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...

Another long, three-day weekend...

...that affords me enough extra time to run out of distractions and start thinking about Lionel.

I find that now, I miss even his bad moods, his temper tantrums, his grouchiness.

I miss it all. Just as much as ever... I wonder if I'll be able to sleep, or will I lie awake all night.

Thinking about Lionel.

My first Memorial Day Weekend without Lionel

This is a time of the year when he would always be so supportive and helpful,, as I got ready for the annual reading of one of my new plays. Making sure I ate, fussing at me for losing so much sleep, calling me at the office when I was there in the middle of the night writing, helping me pack stuff and carry stuff, and calming me down when I was nervous...not having him as apart of all this tarnishes the experience...as it has everything else. I'm trying to go on...but it is so painful.

I try to think...

...happy thoughts; remember the good times and the many things about Lionel that make me smile...but those other, painful, despairing thoughts are persistent, forcing their way into my consciousness, no matter how I struggle. It's like a battle between the two types of memories...

There can be no greater solitude...

..than that of bereavement.

Dawn, thinking about my friend...

Momentum. Time passes. And you have to shower, take out the trash, do your taxes, mail birthday cards, clean the oven, charge the cellphone, go to work, get a haircut, recycle old newspapers, iron clothes, catch the bus, tie your shoes, pay bills, water the plant - the million things that go on ... and that movement propels you through the day...and through your life. But in those rare, random unoccupied moments. My mind goes immediately to Lionel. Still. Always.

It has been exactly one month...

...since I last posted. A lot has happened in that month, but very little has changed.

When I think of Lionel at his happiest, I get so sad.

When I think of Lionel sad...I am still devastated.

Can't Bring Myself To...

Take his name off the mailbox,

Remove him from our outgoing phone message,

Look at my e-mails or calendar entries from October - December of last year,

Empty his things from the medicine cabinet,

Erase his hospital photos and videos from my phone, before I accidentally see them again ...

I Confess...

I only do it when no one else is here in the apartment, but sometimes I do find myself talking to Lionel like he's sitting there listening. Sometimes, I tell him about my day, our mutual friends, stuff going on in the world. Sometimes, I just talk about how much I miss him and what a struggle it is.

It's funny, I never used to understand or "buy" it when plays and movies showed people carrying on conversations with lost loved ones, around the house, at the gravesites, or whereever. It always seemed totally illogical to me.

It still does. But now, it is also strangely comforting.

Emptiness...

Two of Lionel's young nephews just came and got a lot of his stuff. A lot of his clothes, personal effects, books and papers. They will have to make another trip eventually because, after 25 years there was so much stuff...especially since Lionel was as much of a packrat as I am.

But his closet looks almost empty now. The corner of the livingroom where he had things stacked up is nearly bare. His prized boots, that he polished so lovingly. His basketball. Gone, along with a lot of junk he picked up wandering around that had no value to anyone but him.

Which means, of course, that it has sentimental value to me, because these were random little odds and ends, little trinkets that caught his eye and meant enough to him to want to bring them home. All gone.

Some of the stuff I know will just be thrown into the trash...but I couldn't bear to do it. I was trying to be strong because I know his older nephew hates a whole lot of emotional display, but once I started touching his clothes and dusty old shoes, his hats and belts and shirts, I couldn't help it...and ended up crying most of the time anyway.

Hopefully, I will do better next time they come.

Morning...

Despite the fact that he was a "night owl" Lionel was generally also an early bird, by the time I was able to finally drag myself out of bed, he would usually have already been up, made coffee, sometimes breakfast and be watching the news.

Except on the weekends. I always found it funny that, although he hadn't worked in years, Lionel liked to sleep late on Saturdays and Sundays. Unless we had something that had to be done, he could easily stay in bed until almost noon.

On the other hand, I hated getting up Monday-Friday, but looked on Saturday and Sunday as "my" time, and generally got up early to get as much weekend as possible.

His niece and nephew may be coming over this morning, so I am up moving boxes around so that they will be able to get to the things in his closet. Seems strange on a Saturday morning, not to see him laying there in his bed, drinking coffee and watching cartoons.

Full Disclosure...

I typed that last entry on my lunch hour at work. Re-read it for typos then posted here on the blog. What it outlined, seemed like a reasonable course of action to me. Then I went into the bathroom and suddenly burst into tears.

Where did that come from?

I know I was thinking something vague about returning a call to Lionel's niece who would like to retrieve the rest of his stuff this coming weekend. I thought about how I would feel when I was no longer surrounded by his belongings.

The next thing I knew, I was bent over the sink crying like a fool. Fortunately, no one else was there and no one came in before I could pull myself together and splash water on my face. But I have GOT to get to the point where I can think about Lionel without crying. I know that. And yet, even as I type this, I feel my eyes watering again. So much for resolve...

Me, Me, Me

When I read back over the entries in this blog, they sound so self-obsessed. I suspect there's a delicate balance between confronting your despair and wallowing in it.

I also realize that I still have a lot to work through, especially since some of the most difficult issues are so painful to me that I won't even let myself think about -- let alone write about them.

But if this process is about healing there are a couple of things I've learned from past experience -- and bereavement -- that I must do.

One is to try not to focus on myself so much. Extending myself to others who need my help and being a better brother to my sibs, better nephew, uncle and cousin to my family, better friend to my dear friends, will at least channel some of my emotions and energies into a more positive direction. If I'm still too damaged to help myself right now, I may as well try and help others in the interim. That's a lesson I can learn from Lionel who, even at his most sick and broken, managed to have a great deal of compassion for others, especially strangers in need.

The other thing that has helped in the past has been to throw myself into my art. I've been too depressed to generate the energy to write much...even in this blog. But I've got major writing deadlines looming, including a show that opens in two months and several short films to complete. That should be enough to keep me occupied until I've scrounged up the courage to face what I'm working so hard to avoid in my personal life.

Can't sleep again...

I'll be miserable at work tomorrow, because I can't sleep tonight. The trick has become to allow myself to get so tired by the time I lay down, that I fall asleep immediately. Strangely enough, my depression has helped with this because I am always tired now. I walk around exhausted, by the effort to interact with my co-workers and function "normally". Barely able to make it through the day. My 9-5 job remains intense and unrelenting. By the time I return home in the evenings, I am so stressed out that I could fall asleep immediately. And some evenings I do. Walk in, take off my clothes, climb into bed and pull the covers over my head until the next morning.

The problem arises whenever I happen, inevitably, to awaken in the middle of the night. The telephone rings late. There is a noise outside, or I have to go to the bathroom. Then I return to bed, knowing that I must fall asleep immediately or I will start to think. Once I start to think, it's all over and there is no more escape. Which is why I am awake now. Because there is only one thing I can think about...and that is the one thing I don't want to think about.

