Blue Plate Specials

I like to have my stuffing and eat it, too

So when mom or my sister (or maybe even it was me) floated the initial idea of Thanksgiving at my sister’s house in DC, I jumped. The last time we got together in DC for Thanksgiving was magic – almost mythic. Definitely in the top five Thanksgivings ever (despite not being able to find rutabega… but that’s another story).

Cliffe + Cabezas = a lotta crazy + cosy

I was drawn in by the promise of a joyful friends and family crowd with a fantastic, multicultural spread in a newly renovated house, hungry for family and connecting with my kids after a Covid lockdown of arguments as bitter as cranberry sauce with no sugar. Glass half-full to the core, I felt lucky to see them at all for such a short weekend.

Between far-away college student constraints and the pilot shortage that meant Krikor’s schedule was never secure, it was a minor miracle on the scale of a virgin birth that both kids would be able to make it to our big family gathering at all.

Krikor was a low-on-the-totem-pole pilot and seems to get reassigned and miss plans more times than not these days. Nyiri, lured by the venue (the “cool” aunt and uncle’s place) and the chance to see her brother, found reasonably priced tickets and managed to get the trip on her already packed calendar. They would both get into DCA on Thursday well before dinner. That was something to celebrate (even though they’d miss the parade and dinner preparations).

But let’s be honest, it was destined to be a roller coaster

Between between school exams and work demands and the outsized potential for travel disruptions, the rarefied sliver of the Thanksgiving long weekend is not a great time for connecting on a deep level with grown kids.

Knowing that **I** never came home for Thanksgiving when I was in college should have helped me recalibrate my expectations. As it turned out, that they wouldn’t be arriving until Thursday afternoon was only the tip of my needy, scheduling conflicts iceberg. I was, after all, still raw from being in the middle of parenting young adults.

A great beginning

My flight on the busiest travel day of the year was packed but smooth and (more important) on time. The crush of crowds and holiday music in the airport was a delicious appetizer for the big event tomorrow. The Metro ride was a trip down memory lane: the majestic arch of the stations (Italian design), the familiar boing boing sound of the closing doors that toddler Krikor used to sing to himself in his crib. I was overwhelmed with nostalgia sitting in the trains we’d travelled so often when the kids were young. I almost teared up, remembering so many happy trips and good times. It was a quick and easy trip to my sister’s house despite the yellow line closure that meant I had to loop way around.

The walk from the Metro was familiar, comforting, setting me up for a weekend of warm memory-making. I didn’t knock at the back door to the newly renovated house and walked into a World Cup watching scene out of Hollywood: big screen TVs blasting in Spanish (in the living room) and English (in the kitchen), a dozen or so die hard soccer fans alternately whooping and groaning. So fun! The house and guest room were full to the brim and I was delighted to be bunking with my niece. I think she was excited, too, as we chatted in bed later that night before agreeing that we both needed to get some sleep.

We were all up hours before the parade on Thursday morning: my brother-in-law and nephew went to play soccer at 7:30, everyone else pitched in to get the house ready. My niece and I walked out to Starbucks and Giant to get the all-important Starbucks latte (to help “recharge my marbles”) and last-minute groceries (apple cider, another cauliflower, Guyer cheese).

Nyiri’s plane landed at one o’clock sharp and her cousins were there at the airport to pick her up by the time she was out by the curb. Krikor flew in on time and without any blips and texted that he’d be over as soon as he dropped off his stuff.

Everything was falling into place as planned, until it wasn’t

First strike: No overlap on the end

I did have an inkling that the visit might be less than movie-perfect, since we already had minimal overlapping time over the already short weekend. My visit was front-loaded when Nyiri’s was end-loaded: I’d miss seeing her Wednesday night and most of Thanksgiving day, before she arrived. But “I’ll be there all weekend and most of Monday!” she assured me . Unfortunately I, usually the paragon of flexibility, had a can’t-miss doctor’s appointment Monday afternoon that required me to fly back in the morning.

Let the scheduling fun begin!!

