1994-1995

Thursday, 18 September 2008.

 

40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]

An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.

 

For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.

 

Year 27: 1994-1995

 

Shortly after my birthday in 1994, Dave's job sent him to Sweden for a month. I missed him terribly. He would call me every few days in the early evening (late at night in Sweden) to tell me how things were going. I took to carrying around a tape recorder everywhere I went with our friends, so that I could record random snippets of conversation to send to him, just so he could feel connected. When he finally came home, I had a candlelit dinner waiting for him, but we got more use out of the candlelight than the dinner.

 

For the holidays, we drove out to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with his mom and aunt, then drove back via Ann Arbor to visit his dad. I was almost as in love with his family as I was with him. They were all smart, engaging, fascinating people, and they all seemed to be driven by a desire to help others. His mom was a social worker and children's issues advocate. His dad was a psychoanalyst. His grandfather, who died before I could meet him, had run a school for troubled kids, and was much loved in the community. His grandmother told endless stories about those days, and I soaked up every second as we sat around the holiday feast. I felt comfortable and at home.

 

In the spring, Dave and I made plans to take a 2-week camping trip across the country with some friends of ours. We would head out west from Chicago, camping our way across the northern states and then dropping into Wyoming to spend a few days at Yellowstone. From there, we would head to Seattle, and then back via a more southern route that would take us through Colorado. We would meet up with my friend Rob (who had moved to Denver a couple of years prior) in Steamboat Springs, then make the long, flat trek across the plains back to Chicago. It was going to be a hell of a trip, and we were all very excited. I was especially excited because I was going to get to see two of my best and long-lost friends: Rob, in Colorado, and Mark, in Omaha.

 

We set out on a beautifully sunny day in a two-Jeep caravan, loaded down with camping equipment and bikes. We hauled ass across Wisconsin and Minnesota and made it all the way to Mitchell, South Dakota by nightfall. From there we continued on to the Black Hills and Mt. Rushmore. Mt. Rushmore was impressive, but I was far more captivated by the surrounding area. We stayed at a tiny campground on a lake that seemed impossibly perched atop a mountain. In the morning, as the guys were packing up to leave, I walked down to the lakeshore and sat on a rock and breathed in the morning sun. It was absolutely quiet but for the sound of the water licking at the pebbles on the shore, and for awhile, I felt as if I were slipping out of myself, and disappearing into the landscape. I became the lake and the mountain and the water and the gently sighing breeze. I felt I could have ceased to exist as me in that moment and been everlasting. When my friends could wait no longer, Dave had to come drag me away so that we could get back on the road.

 

In Yellowstone, we set up camp for three days. We spent our days driving around the park, looking at all the natural wonders and spotting wildlife. Our nights were spent around the campfire, eating, laughing and telling stories. On our last night there, we saw a presentation on the re-introduction of wolves to the park, then returned to the fire and told stories about Rob, whom we'd be meeting up with the following week. Everyone had a "Rob Story." He was just one of those guys who always seemed to be getting in hilarious scrapes, and always seemed to grin and bullshit his way through them. We all shared our "Rob Stories" and laughed and reminded ourselves to call him the next day to solidify our plans for meeting up in Steamboat Springs. It was July 4th, and instead of fireworks, we leaned back and watched the explosion of stars stretched across the sky.

 

We were unable to get hold of Rob the next day, but we weren't in any hurry to nail down plans, so we just loaded up the Jeeps early in the morning and continued our trek toward Seattle. I'd been thinking a lot about my experience in the Black Hills, and during the long hours on the road, I began to sketch out some ideas for a tattoo. I'd been wanting to get a tattoo for years, but was adamant that it be something personal and meaningful, and that I wouldn't get one until something came along and truly spoke to me. As I thought about what had happened to me on that lakeshore, some ideas began to take form. I thought about how it didn't seem to matter to me in that moment that I might simply cease to exist as myself. I would be the land, and the land would be me. We were not separate entities at all, the land and me. It was as it always was and always would be, cycling through death and rebirth, growth and destruction, accretion and dissolution, like waves lapping at the shore. We build form and shape in our minds, including our own identities, but always, inevitably, they are dissipated, blown into the winds to join the dust of the stars. And we circle, around and around, up and down, all throughout our lives, experiencing the little deaths and rebirths of everyday life, and if we could just step back long enough to see the whole wheel, we would see that it is part of a much larger whole, and that everything in the end really will be all right, because everything in the end, simply is.