I was half hoping that, as time began to pass, the pain would become less acute. But whenever there is a sliver of unoccupied time or thought, my mind returns to what I am trying to avoid. And all of those painful feelings and memories are right where I left them. Waiting for me.

Ironically, as an artist, I am my own worst enemy in this situation. I simply cannot develop any distance from the loss that causes me such pain. Decades of theater training and acting have reinforced a natural empathy that is a part of my personality inherited directly from my mother.

In addition, I've had years to develop acute "sense memory" that allows me return not just to the thoughts I don't want to have, but also directly to the feelings I wish to avoid. And not just my own, but Lionel's as well. All of the terror, the misery, helplessness, anguish and agony that he suffered during those months in the ICU...I felt too...because I identify so closely with him.

And all those emotions -- both his and mine -- are just as fresh and raw as when first experienced. Time has done absolutely nothing to dull or dim any of it. All I have to do is stop allowing myself to be distracted -- and I am suffused and demolished by the sequence of events all over again. As vividly as when they first occurred.

As long as I can keep busy and stay present, "in the moment" with tasks at hand, I can function. But another aspect of my artistic life, that part as a writer and director, has me constantly functioning as observer. Outside the situation, looking on and analyzing. There isn't a millisecond since the moment Lionel went into the hospital for the last time that my mind doesn't try to examine and re-examine. That my heart doesn't hone right back in on, to feel acutely, all over again.

And so I end up right back where I started, unable to ignore or get past the emotional elephant that remains planted stubbornly in the center of my consciousness. The more I think about it, the more I think about it... and that whirlpool pulls me right back down into the depths of a despair I seem incapable of escaping.

"Art isn't easy..."

Today, Lionel's two younger brothers stopped by to pick up some mementos from among his things. It was great to see them again. The visual and vocal resemblance to their brother is SO strong. That, coupled with the fact that they went through his entire hospitalization, illness, his passing and funeral...makes them my closest living link to Lionel now, and two of the very few people who understand, very specifically, my loss and despair.

They are both extremely sensitive (just like their brother) but the oldest is the strong, stoic one. He tries to hold his feelings in and keep it together. Lionel's younger brother is more openly emotional, like me, and I could tell that he also was struggling with the experience of going through Lionel's belongings.

LBJ didn't have much of monetary value, but his proudest possessions were three Jacob Lawrence prints that he had mounted and framed at an expensive framing shop across the street.

This was -- and remains -- a total shock to me, because he never expressed any interest in art. I could never get him to go to a gallery or museum and he hated spending money. But this was back when he was working, and over a period of about two months, these prints appeared in the apartment. He gave one to me for my birthday. Now, that I think about it, that was perhaps the only thing he ever really bought me in over 25 years.

The other two, he hung proudly on the wall in the living room...along with one of those light-up waterfall illusion paintings that he found in an alley and dragged home. He knew I hated it and thought it was tacky, but he was so attached to it that, after awhile, I stopped complaining about it...and stopped looking at it.

Fortunately, his younger brother wanted that one, too. Must be a straight male thing...along with those paintings of dogs playing cards and beer can collections. Anyway, I thought I'd be glad to see it gone at last. But now that it is, I realize how much it announced Lionel's presence in the apartment, and I miss it in a strange kind of way.

Overall, the walls look very empty now. I have other art that I eventually will hang. But, for the first time, the apartment no longer looks exactly as it did when he was here. That hurts much more than I expected. There is something irrevocable and final about it. Lionel's niece and nephew were also scheduled to stop by today for some of his things. I knew this was coming...but I guess I was never really going to be ready for it.

Up...and down.

It's no secret that I have been profoundly depressed, since the Sunday morning ambulance ride that took Lionel away from our apartment for the last time. His hospitalization, his death, funeral, the struggle to face holidays in St. Louis with my family, everything since then has kept me in a deep state of despair.

This morning, I had to walk the few blocks to work for a quick errand. For the first time in ages, it was not grey, gloomy, rainy, or snowing. I was surprised at how a little bit of sunshine seemed to lift my mood.

On the walk back to the apartment, I was just beginning to think that maybe the upcoming change in seasons might somehow help me marshall the resolve to go on, when I encountered a couple of guys cleaning the street and raking up leaves in the tiny park in front of the 7-11. From their coveralls, I could tell they were workers on the neighborhood clean-up crew, hired by local merchants to maintain the area.

I recognized one of them as a casual acquaintance I hadn't seen in quite awhile. He was actually more of LBJ's friend than mine. We chatted briefly, and just as I was about to continue on my way, he asked about Lionel.

It was like being kicked in the stomach. I could tell that he hadn't heard, so I felt compelled to give him the briefest possible update. He seemed genuinely surprised and sorry at the news.

I headed on home, no longer noticing the sunshine, wondering instead how many more of these encounters I will have, as the weather warms up and Lionel's many, many buddies emerge from hibernation due to the end of winter weather.

3 A.M.

A friend of mine is crashing at my place. Sleeping in the living room. Awakened in the middle of the night by the sounds of him, rustling around, getting up, going to the bathroom.

The sound was so familiar, flickering light from the t.v. in there visible through my partially opened bedroom door.

I had to force myself not to get out of bed, go up front and look. Had to remind myself how much time had passed, and that I wouldn't see Lionel sitting on the edge of the sofabed eating his usual, late night sandwich or smoking a cigarette.

I knew it wasn't, but I wanted it to be him...so badly.

I'm still here. He's still gone.

To be honest, I haven't been posting as much because to write about him, I have to think about him...and it hurts too much to think about him.

Some times are harder than others. One of the worst is when I first get home from work. His name is still on our mailbox when I check it in the lobby. Occasionally, there is still even mail for him.

I slowly climb the one flight of stairs, then there's that crushing moment before I unlock the apartment door, when it still feels like I will open it and he will be standing there at the stove cooking dinner, only to turn around, grin and say, as always, "Heeeeeeey, buddy! There he is." Or, if I'm late, he'll be sprawled there on the sofa in front of the t.v. eating a sandwich and smoking a cigarette: "It's about time you got home. The mail's on your bed. Nothing but junk. It's almost time for "Jeopardy."

But, when I open the door no one is there. He's gone. Forever.

An agonizing journey...

It's been awhile since I've posted in this blog. Not because I haven't been thinking of Lionel...quite the opposite -- I haven't been able to stop. For a little over a week, my 9-5 job has been brutally busy and stressful, so much so that when I get home, all I want to do is climb into bed, pull the covers over my head and go to sleep until the next morning, which usually seems to arrive in about two hours.

But despite my hectic days and exhausted nights, I've found that thoughts of Lionel seep into every random moment, every tiny bit of downtime during the day. At night, when I finally do get to bed I think I will fall asleep immediately...then lay awake for hours with fragments of memories running through my mind. I find myself involuntarily replaying every single experience with him, in a patchwork jumble of thoughts and feelings.