As it tuned out, this was just the beginning of the scheduling iceberg disaster. It was in between the turkey and smashed potatoes and dessert – when we started to map out the weekend – that I truly understood to what extent our scheduling was more miss than match. I had visions of a shared time Friday morning (maybe all day?? until dinner); the kids had already planned brunch with their dad’s aunt and uncle and cousins. The kids and my parents were talking botanical gardens and a trip to the train display Saturday morning; I was meeting a friend for dinner Friday and then leaving for a couple of nights in Annapolis. So much for getting together over the weekend.

No time for leftovers starts to seem personal

No worries, I thought. I could shorten my trip to Annapolis and be back Saturday in time for dinner with the kids. My friend has kids of her own, and understood the situation exactly. She dropped me off at my sister’s at 5:30 and I skipped up to the front door, eager for dinner and an evening with the kids.

Turns out that matching our Thanksgiving calendars was like trying to put together two pieces of paper ripped in a fit of anger long ago. I texted and waited. And texted some more. Finally around eight o’clock, I got a quick text that they were just going to hang out at Krikor’s place and not come over to Addie’s at all.

It’s a ten minute walk from Krikor’s apartment to my sister’s house. I know it was cold and dark and they were comfortable and warm, but it still hurt. Time after time, I’d missed the mark.

The long weekend seemed more weak than long; more DoorDash than home cooking.

Like getting a McDonald’s Happy meal when what I craved was fine French dining. Don’t get me wrong – the food and the company and the conversations were plentiful and wonderful. It’s just that after three years apart, I’d forgotten that big-family gatherings can expose big baggage, no matter how functional the family.

Dessert after all

Two weeks of letting the Thanksgiving weekend simmer and mingle with the flavors brought to the table by other minds has done wonders. My friend in Annapolis pointed out how great it was that Krikor and Nyiri truly enjoy their time together. Another friend remarked how nice it is that they stay connected with their dad’s family – even when he’s not there. My mom and I marveled at how delightful it was to spend time with my niece. I remembered with fondness the warm hug Krikor gave me when he walked in the door, and the joy of a long walk through the city with Nyiri on Sunday for lattes.

There is a uniquely exquisite torture of realizing that you are – as a parent of newly-launched semi-adult children – uniquely superfluous in the lives brought into being and then spent decades nurturing.

But there is also a unique joy in seeing your kids thrive in their own way, being their own people in their own spaces. To be able to appreciate this without bitterness is a gift.

Forging ahead with that half full glass

I’m working on the schedule for Christmas and New Years’ now, and it’s way, way worse. There’s more to fit in (mom’s Solstice celebration, closing on my condo and moving everything in from my POD, not to mention Christmas, Christmas Eve, shopping on Newbury Street in Boston).

But I know for sure that it’s going to work out fine. Better than fine. I hope yours is as well.

 

See the rest of the newsletter HERE.

Last month, I went to two funerals in two days. They were the highlight of the week.

Not that I’m happy when people pass. I was so sad for my three high school friends who’s parents died. I cannot imagine their overwhelming grief.

But these three deaths were the culmination of three long and loved lives, and there was as much joy and gratefulness as sorrow in the final goodbyes.

It would have been a different vibe if it had been a child or a spouse. Instead, the trifecta of funerals meant togetherness in quiet spaces, warm memories from the hilarious to the momentous, and an abundance of gratitude as icing on the cake.

Getting together with forever friends is such a gift

The funerals were more than just an opportunity to see friends. The gift was the commitment, a can’t-miss date and time on the calendar to just be together, un-rushed, and unhurried. I was grateful for the obligation; being forced to take the time, time to truly appreciate and ruminate about my friends, my health, my time with my own parents. It struck me how lucky I was to go to these three funerals, to comfort my high school friends, to get to see my friends’ parents as the whole individuals they were all along.

Our lives are so busy, chock full of jobs and caring for children and parents and spouses, that we don’t think we have time to reconnect.

Even without a three-hour drive from Boston since moving back home this summer, I haven’t managed to see much of my still-local friends. Some I haven’t seen in real life in years. Penciled-in dates or text suggestions to “get together” play second fiddle to a frantic 2022 life and are pushed back indefinitely.

