One year later...

Originally written Thursday, December 22, 2011...

Exactly one year ago today, we buried one of the best friends I will ever have and one of the great loves of my life, Lionel Barrington Jaggers. The time since that cold, grey, December day has done absolutely nothing at all to lessen the pain of losing him. The seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months -- just as empty now, as my tiny apartment in Adams-Morgan where he lived with me for over twenty years and where, for much of that time, he was my constant companion.

I still remember the very first time I ever saw him. Not the day, or the date, which have faded with the decades…but the moment. Remember it, as clearly, to employ a timeworn but apt cliché’, as if it was only yesterday.

The non-profit where I work still had its offices downtown back then. I spent many lunch hours and late afternoons at the main, Martin Luther King, Jr. public library. I had just collected a stack of magazines that I couldn’t afford to buy and settled in at a table in the first floor main reading room. I’m not sure how long I had been there, when I glanced up and noticed, seated a couple of tables in front of me, one of the most handsome brothers I had ever seen. Now, even towards the end of his life, when we were both old men, Lionel was still very good looking. But, in the heyday of his youth, he was breathtaking.

I glanced around the busy, bustling room to see if anyone else was as struck as I, by this vision in our midst, but all seemed oblivious. Not I. An inveterate people watcher from an early age, I was transfixed. I found myself glancing up every few minutes to see if I had imagined him…but each time, he was still there. The ideal physical personification of all of my fantasies.

Those quick, furtive glances became long gazes, as I examined him for any humanizing physical flaws. Despite my most penetrating inventory, none were apparent. I began to stare openly, hoping to attract his attention, but he took no notice. Didn’t even look in my direction. He was dressed casually in jeans and a plain short-sleeved shirt that displayed a lean, but hard and impressively muscled physique. I later learned that he was an avid tennis player.

I haven’t the faintest idea how much time had passed before he finally began gathering the books in front of him and stood slowly up to leave – revealing that he was tall and lanky, an inch or two over six feet…and also that he had one of the largest erections I had ever seen. More about that later, but for now I’ll just say that I was, at that time, in my early thirties…and had seen enough to know what I am talking about.

Needless to say, I was back at the library at that exact same table, at the exact same time, the next day, and again at the same time and on the same day, the following week. But he did not reappear. Nor did he turn up again over the next several weeks as I continued to stake out the library. I was about to give up all hope of ever seeing him again, when he finally appeared again, as abruptly as he had disappeared, and a pattern began that repeated itself several times throughout the summer and fall. Me staring, as enamored as he was preoccupied and oblivious, before he disappeared again until the next sighting.

As avidly as I was stalking him, it never occurred to me to try to approach him, or even sit any closer. And I certainly wasn’t cruising him. I was too intimidated. For one thing, when he was alone, he frequently seemed to be scowling, in a foul, or at least serious mood. For another, the longer I observed him the more I began to notice that I was not the only one watching him, after all.

He was frequently the object of equally intense attention from a bevy of girls and women of all ages, who positioned themselves strategically at the tables surrounding his. Many of them flirted openly with him, and he flirted back. He seemed to have a magnetic effect on women. They had an equally magnetic effect on him, which I eventually realized was the reason for his frequent and impressive erections.

I wasn’t going to mention that again, in order not to appear to trivialize this recollection. But my love for Lionel compels me to keep it real about the initial nature of my interest, which was both superficial and visceral. The depth of my more profound feelings came later -- after I got to know him and he let his wary and formidable guard down.

I also hesitate to mention it because, ultimately, it had absolutely nothing to do with the circumstances under which we finally did meet and become something more than the best of friends.

Holding On/Letting Go

It’s almost ten p.m. By this time last year, almost exactly, Lionel had been in the ICU for nearly two months. Although the rest of his body was frighteningly frail, his grotesquely swollen legs and feet were weighed down by inflatable boots that he found hot and uncomfortable. Both hands tied to the side rails of his hospital bed to prevent him from attempting, In his delirium and claustrophobic panic, to remove the tubes down his throat, mask over his nose and the 4-5 IVs (frequently including Propofol) attached to his neck. His liver, kidneys, and lungs continued failing…but his heart clung on, tenaciously. I sat by his bed all evening, each evening, holding his hand…gently stroking his arm, both of us listening to the beeping monitors.