His family has not yet come by to retrieve his belongings,. Some I moved into his closet for safekeeping, others I can't bear to disturb. Every time I begin to feel that the pain is easing up a bit, a moment sneaks up on me, revealing that it is just as strong as ever.

Monday, I had to got to Baltimore for my job, which meant getting up early and taking the commuter train. I'd gotten used to the drill last year while Lionel was in the hospital, when there was an IT project to complete in the Baltimore office that required my presence several times. It was always stressful, because I hated being so far away from the hospital that I couldn't get there at a moments notice. It was a somber ride on those grey winter mornings. I tried listening to music to distract myself, but I couldn't help wondering what was going on in the ICU. Was he awake? Was he comfortable? Was he frightened? Lonely? Disoriented? Crying? Was the hated ventilator tube down his throat, or was he miserable with the breathing mask? Were his wrists tied too tightly to the bed? Was he struggling against his restraints? I couldn't wait until my work was finished... and then the train back to D.C. couldn't come quickly enough or travel fast enough. All I wanted was to get to D.C., back to the hospital, see him with my own eyes, reassure him that he wasn't abandoned. Touch him. Hug him. Watch over him.

The last time I'd made this trip, was the day after Lionel died. It was agony to have to go. The work was complex and problematic and the day ran long. I was racing to get back to the city because I had a show that night. It was the first performance of a new play and I had to be there, but my mind and heart weren't in it. I survived the evening, propped up by friends, then went home to an empty apartment where the reality of Lionel's death at last began to hit me.

This past Monday, all it took was the train pulling out of the station, the familiar landscape gliding by outside the window to bring it all back. One of the most horrible, painful times of my life. I cried all the way to Baltimore, I just couldn't stop. Listening to my Ipod just made it worse. No matter what music I selected, all of the songs sounded so sad.

By the time we arrived at Penn Station, I had given myself a headache from the crying and had to go in the men's room and splash water on my face to look presentable. The cab ride to the office gave me time to pull myself together, fortunately the driver wasn't talkative. When I got upstairs, everyone was preoccupied and I was able to hide the state I was in until I got busy with work.

This time, my return to D.C. did not mean hurrying to the hospital to check on Lionel. That sobering realization was all I was able to think about the entire way back. Again, my eyes filled with tears, blurring the passing landscape. Another grim ride that seemed to last forever.

One step forward, two steps back...

Was invited to a get together with some very good friends and fellow artists this evening, but I ended up not going. It was the second social event of the day that I had to decline. I thought at first I would try and push myself to go, but I spend so much time hiding my grief as it is...that I just didn't have the heart or energy to try. I have to do enough of that just to get through the work week. Fortunately, my friends seem to understand and want what's best for me. Right now, that seems to be some solitude to think and work through things.

The phone rang early this morning, it was one of Lionel's younger brothers. His voice on the answering machine startled me. I was so used to hearing him leaving messages for Lionel, always the exact same wording and tone, LOL. "Lionel, pick up! Pick up the phone, boy! Pick up!"

It caught me so off guard that the machine answered before I could find my phone. I called back and left a message. Then he called back, to say that he might stop by for some of Lionel's things. That forced me to get up and try to get somewhat prepared.

I noticed all of his shoes, still lined up under the kitchen counter, gathering dust. He would have hated that. Lionel took great pride in keeping his shoes well polished, possibly a holdover from his time in the military.

I can see him sitting on the sofa, hunched over, buffing a pair while he watched television. He would frequently tease me about the scuffed-up state of my own footwear, as he walked me to work in the morning. Whenever I stated that I didn't care because I was just going to work, he would roll his eyes. "That's not the point." he'd say, exasperated with my petty rebellions.

He hated shopping so much, that I remembered being with him when he got every pair, the sneakers, the sandals, his black work shoes (from back when he could still work), house shoes, the two brown leather pair he wore day in and day out. I brushed them off and collected them into a cardboard box. It's funny how a box of abandoned shoes can trigger so many memories.

Lionel had a lot of problems with his feet, because of the diabetes and even before that, because he did so much walking, roaming around. When he was working security, he would be on his feet all day, sometimes and couldn't wait to get home and pull off his shoes. As soon as he returned, removing his shoes would be the second thing he did...after turning on the television, of course.

When the diabetes started to cause nerve damage in his feet, he would complain that his feet and toes felt icy cold all of the time. Sometimes, as he lay in bed watching television, I would sit in the recliner beside him and try to massage the circulation back into them. For some reason, it seemed to work when I did it -- but not when he tried to do for himself...although I frequently saw him trying. He was adamant about walking every day, feeling that increased his circulation...no pun intended.

In the hospital, due to fluid retention that was apparently caused by his failing kidneys, his feet swelled to the size of hams and his legs were so swollen with skin stretched so tight, they looked like they'd burst any second. Along with his legs, his feet were so heavy that he could barely move them. Eventually, the staff put some inflatable boots on them, trying to promote circulation. But those were so hot, tight and uncomfortable that he was continually trying to get them off, even with his hands tied down.

When he couldn't, he'd beg me, with looks and gestures, to remove them. I would try to explain that I couldn't because they were for his own good . He would just look at me, frustrated and miserable, through tear-filled eyes. He'd keep trying to wriggle out of them until he exhausted himself. Then we'd both sit there, looking at each other. Both helpless. Both in agony. But, I can't write about all that yet.

I can't even bring myself to think about it.

Snowfall...

It snowed yesterday in D.C., an abrupt angry storm with hail and sleet and something called thundersnow -- which somehow combines all of the above with lighting and thunder to comprise a really nasty mess that snarled the evening rush hour, delayed the commutes of some poor souls into the next day, caused power outages and generally made life miserable for a lot of people.

As does seemingly everything else nowadays, the weather made me think of Lionel. I stayed at work a little late, but as I finally walked home in the dark, amid the slush and falling snow; juggling my back pack, a shopping bag and an umbrella, I thought about how excited LBJ got when it snowed.

I remembered that horrible blizzard, Christmas of 2009, that delayed my holiday departure to St. Louis and family by several days. The snow was nearly waist high and Lionel couldn't wait to get out in it, especially since he had a huge, down-filled,fur-trimmed olive Army jacket that he seldom got a chance to wear. D.C. weather does not generally feature much snow, so he was excited about the opportunity to put on his longjohns, his big boots, and Sub-Artic jacket and venture out into the neighborhood to see "...what was going on."

He'd return, simultaneously chilled and sweaty, bubbling over with tales of stranded cars that he helped push, dogs with snow over their heads, neighborhood snowmen and snowball fights, little old ladies he helped across the intersection and that rarest of pleasures in the big city...an opportunity to walk in the middle of the street. He would rant and rave as long as I would listen, about the lousy drivers who couldn't navigate in snow. And he'd be simultaneously bemused and outraged by the crazy people he saw out jogging through the neighborhood snowdrifts wearing gym shorts.

