City Lights Journal
Have you ever found something after a loved one died that left you with far more questions than could ever be answered? That flooded your heart with memories? That made you lose your words? This is what happened when I found such a thing.
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This was supposed to be your notebook. I got it for you from City Lights one time when you stayed home with the dogs while I went to a mindfulness conference for work.
A few years later, you’d go with me, and we’d stay at the same hotel. You bummed around while I attended breakout sessions. One day you took a red double-decker tour bus ride through The City, sitting on the top alone in the chilly rain and loved it. The company gave you a poncho with the tour bus logo and name on it. Years later, you wore it to a B-52s-Culture Club-Thomson Twins (though only one member of the band was there) concert at the state fair. We laughed so hard because you never saved things — but you saved this huge poncho.
Saturday was sunny so we walked to City Lights. I smiled as you gaped at the rows and rows of books, delighted and unsure of where to start looking first.
Afterward, we crossed the alley and sidled up to the pockmarked wooden bar at Vesuvio where Kerouac and the other Beats hung out. We hopped the cable car to Ghirardelli Square and hit the BV where you had your first Irish coffee. “I don’t like whiskey or coffee,” you said. “It doesn’t matter — you’ll think it’s delicious, trust me,” I responded. The first sip hit your lips, and you agreed. “Let’s have another,” you said.
The next day we biked over the Golden Gate Bridge to Muir Woods, where you marveled at the cathedral of giant redwoods connected underground in a huge network of roots that kept skyscraper-esque trees from falling over.
I told you the mighty tree community was like the one you created for yourself. A group of family, friends, and fans tied together through your sweet heart, intelligence, and humor. I don’t think you knew your power or really thought that all those humans loved you as much as they did. And still do.
But when you got sick, they sprang into action. I had not witnessed anything like it. The Fab 5 wanted to help, but you wanted to do ALL. THE. THINGS on your own. So, for years, you mostly did until all the times you couldn’t and I couldn’t. Eventually I had to — no, chose to — call them.
That was hard because you wanted to keep your autonomy and not seen as a sick person, and because I never ask for help. But your cancer taught me how to do that. It showed me some people will turn up — and a great many won’t. Or can’t. Or don’t know what to do or say. “It’s not a test!” I want to scream.
I long to tell them to take it from me, there is no right thing to do or words to say. You show up however messy it may be. Because if you don’t, that’s what your living-out-their-final-days friend and their loved ones will remember.
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This was supposed to be your notebook. A place to tell your story. I found it in a box in the basement a month after you died, along with dozens of other written-in and dated journals. I wanted to ask why, unlike the others, you hadn’t written in it. But now, I’ll have to wonder forever.
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This was supposed to be your notebook. I took it to Ireland with me. I carried it for weeks while being awed along The Wild Atlantic Way. I tried to write profound things about the experiences I was having. But it was your journal, and you were supposed to be with me documenting the kindness of the people, the wonders of the Irish Sea, the tastiness of soda bread and butter, what it was like to fly a hawk at the School of Falconry, and watch a kelpie effortlessly herd sheep up and down steep, rocky hillsides.
So, I came home with an empty journal. But I left your ashes in Dingle under the old lighthouse so you’re there when your friend, Laura, goes for a visit. I also found an eddy in the roaring Atlantic along the Antrim Coast on the windiest day I ever lived through. One patch of calm sea was all Laurie, and I needed to send you home to the Scottish shore just nine miles away.
“This is hard,” I said. “Yes,” she said as we hugged.
I know you approved because we looked up at the clearing sky a bit later and noticed you sent us a rainbow.
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This was supposed to be your notebook.
But, tonight, I found it again on the shelf in your former lady cave, sitting under your childhood stuffed bunny. I was frantically looking all over the house for my copy of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. “I know it’s here somewhere,” I thought. Sifting through boxes, I came across cards that you saved from me, Sue, Laura, Kerry, and your mom. They were in a file labeled: Squishies.
I remember seeing them the first time I went through your boxes just weeks after you died. But this time, as I was putting things away, I noticed a patch I got for you at Arches National Park on the basement floor.
It said: I hiked Delicate Arch.
Yes, you did! We did with TC, Heather, Emily, and soon-to-be-born Everett. For years I told you how it was one of my favorite places, and I was so glad I could finally take you there.
We hiked over slick rock trails under a full moon that was so bright we didn’t need to turn on our headlamps. When we got to the arch, we sat and marveled at the moon, constellations, and even Venus.
I remember every minute like it just happened.
During your last days, I was in the kitchen cleaning up and overheard Nina, the death doula, ask you about some of your favorite adventures.
“Hiking Delicate Arch under moonlight,” you said as enthusiastically as you could. That dazzling twinkle still filling your eyes for a moment.
I remember how hard I cried that day — and all the other last days of your life.
Anticipatory grief. That’s what the professionals call it. I call it fucking awful — a flood of memories of our life together that I knew was ending any day.
I’ve come to understand that the only thing worse than anticipatory grief is post-your-partner-dying grief. I just want to feel normal again, even for a minute, instead of lost and wrung out. It’s been one year, but it feels like I haven’t even begun to grieve.
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This was supposed to be your notebook to tell a story. But now I’m using it to tell our story. My story of losing my person and what that means for me and the rest of my life, even though I don’t have the words to begin to describe it.