This particular night, he began to get agitated and squirm, as he sometimes did, from frantic discomfort and from the delusions and hallucinations common after weeks in the ICU. I talked to him trying to soothe him, but he only grew more and more agitated. I leaned over him, trying to guess what he needed: The nurse? The bed adjusted? Pain medicine? The bed pan? Too hot – take the sheet off? Too cold – pull it up around him? With each guess, he would only frown and shake his head in frustration. He stared into my eyes intently, his own eyes blinking back tears. His rail-thin arms strained as he struggled against restraints that had already dug in and left scars on his wrists from his weeks of stubborn escape attempts.

Totally stumped by what he was so desperately trying to communicate, my own eyes began to fill with hot tears of despair.

“I’m so sorry, man. I know you want something, Lionel. But I can’t tell what it is. I know you hate being tied down and that old tube down your throat that keeps you from communicating.” I leaned over him more closely, even though I knew he couldn’t speak. “What is it, dear heart? I’m sorry. I just don’t know what it is you are trying to tell me. ” He continued to stare into my eyes, but the strain of trying to communicate had exhausted him, and he sank back into the pillow, despondent and resigned. He closed his eyes, but his brow remained furrowed. I knew he was not at peace.

Helpless, with nothing else to do, and mindful of the tubes and straps and monitors and IVs…I leaned over and barely hugged him -- very, very gently. Immediately, he opened his eyes, smiled, and nodded his head, “Yes.” Somehow I had stumbled upon it. That’s all he had been trying to tell me. That’s all he wanted to do. He wanted to give me a hug. To cheer me up. He smiled again. I hugged him again. He nodded “Yes” again, then lay back, gradually drifting off to an uneasy sleep.

Sitting by his bed, once again holding his hand, I tried not to let him hear me crying. It would be ten more days, before his family agreed to take him off of life support on December 12, 2010 and he immediately passed away.

Today is Lionel’s birthday. My first without him in over 25 years.


As we celebrated at home together last year, how could either of us have suspected that, just over a week later, he would be rushed to the ICU at Georgetown Hospital, never to return? The pain that was supposed to have eased with time has only intensified. I remain devastated, missing him more than words can express.

A poem...

...I wrote back in 1998 -- thirteen years ago -- seems strangely prophetic now.

I wonder how I knew then, what this was going to feel like now...when I couldn't even have predicted this heartbreak?



Paradise Lost

It isn’t any easier
to get up on Monday
mornings. Just
no need
anymore
to bribe you with
the aroma of bacon frying.

After work I
take my coupons from the Sunday paper
to the Safeway, where
Captain Crunch
is no longer among my “Nine Items or Less”
That cashier who calls everyone
“Honey” and “Baby” has
stopped asking
about the friend she used to always see me shopping
with.

Tuesday nights the
laundromat is just as crowded as ever. That
broken television set, just as loud.
But
I finish more quickly now
There are fewer clothes to sort and fold
(Not that you were ever that much help.)
I sit trance like, staring at clothes flip flopping behind the dryer’s circular window.
Latino children dart about my knees, flushed and laughing.

My sister is the only person I ever
meet for lunch.
Some Wednesdays, we eat
at that Thai restaurant I used to hate when
you would drag
me there.

But now…

Straight from the office, I still go tutor at the shelter
as usual.
As usual, the kids are
just as bad. They still
jostle and whine and vie for attention.
Still talk to loud and too fast and
nudge each other
when I explain
(for the millionth time)
the meaning of the rainbow patch on
my backpack.

I donated many of your clothes to the shelter,
where occasionally I am startled
when some random teen passes me
wearing your sweatshirt or that jersey with Allen Iverson’s number
and the little grape juice stain.

Thursday
I miss my stop on the bus because
I am staring at your crooked lettering on
tapes you made for my walkman.
I nod my head to the beat as the
unfamiliar territory
glides by.
It will take me twice as long to get home.