Later, I would find his hat and socks and scarf on the radiator, his boots in a puddle in the bathroom and his big coat draped over the shower rod to dry. In the living room he'd be curled up asleep in the recliner or draped across the sofa in his longjohn's...with a gigantic can of beer on the floor beside him, asleep and snoring in the bluish glow of cable weathermen and the flickering light from the electric fireplace. If I'd known then that it would be our last winter together...

God, how I miss him!

Time passes...

...and ultimately we move on, because there is no other option. There is no choice. There never was. You cannot go back and you cannot stand still. You are pushed, pulled, drawn forward. Sometimes life seems a conveyer belt. Sometimes a treadmill.

I deliberately didn't comment on the one-month anniversary of Lionel's death, or the one-month anniversary of his funeral. Both milestones that have recently passed. I didn't really want to begin that way of marking time, one month...six months...a year.

Seconds at a time now, the days are growing inexorably longer. It's still barely perceptible and difficult to believe (especially as cold and dark as it is outside my office window at this moment) but the season is changing. Eventually, sunshine and budding trees, grass and flowers will emerge but, for the first time, I feel ambivalent about springs renewal.

Time passes. Relentlessly. And, like a surging tide, that passage carries me further and further from what was. Further and further from when my reality was him, on the journey beside me. And although I continue along accompanied by many loved ones, in a certain, perverse, particular sense...I continue alone. The space beside me is now empty.

And that, acute, loss...is an ache against which, I suspect, not even omnipotent time can prevail.

At the Risk of being Redundant...

How many times can you express that you miss someone...without driving people crazy? Without driving yourself crazy?

I guess I keep restating the obvious because there are so many things about him that I miss -- and, each day I remember/discover new ones.

Some of them are simple things:

The sound of him tap tapping on the glass surrounding the door outside my office to let me know he'd stopped by to visit. (It hurts my heart now, to think of how -- on particularly busy, hectic, days at work --it sometimes seemed like a less-than-welcome interruption.)

The way his glasses sat on the end of his nose, while he read the newspaper.

Discovering the elaborate sandwiches he'd made, then left in the refrigerator to "marinate" before he ate them later, usually in the middle of the night. Or the glasses and jugs of water he kept in the freezer and carried around with him. He drank more water than anyone I know.

The way that, despite his total lack of interest, he would yell from the living room -- alerting me whenever, as he flipped channels he stumbled across a movie musical or dance number, anything relating to Broadway, Hollywood or the arts... and even eventually whenever LL Cool J, Tyson Beckford or various other shirtless hunks he'd heard me mention, were on the television.

Weekends, when I was running errands or going to the movies, rehearsal or meeting friends ... and he'd walk me to the bus stop and wait with me for my bus, before ambling off to look for a beer or a conversation about sports.

On my way home from shopping, I could call from my cell phone and when I got home, he'd be waiting outside our building wearing his house shoes and smoking a cigarette, to help me carry upstairs whatever I couldn't handle by myself.

Sometimes, random moments, tiny memories like these just pop, unbidden, into my consciousness. Sometimes, I smile at these thoughts. Sometimes, my eyes well, brimming with hot tears.

But, I am always made acutely aware of what is gone now...forever.

Insight?

For the first time time in a very long time, I actually went outside on my lunch hour, probably because I had an office-related errand to run in Dupont Circle. Anyway, I don't think I'd been down that way on foot since way before Christmas. I guess that really isn't such a long time, but it's amazing how quickly things change.

Several stores and businesses along Connecticut Ave. are now vacant, and what was for decades a D.C. landmark -- the Lambda Rising bookstore -- is now all boarded up and undergoing transformation into something else. The fact that the logo and signage are gone and it is no longer recognizable seemed especially sad for some reason.

It got me to thinking about my apartment. As long as it remains unchanged, with Lionel's things strewn all over, untouched. I continue to feel his presence very strongly. Even once his family takes possession of whatever items of his they want in remembrance, the empty spaces that are left will still signal his absence...and therefore his presence.

But if I start to change things, move them, rearrange furniture so that things look different, will that also seem to register to me a certain, sad, finality?

And am I ready, able to confront that?

I'm not sure.

Good advice...

A friend and co-worker (who also recently lost of loved one) advised me to be good to myself. The more I think about what he said, the more I recognize the wisdom of his advice.

As easy as it would seem to be, being good to myself does not come naturally to me. My parents raised us not to be selfish, to sacrifice and to always consider the needs of others. I recognize that sometimes, I behave that way to a fault. But I've been trying to get better about this.

My supervisor gave me wonderful, thick, luxurious towels for my birthday last fall. Ordinarily, I would have set them aside, saving the "good" towels for "company." But during the darkest part of Lionel's hospitalization, I took them out and started using them. They were soft and warm and comforting. I even spent an extra dollar or two and, instead of buying my usual cheapo shower gel, got something that I really liked. That little bit of pampering is a tiny thing, but it does make a difference.

Lionel still has some brand-new clothes, gifts from me with the tags still on them, in his closet. Nothing fancy or extravagant, but items that I guess he was "saving" for an occasion. Now, if his relatives don't want or can't use them, they will ultimately be donated to someone who can.

I wish he had worn them. I hope it was enough that he received them. I'd like to think it was not so much the gift, but the thought. In which case, they served their purpose.

A confession...

Sometimes, I am ashamed of how angry and bitter I am about Lionel's death. Overall, I try to be a nice and positive person, treat people the way I would like to be treated, etc. I'd like to think that. more often than not, I am relatively successful at that. I was not raised to be resentful, negative and jealous.

But I have noticed lately, that whenever the news happens to be on television, and they begin reporting on a medical breakthrough, amazing rescue, or the miraculous prognosis/progress of someone who's been seriously ill or near death -- I find myself snatching up the remote to mute the sound as quickly as possible. Sometimes, I can't bear to hear about anyone else's remarkable recovery or cure...and the joyous relief of their loved ones.

I don't wish ill of anyone and, deep down, I am happy for all concerned...but I am envious because that wasn't my experience.. At least I am not so far gone that I don't realize how pathetic that is.

It's a good thing that I'm an actor, so that I can respond appropriately when well-meaning people say things clearly meant to be kind and supportive, but which -- when they catch me at the wrong split second -- cause me to want to snap back with an angry retort. Things like:

"At least he isn't suffering anymore."

"You should be glad you had such a good friend as long as you did."

"God knows what's best."

"He's in a better place."

"You'll get over it."

"You've got to move on."

"Keep yourself busy."

"Plenty of other people have it worse than you..."

"You've got to stop feeling sorry for yourself." etc.