But here we were on “busy” workday and weekend mornings, doing the same thing in the same place at the same time

It was like all the good parts of being in college, and it was wonderful. In between the service and the reception, we went out for coffee and conversation at a coffeeshop: four gray-haired swimming buddies with so many common life threads. The gravity of the day meant we didn’t waste too much time time catching up on trivia. Our warm drinks arrived and we dove into hard conversations – of mental illness and caretaking, and reminiscing. So many memories! So many changes and so much the same. It blew me away.

Funerals force you to slow down. And appreciate what you have

Sitting in the church I went to every Sunday all through middle school and high school, the wash of memories was strong, more sentiment than story. The art deco stained glass windows were easy on my eyes, and the pew felt fine, even up against my bony, 53-year-old knees. The words and ritual and smells were familiar and comfortable.

I had turned off my phone, but couldn’t turn off my brain. A brain surrounded by hushed voices but running full tilt has ample opportunity to go off the beaten path. I did manage to not think about work, and I was surprised and pleased with the random thoughts that popped into my mind.

Is it OK for an atheist to pray alongside the believers?

I had this thought at both services. I haven’t been to mass in decades, but when the minister asked us to join him in prayer, I bowed my head and recited the Our Father as if I said it every day.

The urge to be part of the ritual was almost overwhelming. I suppose it’s much the same as my daughter, who’s vegan, eating the turkey along with everyone else when invited to dinner. Participating fully is how we honor the moment.

But it’s more than that, because it’s not about my religious beliefs at all. It’s about what will bring comfort to the friends and family left behind. Ritual and community is a special salve for that hurt. We’re all going to die. No need to be a jerk about it.

What do I want my funeral service to be?

One funeral was in a funeral home, one was a christian burial in a Catholic church. There was a lot of “Christ” and “heaven” in both. I know that’s not for me. But as I listened and reflected I realized how much I don’t yet know what **is** for me at the end.

The funeral is closure: a way to help those that are left cope with loss, and I will admit that the promise of a cheery afterlife as a reward for a life well-lived is comforting. I tried imagining my own funeral, one without bible readings or a mention of an afterlife I don’t believe in (thought I’d love to be wrong about this!) and came up a little short.

What would be the backbone of closure and comfort for my friends and family? What would be the “reading” that would be most meaningful to many? It’s hard to think of a more appropriate poem than the psalm that begins “though I walk in the shadow of death…”. If the bible isn’t so comforting to me, it is certainly comforting to many. A party roast doesn’t seem quite right. I had more questions than answers, and that’s OK. That’s life.

There’s nothing like death to remind you to live

I thought I learned this lesson thoroughly after my car accident at age 16, but obviously it’s a lesson that bears learning again.

In fact, the very next day three friends and I got together for dinner. Connecting had been on my to-do wish list for months, but it was funerals that kicked our butts and got us to finally do it. Because – as my fiend whose mom died said – time is short, and you never know how much or how little time you have less. True, that.

Read the rest of the newsletter here.

(why I hated the signing but loved the book)

I went to a book signing at a small local bookstore the other night on a whim after work. I was walking by on the way to my car to drive home and saw the sign for the event. The book reviews – in bold font on the book cover and the event poster – were gushing. The genre – indigenous storytelling – was intriguing. The thought of spending the evening with the author and other literary-minded people was beyond appealing.

It was happening in an hour. I made a quick impulse decision to go, grabbed a quick bite to eat at Cafe Creme next door, and popped back to Mockingbird Books in plenty of time to get a good seat.

The bookstore was crowded, every seat taken by people who all seemed to know each other. People who had not only read the book (the author’s first), but who followed other indigenous writers.

I had not read the book (remember, it was an impulse attendance) nor any others by indigenous authors. In other words, I was not set up for success.

But, how could it not be a great way to spend an otherwise long Thursday evening? There are so many life perspectives I don’t have even an inkling about but wanted to experience. And I drink up well-crafted words about the secret (and not so secret) lives of other people like cool fresh stream water on a hot summer day.

I sat near the back, a nod to the fact that I hadn’t read the book.

I didn’t want to be too conspicuous. I already felt a little like I was crashing a party to which I wasn’t invited and wasn’t prepared. Despite being dressed fine, maybe even a tad overdressed, I didn’t have the background: I was an outsider, a squatter.

One person asked the young author what was his purpose in writing the book. To which he replied, “I don’t know. I’ve always told stories. They just come to me. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m going to say or how the story or the characters are going to turn out.”