And home will no longer be there.

Friends offer
to take me out most Friday nights.
Ask me to join
them
at various affairs.
But I feel like a dinosaur.
The crowds are impossibly young
and beautiful.
And oblivious.
Nor do I recognize any of the
music anymore.

Saturdays are as busy as ever.
The weekend goes
so fast
with chores and errands.
(Finally got all those old photos into albums.)

I get
up and out
much more quickly now that
I don’t have to wait for you
to finish watching your cartoons.

It’s possible to spend all afternoon
in Barnes & Noble or Tower Records.
Donny Hathaway singing,
“For All We Know”
once stopped me
dead
in my tracks.
Frozen mid-aisle
like just another display.

Our friends come over to dinner
most Saturday evening. And later,
cards or videos.
I make spaghetti or chili and
They have wine. I
have my Mountain Dew.
No one drinks your four
remaining Heineken’s
still waiting
in the back of the refrigerator.
Nor does anyone
occupy
your chair.

After they’ve gone, I sit in the dark
listening
to Patti, Aretha, Oleta Adams
and Dinah Washington.

Even though I know better.

Later, I rouse myself from my chair
and thoughts
and put myself to bed
But, I don’t sleep as soundly
without
your snoring…and awaken
Late at night
when the reruns
(Lucy, Andy Griffith, Perry Mason)
are all in black and white.

Only the infomercials
can lull me back to sleep.

Strangers
sit in our pew now,
since I don’t go to church as
religiously.
Your mother still calls and sometimes
I sit through the 11 o’clock service with her.

Afternoon bargain matinees
are as crowded and raucous as ever
on those Sundays when I
force myself to go
instead of visiting your grave.

There’s not too much coming out
that I’m really pressed to see anyway.
So I find myself back at home, where
I seldom bother to cook when it’s just me.
Instead, I
watch “60 Minutes” while
ironing my clothes for the week,
& measuring out my meds for the next
Seven days

before I go to bed.

Old habits...

Dragged in late from work last night. Still too tired from the play performance Monday night to cook. Called and ordered Chinese take-out. When I went to pick it up, realized I had ordered chicken fried rice, which I always get...and shrimp egg foo young...what I always ordered for Lionel. Ate some of it anyway, thinking about him.

I am reminded. Earlier this year stopped by the same neighborhood Chinese take out restaurant and ordered what I always order to take out for myself, Chicken fried rice. The woman at the counter who is apparently used to me being a creature of habit and always ordering the same thing, immediately asked: "No Shrimp Egg Foo Young for your friend?"

I just said "Not tonight." And turned away quickly, before she could see the tears welling in my eyes.

The 4th of July...

This time last year, Lionel and I lounged around the apartment lazily most of the morning, then rode the bus to 14th and U Streets, where he bought some single cigarettes. We transferred and rode the 14th street bus up to that joint where we get our fish and barbecue, and got a double order of ribs, with the sauce on the side. It took a long time. He was getting overheated. I got him a soda. As we left we just missed the bus. Another one came, surprisingly quickly. We got off at the Giant, so I could get some cole slaw. As usual, he hit the bakery department and got a couple of doughnuts.

We rode the bus back down to U Street, where he bought something to drink, then transferred to the 90 bus. Once back in the apartment, he went back downstairs and got a beer, came back in an turned on the television. I probably talked on the phone and fooled around on the computer. We ate and relaxed. I kept trying to get him to go with me to see the fireworks, but he was not interested, as usual. I took a folding chair and rode the bus downtown. Set up in front of the White house and watched the fireworks from there. Lucked up right afterwards and caught a bus quickly, before the crowds began streaming from the mall. By the time I got home, he was watching the news. He said they showed some of the fireworks. I think we had ice cream before we went to bed. Lionel loved ice cream.

Neither one of us had any idea that it was our last 4th of July together.

What am I going to do...

...with all of this left-over love I have for Lionel Barrington Jaggers? It only seems to increase as time passes...oblivious to the fact that he is now gone forever...