Many of these, are things that I am probably also guilty of having awkwardly uttered in similar situations when I didn't know what else to say. I am sure that whatever is said to me is said out of genuine care and concern. And yet -- being a playwright -- I frequently think of some of the cruelest and most creatively ungrateful retorts and responses...none of which I'm brave or honest enough to repeat here., for fear I would totally dispel what little positive regard anyone might mistakenly have for me.

I know, that I am wallowing in indulgent self-pity. How could I read these posts back to myself and not realize that? I even know, from experience, that there is some truth in many of these well-meaning observations. And yet, sometimes when I hear them, it is all I can do to bite my tongue and not verbalize the ugliness that comes so quickly to mind. Hopefully, I will continue to know better. As my rejection slips should tell me, I should save all of that creativity to channel into my play writing and film scripts ...where apparently, it is sorely needed.

It's a hardly a flattering revelation about myself, but somehow I feel that it's essential, at 4:04 a.m. when I can't sleep, to at least be honest with the handful of people who may ever bother to read this blog. And to be honest with myself.

My candor does have its limits, though. There are at least three or four things that I have not been able to bring myself to write about. Maybe later...

Damn...

Just re-read my post from yesterday. Guess I was in a pretty bad place, but I'm better now. I just miss him, y'know. That's all.

How?

How can just opening a drawer full of old socks cause me to burst into tears this way? Cigarette butts in an ashtray, a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste...happening upon even tiny things like this, has me dissolving into abrupt, heaving, shuddering sobbing that just won't relent or be ignored. You know how you can cry so hard that you give yourself a headache? And feel stupid...

I was standing right there in the hospital room when he took his last breath, when his heart stopped beating. Later, after everyone left, I went into the room to kiss him goodbye one more time and his cheek and forehead were already cool against my lips. I was AT the funeral home. I was AT the church for his service. I was AT the cemetery in Virginia for his burial.

Why can I still not believe that my friend is dead? Why can I still not accept that I will never see him, hear him, touch him, hold him again. Never? NEVER?

It just doesn't seem possible. It still doesn't seem real. I'm sorry, but it just doesn't.

How can his shoes, his socks, his jackets, all those caps he loved to wear still be here...but he be gone forever. How can food he bought still be in the pantry? I'm not responsible for that random can of coconut milk or three bottles of hot sauce. All those stupid boxes of cereal are right there on that shelf? But he is gone? Forever? It can't be. It just can't be.

The curtains are still here. Dust balls on the closet floor, still here. Strands of his hair are still in his brush. His reading glasses. His mail. His basketball. His can of coffee. Boxes of syringes,. Insulin in the refrigerator. Medical records and doctor bills and prescriptions on top of prescriptions. Wraps and bandages. Heating pad. Jars and tubes and bottles and bottles and bottles of worthless fucking pills and medicine that didn't do him a bit of good. All that suffering and all that pain, all that torture and agony...and now he doesn't even exist anymore?

How is it possible?

How?

If only...

When I was a kid and something bad had happened or was happening, I would go up to my room, get in bed and try to fall asleep...no matter what the time of day.

I had this childish belief that, if I could just fall asleep quickly enough, when I awakened whatever I was worried about would turn out to have been just a bad dream.

Before you laugh, I do remember it actually working a couple of times - me waking to discover something frightening or worrying me was all just a nightmare. But, as I got older, the success rate lessened drastically. And now, when I need it most, it doesn't work at all.

Last night, with a friend dozing in a recliner in front of the television in the living-room, I went to bed. He was watching some crime show on cable, one that I remembered Lionel watching out there many a night as I fell asleep in the bedroom.

I turned out the lights and pulled up the covers, wishing with all my heart that whenever I woke to go to the bathroom it would be Lionel up front, asleep on his sofa bed in the flickering glow and murmur of some late night infomercial.

That way, the past three months could just be a long, detailed, horrible dream. And I could go into the living-room and give him a big hug... leaving him to wonder what the hell my problem was.

If only...

Busy Work...

Keeping busy seems to help. Probably because when I am preoccupied and busy -- I don't have time to think. And I've been very busy. There was a lot of backed-up work waiting for me when I returned to my job after spending the holidays with my family. In addition to everything that had piled up, there are new crises and demands waiting for me every morning. It's been difficult to take lunch or leave on time.

And when I do finally get home, I'm confronted by everything that has been on hold since that ambulance ride to the hospital last October. So, it has been easy to keep busy. It's been unavoidable. The problem is that, when my body finally shuts down at the end of each day...my mind doesn't. The thoughts I've been trying to avoid simply rush right back, unbidden, like liquid filling a void. It turns out that keeping busy only helps while I am busy. Then, I am right back where I started. Thinking about Lionel.

I'm reminded of that ancient joke:

Patient: Doctor, it hurts whenever I do that.

Doctor: Then, don't do that.

Unfortunately, it's easier said than done. Turning off thoughts about someone who was, for so long, such an intrinsic part of my daily life has so far been impossible.

I do manage to force myself not to talk about him constantly. I'm an actor, so I'm pretty convincing when people ask me how I'm doing, and I say "Fine." I realize that most of the time that particular, polite question is a simple, casual, greeting.... and not an invitation for me to unburden my true emotions and feelings of despair. And although a couple of people have caught me crying in my office, no one really wants me divulging my anguish at the water cooler. None of us have the time. Besides, I don't want people to start running in the other direction whenever they see me approaching.

Although I do slip occasionally, I've tried to scale back the personal disclosure and venting on Facebook. Theoretically, that's what this blog is for...to wallow in self-pity without boring folks unnecessarily.

After all, I'm not the only one who's lost a loved one. I've even been to another funeral since Lionel's. Several of my good friends and a co-worker have all lost family since Lionel died. There've been mudslides in Brazil, 13 murders in PG County, car accidents and tragic house fires. All those people, including that nine-year old girl, were killed by that guy in Tucson.

Everyone else seems to be able to grieve and keep functioning. Everyone else seems to be able to move on. Why can't I?

Mixed Feelings...

Last weekend, I had given myself the task to start organizing Lionel's belongings so that his family could come and get whatever keepsakes they wanted. Although I had two days, I didn't make very much progress.

It's not that he has that much stuff. Well, he does...but most of it is not stuff anyone is likely to want except for sentimental reasons. For the last three or four years, Lionel hadn't worked and therefore hadn't had any income. Most of the new possessions he had were birthday or Christmas gifts from me.

Even when he was working, he was not a particularly materialistic person. Part of this, I suspect was because he found other uses for his money. For that reason, he always said that he considered having money a "trigger"...a catalyst for some self-destructive behavior that he was trying to keep under control.

But even when, Lionel had money, he wasn't particularly interested in shopping. Every once in a while, I could convince him to accompany me to a mall or store, but he only went out of boredom, for the change of scene. Once, there he couldn't wait to leave. Except for sitting and eating in various food courts, he wasn't the recreational shopper I am, and generally couldn't wait to get home.

