How can a man fall in love with a woman who has been dead for over 40 years? How in looking through her photos, notes, and slides of her artwork, do I find myself crying for my loss? Seeing pictures of her as a young girl, before I even arrived on the scene… And feeling sad.
Yes, my best friend died a week ago. And yesterday was a memorial for a different friend from high school. Death brings us all to the present moment. What are we not doing? What should we be doing? Is there a dream we should be pursuing that we have on hold?
Run while you still have legs.
That was a phrase I invented as I was being hustled from a rural psyche ward to McLane, the top freestanding psychiatric hospital in the US. The teaching hospital of Harvard. The best of the best. I needed a “higher level of care” than was possible on the “no puthy” ward in Maine.
I was sold on the idea of being transported out of dusty and rusty emergency room-ish locked ward to something brighter, smarter, and “for kids his own age.” Except that last line was bullshit. I was put right in the adult bin. My roommate was having nightly panic attacks and constant mutterings about shooting his best friend. I was drawing pictures of how I felt. Image poems. I was clinging to Kurt Vonneguts Slapstick and the line I still repeat from time to time.
“A little less love, and a lot more common decency please.”
When my sister and mother and I were in Guadalajara supporting my brother and his upcoming heart bypass surgery, I recall using the line at the dinner table. I was checked into a crazy-ass future deco hotel room. I didn’t like it. I was joking about it. My mom took offense. My sister laughed. I didn’t need their advice at this time. Back in my teens, sure, but I was in my fifties at this point. I didn’t appreciate my mom talking to me like a child.
I could see my sister roll her eyes when I said it. She remembered. My mom did not. She just got more flustered.
“Mom, it’s not important. I’m not moving tonight. I’ll get a different hotel tomorrow.”
Still, I think this phrase means a lot to me. Don’t love me so much that you decide you know what’s right for me. That you tell me what you want me to do. Unsolicited advice is always a complaint. I don’t want your complaints.
“Can we just eat dinner. I’ll take care of my own damn hotel.”
That certainly killed the festive vibe at dinner. But, we were dealing with a much heavier subject. So we carried on and let the topic drop.
A few days earlier, in Puerto Vallarta, I invited my sister out for a walk along the tourist area along the beach. We walked past street performers and musicians. We had a nice dinner and two margaritas each. Nicely buzzed I recall being mesmerized by the scene, the sound, the high, and being with my one remaining sister. It was not a healing moment. It was a together moment.
“We are in this together,” I said. I grabbed her hand as we walked back to our hotel. “He’s going to make it. It’s going to be fine.”
Turns out, she was my mom’s wingman when I was transported to the Maine lock-down unit in high school.
“I’ll never forgive her for that. It was a terrible position to put me in. I think I was 20.”
My mom wanted someone to hold her hand while her youngest was showing early signs of manic depression. (Later called Bi-Polar Depressive Disorder.) She should not have asked her young daughter to be her support. It was unfair. It damaged my sister. For all I know, it’s part of why we’ve never really become close. Even when, now, we are the only remaining adults.
And today, in this present moment, there is my sister. All the photos. The dreams. The extensive portfolio of her work in well-preserved 3 x 5 format slides.
It’s amazing, when you die your stuff goes into the garage of your nearest relative. If it ever surfaces again it might be nibbled by mice, dried into brittle parchment, or tossed in the recycling bin. A week ago, my remaining sister gave me some of the boxes of stuff she’d been keeping. She was the only one who had a consistent job, thus house, thus storage space.
In one of the plastic bins were all of my father’s medical degrees and awards. No longer framed. Lose. Decaying. Sad.
Everything we work for, hope for, and love for comes to an end when we die. My father left only his money and a massive art collection that he and Mom had acquired over the years. The art he collected after the divorce was less inspired. Seriously, I have stacks of art, framed, in my garage. I’ll never be able to hang most of them.
In breaking up with my girlfriend a month ago, I asked for “one painting” back. It was from an artist I knew. “You can keep the others.”
What we have left at the end of a life is not much. Common decency would be enough. My dad would be freaking out about his diplomas and stuff. They are now inside in my house, protected from the Texas heat of the garage. Unframed and now being buried by some of the photos of my favorite sister.
I looked at the images today. I fell in love. She was really my mom. 10 years older. When I was born, I was her living doll. As I looked through so many of her milestones, I understood why my “type” has always been dark-haired, thin, hippies. Ah, I see. How could I escape?
Falling in love with a ghost is not recommended. I think I’ll stay here for a bit and just breathe.
For the living, there’s always tomorrow.
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