Another, a writing professor like the author, asked what advice he would offer young, fledgeling writers. His answer, “make sure you have a reason to write” seemed cogent enough, but not terribly original or even satisfying. Piecing together the two questions, the contradictory advice – “have a reason to write, though I don’t have a reason to write” – struck me as less than helpful.

Half an hour into an hour and a half long event, sitting on an uncomfortable seat with my after-work free time ticking away, I was underwhelmed.

And then he read a short piece from the book – a collection of stories. It was well-crafted and thought-provoking. I loved hearing the words in the author’s voice, with the associations, accents and feelings intact and whole. I wanted more.

I did stick it out to the end, partly because I wanted to hear more readings, partly because I wanted to buy the book, partly because I was hoping he would read another passage or two and save me from reading. I got it signed, too, because that seemed like the thing to do. I’m excited to read and digest it.

I’d love to have the chance to talk with the author after I read the book. Just not about his process; how long it took him to write it or how many words a day he wrote, how characters are and are not taken from people in his life.

My fantasy book signing would definitely be more storytelling and less storytelling-as-a-craft.

Maybe it’s because I already write for a living that I’m less interested in the process.

Maybe it’s because my process is pretty well-defined already, so I’m not looking for advice about writing.

Maybe talking about how they write isn’t the true value of conversations with good or great authors. Why did we waste time with chit chat about the process of writing?

Or maybe I’m just looking for another good book to read. Just not by myself.

Read the rest of the newsletter here. 

Last weekend, I went for a walk with a friend at beautiful Reid State Park. It was going to be hot in town, and the beach promised cool ocean breezes and the peacefulness of the ocean pulsing rhythmically against the sandy shore.

We went early, to avoid the last-week-of-summer crowds, and indeed there was no line of cars at the entrance and plenty of room in the parking lot. As we started along the short path to the half-mile beach, my friend spotted a couple with a dog on a leash ahead of us.

My friend – who is most certainly not a dog person – pointed to a sign along the path that read “No dogs allowed April 1 to September 30” and pressed her lips close together. It was still August. Dogs were not permitted.

We soon arrived at the beach, and it did not disappoint.

The ocean breezes were refreshing; not too cold, not too warm. The air was invigorating, perfumed with the salty, living scent of the ocean in Maine. The view was postcard perfect, the sand was soft and warm on my bare feet.

Ahead of us, the couple with the dog meandered along, the dog playfully prancing along on his leash, never more than ten feet away from his humans. My friend, seeing the dog, dark against the backdrop of an almost empty beach, repeated her mantra: “dogs aren’t allowed on the beach. That dog shouldn’t be here. Didn’t they see the signs? The plovers nest here.”

I didn’t comment, didn’t see the point in challenging her.

We walked together as we always did, not too fast, not too slow, picking up the occasional shell or piece of sea-smoothed driftwood. The couple with the dog had staked out a spot and were sitting in their beach chairs enjoying the view, the dog leashed but wandering around them in a ten foot circle.

When we got close, I could sense my friend tense up, shoulders hunched, lips pressed. Coming to a decision, she strode over and bent down close to speak to the man in his beach seat. My friend is hard of hearing, and hadn’t worn her hearing aids to the beach. I sighed and stayed back, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop her from saying her piece. She would bring her message of lawfulness to everyone! Usually I love that my friend will do her thing and speak her truth without worrying what other people would do or what’s “appropriate”.

Soon, though, I could see things were escalating.

The man stood up quickly, agitated, speaking loudly. I walked over, hoping to intervene. I smiled to the woman with him, who seemed approachable. She explained that her partner had PTSD, that the dog was with him everywhere to help him deal with the demons within and around, that he was being triggered by my friend. I explained that my friend was hard of hearing and didn’t mean to get so close. The woman nodded in understanding. I was sure she felt as I did – wary, caught in the middle of two well-meaning adults that were not going to listen to each other. We saw the miscommunication, but with both parties dug in, it didn’t seem like we could do much.

The man became more and more agitated, speaking in a loud, low voice: “get away, get out of my space. what’s wrong with you?” My friend was not hearing and not understanding, caught up in her own mission to play by the rules and leave the beach dog-free as it was supposed to be. She tried talking some more, but soon gave up and walked back to me, having said her piece, even if he hadn’t been listening and she hadn’t heard him either.