One trait we did have in common, however, is that we were both packrats. This teeny apartment packed with random, scavenged stuff is solid evidence of that. Lionel did a lot of roaming around and delighted in finding things, usually discarded miscellaneou items that he dragged home with the intiention of fixing them or selling them. Something that never occurred.

This past summer we held several yard sales to get rid of a lot of the junk that he and I had each accumulated, living in a one bedroom apartment for over 25 years. That was major for us because, like most borderline hoarders, it was difficult for us to get rid of anything. At least the yard sales gave us the illusion that nothing was going to waste, we weren't throwing it away, we were selling it -- although frequently for little or nothing, and we never really made any money except on a couple of items that I was determined to get rid of.

But it wasn't the quantity of his possessions that kept me from making progress last weekend. Much of it had been stuffed into his closet when his niece and nephew were here to help look for any insurance information he may have left behind.

The real reason, I was able to discard nothing more than an old toothbrush and some half-used books of matches, was that it all still reminded me so strongly of him. With his magazines and papers scattered about, with his towel still hanging on its hook in the bathroom, his medicines and diabetes info strewn about, his clothes pretty much thrown where he had left them nearly three months ago...it still seemed, still looked...like he was coming back. Like he had just gone for a walk around the block to get a beer or a cigarette, or stretch his legs.

Somehow, I've found that notion comforting over the past few weeks. That illusion that he might return any moment. Even though, I knew it was impossible. Since it looked like nothing had changed, it felt like nothing had changed. His presence still permeated the apartment.

But as comforting as it was, it is also painful. Because deep down, I know better. And sometimes it hurts to glance around and see a toy he saved from a box of cereal, the water he liked to leave in the freezer to get nice and cold, scraps of paper on which he'd scribbled grocery lists, or telephone numbers, or notes to himself. I see his brush in the bathroom, the mirror and clippers he used to cut his hair, his favorite coffee cup, or the stack of mail that has come for him and, each time, it's like a sharp dagger into my heart. Each item, a reminder that he will never be back to claim it, or finish that thought, or call that number or count those pennies into a roll.

So maybe it will do me good, if his family comes and takes some of this away. Maybe that will give me the momentum to distribute the rest of it and find something less painful to take up that empty space. But, right now I doubt it. I fear, like him, it will just be...gone.

Late Sunday Night...

11:56 p.m. Why did I do that? Just now, instead of turning off the lights, turning off the television, and going to sleep, I called Lionel's cellphone. I don't even have it anymore. His nephew took it from the hospital to try and contact folks before the funeral.

After a few rings, that familiar voice answered with that familiar, messed-up outgoing message; the one where he said, "Have a nurse day." instead of "Have a nice day." I was always after him to re-record it, but he never got around to it.

Now, instead of falling asleep, I'll lay awake who knows how long, thinking about him. Why did I do that?

Sunday night...

I just read my last post. Why did I type all that? Why am I sharing trivial details about my past with Lionel? Because I miss him so much?

It is Sunday night, now. Almost 8:30 p.m. and none of what I wrote has happened today. None of it will happen again. Instead, I washed clothes alone and went grocery shopping at Harris Teeter alone.

Instead of staying home out of the cold this afternoon, I paid a second visit to the friend who is a patient in Lionel's old hospital where I got so upset the other night. (It wasn't as bad, this time.)

When I left the hospital, I came straight here to the office because I had some work to finish before tomorrow morning. Then I sat and typed my earlier post. It's cold and dark outside and still I sit in my office on the computer stalling, typing this instead of going home to the empty apartment. I guess I know why...but tomorrow morning -- I'll regret it. Goodnight.

Sunday...

Sundays, like all other days, we had our routine. Sleep a little late watching the morning news, before getting up to wash clothes. I would usually go down first to the basement laundryroom, putting mine in to wash, then walking up the street to Mickey D's to bring us back a breakfast sandwich, so LBJ wouldn't have to cook. Sausage egg & cheese McMuffin for him, Sausage biscuit for me. By the time I got back, with breakfast, it would be time to put my clothes in the dryer and he would be up, getting his together to go next. I would help him take his clothes down, because he was too weak. But, we'd both pretend that wasn't the reason.

Then, he'd go out for his morning walk to find a cigarette, while I'd watch CBS Sunday morning and usually talked to my sis on the phone. We'd walk to the store if we needed something for Sunday dinner and he'd stop on the way back to get a beer. He got annoyed when I insisted on carrying the heavier grocery bags...but we both knew he couldn't do it. I would say I needed to stop and rest...whenever he seemed to be tiring or getting out of breath.

He would start cooking Sunday dinner and watching the Sunday political rant shows, Face the Nation/Meet the Press, etc. Sunday afternoon, I ran errands or spent time with friends while he cooked dinner, drank beer, put on his cap and team jersey to watch football and argued with his brothers on the telephone. If Washington won, he'd go out and stroll around the neighborhood, rehashing the game and celebrating with other fans and total strangers at the bus stop at 18th and Columbia Road. I could tell when they lost, because the jersey and cap would be nowhere in sight (or tossed across the room in frustration) when I returned. I almost never stayed out on Sunday evenings -- partially because the next day was a work day...but mostly because our Sunday evening routine was sacred.

We'd eat dinner while watching the weekend wrap up on the news, then watch 60 Minutes or the Simpsons, whichever wasn't a rerun. He'd let the couch out early and relax in bed, while I put away the food. Sometimes, I'd sit and watch television with him, or sit and read...while he changed channels incessantly. Around 9, he'd start dozing and I'd go back in my room to find something to wear to work and use the computer.

Later on he'd call out to see if I wanted some desert and I'd join him in the front room again, just relaxing for awhile. Lionel was a night owl. I am not. After the eleven o'clock news and -- more importantly -- the weather report. I'd connect and run the dishwasher. He'd make sure the door was locked and turn the lights down low -- maybe just the electric fireplace, or his lava lamp. Either he or I would murmur our nightly mantra, "Safe and Cozy"...I'd tell him goodnight and he'd say, "Goodnight, Alan." in a tone of voice that I will never, ever, ever forget, as long as I live --It makes me cry at the computer even as I remember that tone while typing this.

As the dishwasher churned through it's cycle, I'd go into the bedroom, turn out the lights, turn on the television and turn in. All through the night, like clockwork, I'd hear him out there, getting up, going to the bathroom, cooking, eating a snack, changing the channels, snoring softly, listening to music...a process he'd repeat several times during the night. There was something familiar and comforting about his nocturnal routine. I never realized how much -- until now.

Saturday Morning...

Just lost it in the Safeway. This wasn't the first time I'd been to a grocery store without Lionel. But the first time I'd been to this one. "Our" Safeway...LOL. The one we went to all the time. It was part of our regular Saturday morning routine. Safeway is just in the next block from our building, but with my buddy, it was ordinarily a fairly time-consuming trip.

