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.

1-2-11

Back in D.C. tonight. Being home for the holidays was like putting my broken heart on "pause" for a week. For the most part, I tried not to think of the pain that I'd left behind me and focused instead on the joys of a rare visit with family.

My poor baby sis struggled mightily to create a Christmas for me that provided the renewal I traditionally get from my favorite holiday...while acknowledging the tragic context that could not be ignored, recent events that lent an intense poignancy to the festive proceedings. She did her best: giving up her bedroom to make me as comfortable as possible, strenuous cooking of all of my familiar and favorite holiday foods, driving for hours to make sure that I got to see almost all of the family I had been missing so intensely. She was also very sensitive and careful to follow my lead as to what I did and didn't want to talk about at various times, remaining sympathetic and nurturing throughout. It was an heroic and, for the most part, successful effort...for which I am extremely grateful to her.

But as the old saying goes, you can run...but you can't hide. And now I am back in my apartment in D.C. surrounded by belongings and memories of the beloved friend that I so recently lost.

The flight was fast and uneventful. Due to road construction, my taxi was forced to detour past the stop where I waited every night for my bus to the hospital. I stopped in the lobby, at the mailbox still marked "Sharpe & Jaggers" to retrieve a weeks worth of Christmas and sympathy cards, then carried my bags upstairs without Lionel's help...assistance I'm going to have to get used to doing without.

I entered the apartment to the disarray that was a result of my frantic departure. I must've left the freeezer door ajar. It had been packed with food that was now all thawed and spoiled -- three trash bags full that I put in the dumpster behind the building.

Other than that, and the now-dead flowers, the apartment is unchanged. Still and empty...except for a tsunami of memories. All of Lionel's things are exactly where he left them, as if waiting for his return. But there will be no one here but me tonight.

I would give anything not to have to go to work tomorrow. I would love of just sit here and stare into space all day, trying to process this enormous new reality that does not yet seem the least bit real to me...but there is much urgent, unfinished, relentless work waiting at my job. I have already been off two weeks...and I will already need to take some time off this coming Wednesday to attend (of all things) a funeral.

Everything is still so overwhelming to me, I guess the best thing for me to do at this point is turn in early and get up early. Maybe things will seem less depressing and insurmountable by the light of a new day.

1-1-11

New Year's Day. Beginnings -- and endings -- are very much on my mind. Last night was the first time in decades that I didn't receive a midnight New Year's Eve call from my beloved friend and roommate, Lionel.

Today marks the beginning of a year full of such heartbreaking firsts. Lionel Barrington Jaggers was buried at the veteran's military cemetery in Quantico, Virginia on Wednesday, December 22, 2010. The next day, I flew home to St. Louis to be with my family over the holidays. Their love and support have comforted me through these first difficult days since the funeral.

But now, it is time to face reality. Tomorrow, I return home to D.C. and the tiny Adams-Morgan apartment where Lionel lived with me for most of the nearly 30 years that we knew each other. There will be no one for me to call and announce my arrival once the plane has landed. No one to help me carry my bags up from the lobby. No "Welcome Home, I missed you" hug. No stack of mail carefully set aside for me. No one badgering me to see what I brought him, or what food my sister sent. No television or stereo blasting. No chattering narrative filling me in on the miscellaneous events during my absence. Just the still, eerie silence. And emptiness. Much like my heart.