baby, Merry Christmas. It's nice to hear from you."
I had started choking up, but I had to get the words out. "I'm not calling about Christmas, Lisa. I've got bad news—"
"No, no, don't tell me," she sobbed. "Please don't tell me Dennis is gone."
I was crying pretty hard by then, so she knew, but I tried to get the words out. "I'm sorry, Lisa, but he passed away last night about eight o'clock. It was real peaceful and I was with him holding his hand. The last thing he heard was me saying 'I love you, dear' and he went seconds later." It was difficult getting the words out between the sobs.
We were both sobbing into the phone. "Honey, we'll be over later. We had some plans, but we'll cancel them. You're much more important now."
The rest of the phone calls were pretty much the same way. I'd break down when telling them, they'd break down in turn. It was a vicious cycle and this merry-go-round wasn't going to stop anytime soon. I had people stopping in throughout the day. Aragorn arrived first, and stayed for about an hour and a half. Jim and Greg stopped by while he was here; Greg had made a huge lasagna because he knew I'd be too consumed with grief to worry about fixing myself dinner, so it was very nice of them to do that—plus it was delicious. I stretched that lasagna out for over two weeks. They stayed for only a few minutes as they were heading somewhere for the day; when they left, Aragorn did as well. Lisa, Miranda and Tom arrived next, follwed by Marquita and Kim. We shared stories, cried together, laughed together—true friends who will always be there for me.
It was about 5pm by the time everyone had come and gone for the day. The phone rang. It was Hugh, wondering if it was okay if he stopped by. I told him of course and to please do so. He was also the bearer of food items when he arrived. He didn't want me to starve either. He brought a prime rib meal with mash potatoes, collard greens, creamed corn, and corn bread. When I looked at the prime rib, I exclaimed, "My god, Hugh, you could feed India with that amount of meat." After we stopped laughing, I continued, "No really, I'll probably cut that up and make three or four meals out of it for me. I'll tell you, Hugh, before he passed away, Dennis would sit on a stool here in the kitchen and taught me how he cooked so I'd be able to do the same after he was gone. Can you believe it? He's dying, and he's worried about me?"
"It just goes to show how much he loved you, Rick. He was a special man. We're all going to miss him."
Hugh stayed and visited with me for about an hour. I had made it through the first 24 hours. I collapsed in my chair, rolled a good-sized joint and took off for a while. I hadn't smoked all day, though it seemed the day had a purple haze quality to it. Jimi Hendrix was one of Dennis's favorite artists. I had always been somewhat ambivalent about him—until the time Dennis and I did acid during the Haight Street Fair in 1985. We put Jimi Hendrix on the stereo when the acid was hitting us. I had never before in my life heard a guitar talk like that. As Dennis then said, "Now you understand Jimi Hendrix."
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