We walked along in silence for a bit and then I offered what the woman had said about the man and his demons. My friend is such a kind-hearted person, I was sure that understanding the situation would help her compassionate side balance her sense of the rule of law. But defensiveness begets defensiveness. “If he had a service dog, why didn’t it have a service dog’s vest? Why was it wandering on its leash? Service dogs are trained to stay by their owner’s side. Comfort dogs aren’t service dogs. I don’t think there’s an exception for them.”

She was adamant, knowing the beach laws – just and clear – even while the rules around comfort dogs are not so black and white.

As we walked, we talked. How tricky it is to balance the needs of the many (to enjoy the beach) with the needs of a subgroup (people with disabilities, people with support animals). How people abusing the “right” for support animals makes it harder for people with real needs to get the support they need. Whether the rules made sense on a late summer day when the beach was empty (I argued that they did not; she argued that rules were rules; I argued that maybe the rules needed to be revisited). Just talking, going over the nuance in the situation, allowing compassion to seep in.

We strolled to the end of the beach. After a few more minutes of silent contemplation, my friend said softly “maybe I should apologize to him.”

But the moment had passed.

Hindsight is 20/20 and reality is soften so immediate, so nearsighted. There was no way to claw back the misunderstanding that turned into a yucky interaction. No way to reconnect. No way to recapture an opportunity lost.

We turned back towards the car. My friend and I passed the couple with the dog, but there was no chance to go back and make it turn out differently, make it feel right. The woman was waist deep in the ocean, the man staring out at her, ignoring us. The dog barked and barked (he hadn’t done that before) on his short leash.

I’m sure that interaction cast its shadow on the day for all of us.

I know I left the beach weighed down with the memory of miscommunication rather than buoyed by the beauty of the ocean. I’ll bet the man left feeling bitter and resentful, unheard for perhaps the umpteenth time when he’d only set out to enjoy the day like we had: a nice morning at the beach that ended up with an ugly altercation and a reminder of ever-present demons. And my friend carried her remorse for a good intention gone awry for a long time. It’s hard to be in a world of unintended consequences, where too often we miss the mark, squashing the spark of connection.

Continue reading “A walk on the beach: Unintended consequences” →

Considering that he’d been on a hunger strike for seven months, it was strangely anticlimactic when he finally ate.

I almost forgot to try to feed him, so hopeless did I feel that anything would entice him after so long. I’d tried all sizes of rats and even small quails – everything but live gerbils. For months, every time I offered something, he seemed interested, about to strike. He’d sniff with his quick tongue, pause… then turn around disdainfully and slither back under a rock. I’d had so many conversations with the helpful staff at the reptile store and the exotics vet – and hours of Google searches (“how to get a ball python to eat”). No dice.

But because it was Wednesday, the day I’d decided was “food day” for Patrick, I was going to try again.

I had thawed the rat in the fridge that morning, so it would be fresh. It was in a glass container, to make sure it didn’t smell plastic-y. Having made the mistake before of warming the frozen rat too quickly (too-hot water just cooks the insides), I set it up just so – water not too hot, not too cold. I let it sit a good eight minutes, exchanged the water for some warmer water, then let it sit another six minutes. I was set, the fuzzy rat was ready, maybe this was the night.

Though really I was not optimistic that this Wednesday would be any different than the dozens of Wednesdays before.

And in fact Patrick did not look particularly eager when he emerged from his hide at dusk – prime reptile feeding time. He looked… tired, stretched out on the ground, not curled up on a rock and ready to strike like last summer – before he just stopped eating for no apparent reason.

His tongue flicked out – once, twice, three times – as I dangled the warm fuzzy rat for him to get a good whiff, wiggling it to imitate something alive (not that he’s ever seen or smelled a live rodent).

I turned away, and he struck so quickly I almost missed him wrapping himself around his prey like a pretzel and disappearing into his hide. Like he’d been eating all along. Like it was nothing special.