 

When we got to Seattle, we were lucky enough to have a house to stay in for a few days. One of Dave's friends from college had moved out there, and was going to be out of town for the weekend, so he let us have his house. I set about finding a place where I could get the tattoo I'd sketched out. We were staying in the Capitol Hill neighborhood, so it wasn't difficult. I told the guys I'd be back in a couple of hours, and walked down to a tattoo shop I'd seen when we'd walked around the neighborhood earlier. When I showed the artist the sketch I'd made, I expected him to re-sketch it in a cleaner, more artistic form, but instead he photocopied it and transferred the design directly to my skin with water (like the old pencil tattoos we used to make with paper and spit in elementary school). As he began the inking process, it felt as if someone were sawing through my finger with a dull steak knife, but it was over quickly. I now had a perfect reproduction of my original sketch on my finger -- a reminder of the perspective I wanted to keep.

 

I started to walk back to the house, eager to show off my new ink. About halfway there, I saw Dave crossing the street toward me. He looked very serious, and I knew something was wrong. When he caught his breath, he told me that Tom had discovered the reason we'd been unable to contact Rob for the last few days. "There was an accident," he said, and before I could finish asking, he added, "... with a gun." My heart sank, and I dropped my head into my hands briefly. "Well, how is he? Is he going to be OK?" I asked. Dave looked stricken. I hadn't understood. His voice caught in his throat, and he grabbed my hand. "He didn't make it," he said.

 

I wanted to double over and vomit, but I just stood there, looking at the sky and crying, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!" I held my newly tattooed hand out in front of me, and at once cherished and loathed it. Dave pulled me into his arms and held me tightly while I sobbed, and we stood wrapped around each other on the street corner while the river of pedestrians flowed around us.

 

We missed Rob's funeral. We didn't get back to Chicago until the day after the service. Later, word slowly leaked that the incident had not been an accident. On the morning of the 5th of July, Rob, who was visiting his mother back in Chicago, came downstairs to get a glass of orange juice. He then had a small argument with his mother, went back upstairs to his bed, put a gun to his chin, and pulled the trigger.

 

Who am I?

 

I am not angry anymore.

 

I was devastated by Rob's death, and then doubly devastated by the news that it had not been accidental. Now, in addition to grief and sadness, I had to deal with anger and confusion. I was furious with him. I cycled between tears and rage several times an hour, and could neither sleep nor eat for all the tension I carried in my body. I pounded my fists at the air, and sulked moodily for weeks. I felt guilty. Guilty for not knowing what was bothering him. Guilty for not calling him a day earlier, when he was still alive. Guilty for hating him for leaving. I was miserable.

 

And then he was there. In a dream, he came to me, and he put his arms around me, and held me, and said in his soft voice, "It's OK." He gave me permission to be hurt and angry. He knew I loved him through the hurt, and it was OK. He turned and walked away, stopping once to turn back and wave. Then he was gone.

 

I am a rational person. I am aware that the human mind is capable of going to great lengths to create the conditions necessary for its survival, so I am aware that there's an astronomically high probability that I conjured this dream up out of my own desperate need to find some peace. But, it was real enough to me. I know what I felt, and what I felt was too much for me to dismiss out of hand. I believe that what we know about life and death is probably a pittance compared to what we don't know. Did Rob really reach out to me in death to comfort me, and tell me that it was OK with him that I was angry? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not.

 

The next morning, I inhaled deeply, as if just remembering how to breathe again. I felt lighter -- still grief-stricken, but no longer paralyzed. For months after, I felt Rob's presence off and on throughout the day, as I would "hear" his voice cracking a small joke, or making some observation about the people I was sitting next to on the train. And, I would turn up the corner of my mouth slightly and close my eyes, grateful for these moments of Rob's lingering.

 

Eventually, Rob was silent, and I let him go on his way in peace. But, every time I look at my hands, I am reminded of him, and of the necessity of sometimes ceasing to exist in one form in order to take on another.

 

I do so miss you, though, my Robby.

 

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