Lionel always professed to be an introvert, and maybe on some level he was. But he was also very outgoing and extremely friendly. We could never get out of our building without stopping to chat with whatever fellow tenants and neighbors we encountered. A simple stroll down the street engendered countless stops. Lionel talked to the metermaids, the UPS drivers, people parking their cars, tourists looking for directions, any little children or babies in strollers, cops on the beat, every shop owner we passed. And don't let us pass someone with a dog (a frequent occurrence in this neighborhood) LBJ had to talk to the dog, then talk to the owner(s) then talk to the dog some more, before I dragged him away.

I would usually stop in the bank to get quarters to wash clothes the next morning. Lionel would make a cup of coffee in the customer service area, talk to any children waiting there for their parents, any employees, and of course all security guards.

He knew all the street vendors along the way and felt compelled to discuss their business woes, the weather, recent or upcoming football games, local politics, etc. The 5-minute walk to the Safeway could easily take 20 minutes or more.

Lionel loved grocery stores. He would pick up the sale paper as we entered and peruse it carefully for any deals, sales, or coupons that he hadn't already given ME at home to carry. He liked to push the cart, partially that male thing, but also because he was weak and having trouble with his balance, but trying to hide it from me.

Of course, we had to go up and down every single aisle. When he had food stamps left, he would eagerly, proudly and carefully select his purchases. When they had run out at the end of the month, he would pick up things he wanted and look at me tentatively. I usually insisted he get them, whether we could afford it or not, because I knew how it hurt his pride to have to ask.

Today, I was doing well, looking at --but not getting -- all of the items that I knew he liked and that I customarily got for him on those rare occasions when I could sneak away to the grocery store without him. It made me sad to see all of his regular purchases, especially when I passed the seafood department -- his favorite in the store.

It felt strange to only buy a half-gallon of milk, just one loaf of bread and no eggs. Lionel could go through a gallon of milk in a day and a half, and consumed bread and eggs in the same enthusiastic fashion. But, all three have gone bad and had to be thrown out since he was no longer there using them. And I am gradually, painfully, learning to scale back my purchases to what just one person can carry.

But I was doing alright until I went down the aisle containing the greeting cards. It can only have been masochism that led me to browse through the Valentines. LBJ and I were not lovers or romantic partners in any sense, just close friends. But I am a holiday junkie and I always prided myself on being able to find the perfect Valentine for him. Something funny and not mushy, but sentimental enough to make him smile at more than just the humor. He enjoyed receiving these cards and would keep them on display by the television for weeks...or at least until the next holiday card from me. Sometimes, I would find them tucked away carefully somewhere, months after I thought he'd forgotten about or thrown them away.

Out of habit more than anything else, I looked carefully through all of the Valentines this morning and was pleased with myself when I finally found the perfect one for him. Then I remembered that Lionel wouldn't be getting any more cards from me, ever again.

That's when I lost it in the Safeway. I cried down the aisle, through the checkout line and out the door. Fortunately, nobody ever really pays any attention to broken-hearted old men crying in the grocery store -- or they assume you're crying because of the prices. On the way home, I could pretend it was just the icy wind, bringing tears to my eyes.

Work...and play.

Yesterday was another incredibly busy day at work, but fortunately it was at least Friday. Plus, I had somthing to look forward to -- attending a play Friday night with a close friend. When I went home first, to drop off my backpack and put on something warmer, there was mail for Lionel. I guess that will continue for awhile. His income tax forms, which reminded me of how I used to always help him fill out his tax forms. He never got a refund...but I think it gave him a feeling of accomplishment.

Any tax refund he was due automatically went towards back child-support. He complained, but I don't think he really minded that much. It gave him a strange sense of connection.

Leaving for the play I realized that this was this was the first social event I'd attended in D.C. since rushing Lionel to the hospital back in October...it felt kind of funny, but I enjoyed the play and I know I needed the break.

When I got home it was late. I was tired and didn't bother to turn on the television as the news had already gone off. It was quiet, which made it hard to sleep. If it's too quiet I start to think. And right now, there's only one thing I ever seem to think about.

Thursday Night

I got home kind of late, due to some computer problems at my job. I was feeling tired and frustrated, when a good friend stopped by unexpectedly. It wasn't really a social visit. We barely even talked. He was cold and tired and needed a place to rest for a bit. I offered him some dinner and the cable remote and adjourned to my room to take care of some things.

He was pretty quiet, just sitting watching the tube in the front room, but you can imagine how it felt to suddenly be able to sense the presence of another person, hear the television in the background, after all of these weeks. The only other visits I'd had since Lionel first went into the hospital, were his niece and nephew helping me look for insurance papers before the funeral, and a neighbor from upstairs who dropped by to pay her condolences that night after the burial at Quantico.

Before I knew it, I was falling asleep at the computer. Clearly time for bed, my friend was stretched out in the recliner dozing. I could tell that he wanted to spend the night. I got him a blanket and pushed some boxes out of the way so he could recline all the way back. It is just too soon for me to want to let out the couch and make up Lionel's bed for anyone else to sleep in.

I retired for the night and, although I woke up a couple of times to go to the bathroom and was aware of his presence, I knew it was not Lionel. It was a totally different energy. Nice not to be alone for a change. But...not Lionel.

Wednesday on Thursday...

Two jarring events on Wednesday. I left work early to attend a funeral. Probably the last thing I needed to be doing, at this point in my healing process, but it was the daughter of a good friend. Ironically, he is a brother who had also appeared in the play that brought Lionel into my life back in 1981. This brother's twenty-two year old daughter had passed away as a result of heart disease she had suffered throughout her life.

As with those of most young people, her death was especially sad, because she seemed to be on the verge of an especially bright future and would have graduated with a double major from a local college by the end of the year. Also, as is frequently the custom these days, her memorial service was an attempt to celebrate her life, rather than a sad, solemn affair, marking her death. Her friends and family all spoke of her zest for life. She had accomplished a lot, traveled a lot, lived a lot, in those 22 short years, and the tributes from her family and friends were moving and heartfelt.

A very different situation from Lionel...and yet they both seemed to have shared an adventurous spirit and desire to live life on their own terms.

I would be lying if I pretended that attending another funeral so soon after his, didn't get to me...especially during the more emotional moments. And it didn't help that the funeral home where her memorial was held was ironically situated directly across the street from the funeral home, where, a little over two weeks ago, I had dropped off Lionel's good suit, shirt and tie, so that the undertakers could prepare him for his own funeral.

I had some rough moments, but I tried to honor the spirit of my friends memorial for his daughter, and for the most part was able to keep my emotions in check. Until later.

After returning to finish out the day at work, I faced a second...and in some ways more difficult, challenge. Another close friend, also an actor -- one who had appeared in quite a few of my own plays, was hospitalized with diabetes-related complications and I had promised to visit him.