And just like that, months of worry and self-doubt disappeared. So strange how tonight’s success had started out just like months of failures. I didn’t think for a moment that it was because I’d taken him to the emergency vet just a week before. Or because the temperature was just right this week. Or the fuzzy rat was any different than the other rats and quails I’d tried.

As it turns out, I’d be doing everything right. He just wasn’t ready. He had to do things on his own time.

I left him alone to digest, holding my delight inside like a happy secret until I was downstairs. I yelped “He ate! He ate!” into the kitchen. My daughter, making her lunch for the next day at camp, nodded. She hadn’t been worried for a minute, all those months he hadn’t eaten.

She knows her pets. She knows all about doing things on her own time.

I clearly still have yet to learn that kind of patient wisdom. It’s funny how the parent/child tables turn.

Continue reading “A real snake charmer” →

I’ve been looking forward to two full days on site at the Broad last Wednesday and Thursday for weeks: to in-person meetings with colleagues; food trucks; improv, mindfulness; getting out of the condo!! At work, I waited until lunch to do my self-swab test, popping into the testing room right before grabbing Thai chicken for lunch with a friend. Then at home I blew off checking my PCR results until just before I went to bed that night, even though I’d gotten the text hours earlier (probably about the time I was eating dinner together with Nyiri at our small-ish dining room table).

I was completely unprepared for a red “Positive for SARS Cov19” notification on my phone screen. I briefly entertained the idea that this was a false positive, that the Broad’s PCR test was wrong. I looked at the screen on my phone for a full five minutes before reacting.

Denying you’re sick is understandable when you feel fine

Truly, I had zero symptoms. I only discovered I had Covid because my work is still testing everyone weekly. Not many places are. I am betting at least half the people who think they haven’t had Covid yet actually have had it at some point. They just don’t know it, and never will.

I’m not known for my betting skills, but I do think this is a solid bet. Even the CDC estimates many more people have had Covid than positive tests would indicate.

Precautions, but not really cautious

I did do the obvious things: donned a fresh N95 mask from the bathroom drawer, reached out to Novavax to let them know, cancelled my Thursday in-person meetings.

But I was not as cautious as I could have been. Because for me, Covid has been no big deal when I’ve had it. In fact, my symptoms have gotten a little easier every single time. To the point where I didn’t actually have any symptoms this time around until Thursday, when I was a bit tired by the afternoon.

I was treating Covid like a cold.

Until my daughter asked for space when I got close to her washing dishes in the sink and I realized how awfully casual I was being. I backed away from the sink and headed upstairs, opened all the windows I could (glad that the weather was decent) and moved my stuff into the guest bedroom and guest bathroom.

Novavax trial acute visit

I emailed my study trial contact and sent a screenshot of my positive PCR test. Interestingly, there’s no protocol for flagging asymptomatic people. But because I had a positive test result, they called me in Thursday morning, and I got to meet with the study PI. We chatted about the ever-changing Covid, and how hard it is to keep study protocols current.

I learned how important it is to be hyper aware of small, incremental differences from baseline: that tiny hint of a dry cough, that slightly runny nose, is actually a symptom. Note to self: rapid test even when you think you’re just tired, have a cold, suffering from allergies.

You never know how it will be for the person you could infect

I’ve I quickly pivoted, but I wish I’d been more proactive right away. I wish I had thought about my daughter first. She’s home from college and has managed to avoid infection so far. It’s not that hard for me to isolate – I work from home and home has plenty of space. I was feeling fine and it didn’t really register that I could hurt her or others.

I’m glad she had the sense to put me in my place, so I can be more careful until I rapid test negative twice (hopefully in a few days).

Continue reading “Third time’s the charm?” →

A few mornings ago I was up at 5:00 am reading email when I found out by accident that a friend had died — five months ago. The news reached me indirectly after I reached out the night before to a mutual acquaintance from years ago. The follow-up email started with “I was sorry to hear about P—”.  Even my half-awake self knew that could only be bad news.

A quick Google search turned up P—’s obituary. It was short on details (literally “P— died unexpectedly at 40”) but long on the friends and family that he left behind.

A second email from our mutual acquaintance revealed why P– had died. I got it just before stepping into my car – the car I remember driving out many times to see P– – to go to work. This email was also short: “P– had some demons. He committed suicide”. I hadn’t asked, but I hadn’t expected this… shocker. There it was in the email and then bouncing around my head during my forty-five minute alone-with-my-thoughts morning commute.

I found myself repeating all the cliched questions. Why? How? And then: how didn’t I know? And: why didn’t I follow up when I didn’t get a return text, months ago (it was so unlike P— to not respond quickly).

I hadn’t heard from P— in months. We’d drifted apart, and had only seen each other sporadically anyway. I didn’t think it strange that he hadn’t returned my texts or emails, or even that his work email (a contact form on his website) bounced earlier in the week. I had hoped he’d found a girlfriend who was taking all of his time and he was too busy to respond to an old work colleague from years ago. Looking back, the absence made sense, though the reason was so senseless.

Reacting to reality

Since that early morning wake-up email, I’ve been scrolling through our last texts from last summer, a few months before he died. They don’t seem unusual. He’d talked about his college debt, and feeling that he’d been screwed into paying for an expensive education that promised a well-paying, satisfying job but didn’t deliver. He had gotten a new job (just before the pandemic!), but he didn’t talk much about it. That seems relevant now.

He’d reached out several times in 2020 and 2021 about getting together. I brushed him off, suggesting he needed a girlfriend. The texts seem stark and accusatory – almost cruel – in hindsight: like I’d treated a gentle and kind and funny friend callously because I assumed he had lots of other friends and things to keep him busy.

I guess I didn’t really know or understand his life. Maybe we never do.

He was smart, fashionable, young, and really, really good at and passionate about his craft (graphic design). I don’t know why he didn’t let me know how he was truly feeling – to me or to the many friends I knew (thought) he had. Why he felt life was not worth living.

A clue: P– was super Covid-cautious, and became sort of a hermit during the early pandemic times. But he seemed… OK.

So I ignored the emails and texts that didn’t get a response, and worried about other more pressing things in life. Like we all do, because there’s always too much to do and too little time.

A shot of pandemic blues

P— is my third close brush with someone’s suicide ideation since the pandemic began, but the only one who followed through. Was it the pandemic? Life is hard and we’re all just muddling through. We all get wrapped up in our own issues and two long lockdown years. For P–, two long years of living at home with his stepdad and mom when he should have been surrounded by friends and family – his two nieces, his sister, even his new boss – was too much. He texted me once in late summer 2020 that he hadn’t touched another human being in months. This was pre-vaccine, and he was planning a trip to NYC to visit just a friend or two – did I think it was safe? he asked me – in their Brooklyn apartment.

More ruminating

The universe is full of strange connections. People you meet at just the time you need them. People who add a spark of something special. People who leave behind a memento or two, treasured memories. Paul was one of those people. He designed my custom business cards, the logo for my 50th birthday; took the headshot I used when I applied for my current job.

I am so grateful for my connection to P–. I wish he had felt connected enough to reach out.

He was the first person who I might have been able to help – if I’d known. This is so cliche, too: That is is so hard to reach out to people when we most need connection. That we don’t talk about suicide or even really about being sad at all (except for a little bit, when someone dies, or something bad happens).

And I wonder: Why didn’t P–’s obituary include that piece? It shouldn’t be weak or shameful to acknowledge the suffocating darkness of depression and suicidal feelings. It should be just like any other health issue. But it’s not just like any other health issue. There’s no blood test or quick fix for depression.

Looking forward by looking back

I am bringing out the things P— added to my life – the custom-designed business cards and stationery (for a freelance company I haven’t yet even started). The coasters he designed for my 50th birthday bash (I invited him but he declined, said he didn’t know my friends and it would be weird).

His loss is a distant, intellectual hurt. It’s not the raw pain of losing someone I see every day, or grew up with. But it’s real, and it makes me want to reprioritize and treat people who matter in my life with a little more care and a little less carelessness.

P—-’s death makes me want to live better.

To check in on the people I love a little more often.
Maybe not everyone in my contacts list. But maybe more than just mom and dad and the one or two friends who I text/visit regularly.

To never be so busy that I just let it slide when someone doesn’t answer texts or emails.

To listen for cries for connection, and not assume everything is OK.

I hope P— is in a better place and that the end of his young life was pain free. But I will never know. I can only cherish the moments we had, and do better going forward.

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