Completing these two difficult commitments in the same day, turned out not to have been as good an idea as I had intended. I was already in somewhat of a state after the funeral earlier that afternoon. To make matters worse, the hospital where my friend was in residence was not the one where Lionel had died, but one where he had been hospitalized at least ten times over the years. One where I had visited him often, and one where I felt the treatment of his illnesses had been far less than optimal.

It felt exactly like I was going to visit him again, as I had so many times in the past: same bus ride, same lobby -- still decorated for the holidays. Lionel had been a patient there so many times that I was very familiar with every area and floor and nurses station. My friend wasn't in the room when I arrived. I sat there waiting for him to return, and it seemed as if Lionel would walk into the hospital room any moment, returning from the smoking area outside, to sit on the bed, asking if I'd brought him anything to read or eat...not necessarily in that order.

I had a long hard, cry sitting there in that empty hospital room amid the sounds and smells that had become so familiar to me. The sense that Lionel would suddenly appear was so strong that it actually caused nightmares that prevented me from sleeping when I returned home that night.

I dreamed that his death had actually been a dream itself. I was so happy and relieved that he was still alive, especially when he stood up and hugged me reassuringly, that it was agony to awaken and realize the actual reality was just as I had feared. Unable to sleep I began blogging on this site about previous days, a process that lasted until I was finally able to fall asleep...just as it was time to shower and go to work.

Tuesday on Thursday...

When I arrived home from work Tuesday evening, one of my neighbors was playing his stereo loudly. As I checked the mailbox then climbed the stairs, it sounded exactly like it used to sound on many an evening as I returned. When he was in a certain mood, I would be able to hear Lionel blasting his music as soon as I hit the lobby door. Sometimes, he'd even be singing along in that impassioned, off-key way that he had.

But this music was coming from the neighbor opposite us. Ours is an old building, built in 1902 with thick walls and thicker floors. Inside our apartment, it remained still enough to hear the ticking clock, hissing radiator and cranky refrigerator. Maybe that's why I fabricated another errand that would take me back outside.

I ended up going out to the store, Filene's Basement, and staying until it closed. On the way home, I stopped by McDonald's. It was cold outside and the homeless and lonely were seeking refuge there, watching a television mounted high up on the wall. A couple of them nodded an acknowledgment to me in a way that made me realize word of Lionel's passing was beginning to filter around the neighborhood. I bought a sandwich I didn't really want. "That all?" asked the manager. He had probably never seen me buy just one sandwich. I smiled at the reminder of Lionel's phenomenal appetite. Then, unable to postpone the inevitable...I went home. Alone.

Monday on Thursday...

Thursday. I can't sleep. It's the middle of the night and horrific memories of Lionel's heartbreaking final two months in the ICU keep trying to force their way out of my subconscious. I can't write about, or think about that yet...so I try to crowd those thoughts out with others from the past few days.

Monday was my first day back at the office. It's the last place I wanted to be, but my co-workers have been fantastic throughout this ordeal. Loving and supportive even when I was stumbling around the office like a stunned robot, a fake smile pasted on my face to get me through the day so that I could make it to the hospital. Despite the usual pre-holiday crush of work at the office, many of them came to the funeral, which was gratifying and comforting. Everyone, from the president and my supervisor down to interns and temps during this period, did their best to embrace, distract, encourage me...whatever was needed.

I actually felt very guilty when one colleague revealed that he had lost a loved one over the holidays as well. I've been so self-involved with my own grief that I was not even aware. Hope he understands and forgives me. I suspect others may have shielded me from this news as a way of protecting me.

Anyway, the day was so busy that it went fairly quickly and it was dark when I walked home, remembering how many times Lionel had come to the office to accompany me. Especially towards the end, when he had delusions that the (harmless) neighborhood homeless guys were stalking us and was trying to protect me from imagined dangers. Monday the short hill up Connecticut Ave onto Columbia Road, seemed especially steep, as I trudged alone, past the bus stop benches outside the 7-11 where he sometimes waited to surprise me, past the bus shelter in front of the little grocery store (one of the spots where he bought his precious beer) where he also sometimes waited. I half expected to see him sitting on the wall of the apartment building next to ours, where he would hang out on summer evenings, smoking and waiting for me with that lopsided grin.

Retrieving the mail from the lobby, I wondered how long I would leave the sticker that reads, "Sharpe & Jaggers"...remembering when I typed and put it there. It was touching how surprised, and how pleased, he was when he noticed that change. I climbed the stairs to our second floor apartment, pausing at the door to fumble with my keys, as usual. Sometimes, he would hear this and fling the door open, laughing. But not this night. Not anymore. I opened the door and paused, staring at the empty room that served as the living-room, diningroom, kitchen...and with the couch let out -- Lionel's bedroom. It was still and sad. No Lionel standing at the stove fixing dinner. No Lionel sprawled on the couch, television blasting...or curled up in the recliner listening to music with his headphones, flicking his cigarette in the ashtray nearby.

I wasn't ready to face the empty apartment and decided to go for groceries. It wasn't an entirely made-up trip, since I'd had to throw out all the food in freezer, after accidentally leaving the door ajar as I rushed to catch my flight home for the holidays, the day after the funeral. It was a mistake though, which I must've realized on some level, since I instinctively avoided our neighborhood Safeway. Everyone knew us there.

One of the few places Lionel liked to go was the grocery store. Since he ate and cooked so frequently -- due to his illness and fondness for the Food Network on cable, respectively -- we were in there nearly four times a week, sometimes more than that. Now, I never could see it, but many of the staff there constantly insisted that we favored each other...and must be brothers. To me, Lionel and I look nothing alike...beyond being two old men. Especially since the family resemblance he shares with his younger brothers and nephew is so strong. But, I guess it was just another instance of people living together so long, they start to merge in appearance, probably more because of mannerisms and familiarity that for any other reason.

Instead, I took the short bus ride to the "new" Giant in Columbia Heights. Another favorite haunt of LBJ's...but not one where every other employee would be asking me "Where's your friend? That guy you're always in here with?"

As I said, grocery shopping was a mistake. From the moment I passed Giant's pastry department, where Lionel would always stop first for a couple of doughnuts, the process was awash with memories: the hot food bar, where we occasionally treated ourselves to fried fish, the seafood counter where he would longingly gaze at fresh lobsters, scallops and crabs that we usually couldn't afford, the applesauce that he always stocked up on and the marked-down meat bin, where he would carefully study each selection and triumphantly snatch up any bargains for our shopping cart. He always brought a pocketful of coupons...that we frequently forgot to use. As I strolled the aisles to avoid going home, I kept catching myself reaching for various things he would like and/or usually bought. Most of those I put back, but by the time I checked out, I still had two heavy bags. I will have to learn how to shop for only myself again.