A Sad Anniversary

By this time, two years ago, Lionel had been in the intensive care ward at Georgetown University Hospital for almost two months. The doctors had determined there was absolutely no chance that he would ever recover. And the miracle for which I had been so desperately praying had not come to pass. A few days prior, his family had finally and collectively, made the heartbreaking decision to disconnect him from the life support machinery which, at that point, was keeping him alive...but they were having a difficult time deciding when this would be done. It was a cold, grey Sunday. A day very much like today. I had gone to the hospital, as I did every day since he was admitted, arriving a little after one in the afternoon. Ordinarily, I went later, Sundays were usually a busy visiting day on the ward, but I had a show opening the following night and the final dress/tech rehearsal was that evening. Plus, my job was renovating its Baltimore office, and I had to be up early the next morning to take the train to Baltimore to be on-site with the contractors. I sat holding his hand, watching him sleep much of the afternoon, and was glad when some of his family arrived to visit, as I hated leaving him alone to go to my rehearsal. We chatted briefly, then I headed outside, where a light drizzle had begun to fall and it was growing dark. On my way to the bus stop, I encountered more of his family on their way up to the room. Again, I was relieved. At first. But by the time I got to the bus stop, and saw even more family parking their cars. I became concerned. It seemed odd that he would have so many visitors in one day. Finally, the reason hit me and, when I talked to his family members, they confirmed that the decision had been made to disconnect Lionel from life support that evening. It was a very stressful and emotional time, and everyone thought someone else had told me. It scares me now, to think how close I came to not being there. I accompanied them back inside to the ward where, individually and collectively, we all said our goodbyes. Finally, came the moment I had been dreading. As we all crowded into the room, surrounding his bed. The nurses came in and disconnected the machinery keeping Lionel alive. Although they had gradually eased him off the sedatives, he did not regain consciousness. I know that was a blessing for us. I hope it was a blessing for him. I cant' help thinking he would have been stoic, but terrified. I certainly didn't want that to be his last experience. We all told him we loved him. Even though, I had known for a week or two, that he would never be coming home, I was not prepared to say goodbye. In a lot of ways, I still am not. It was very emotional when the nurses came in to confirm to us that he was gone. Lots of tears, lots of hugging as we tried our best to support each other. After everyone left the room, I sat with him for awhile longer, just telling him one final time how much I loved him and how much having him in my life had meant to me. I gathered up some of his personal things, I had taken -- a stuffed animal one of my co-workers had sent, a "Krusty the Clown" toy I had taped to his bedframe, so that he would have something familiar to keep him company. With most of the machines off, it was dark and quiet in the room. The only light from the nurses station just outside the door, and the small Christmas tree I had brought to cheer him up. He loved watching the ebb and flow of the colored lights. it seemed to calm him. Over the years that I'd known him, Lionel frequently had trouble sleeping, due to pain, illness, having a lot on his mind...and frequent nightmares. Sometimes, i would go into the room and see he was in the throes of a frightening nightmare. Trying not to startle him or awaken him too abruptly, I would stroke him on his arm, talk to him soothingly, kiss him, on the forehead, and reassure him it was just a bad dream. Sometimes, he would awaken and smile, drowsily trying to describe his nightmare. Frequently he said he was being chased and had flown into the air...then suddenly remembered that he shouldn't be able to fly. I'd sit with him, until his eyelids started getting heavy again. I would stroke his forehead and we would talk quietly until he started to fall asleep again. Other times, he never awakened, so I would talk to him gently until I saw his his furrowed brow slowly relax. I'd know then, that the nightmare was over and he was sleeping peacefully. While waiting for that to happen, I would keep murmuring to him, "You're fine now...safe and cozy." Over time, that also became our little ritual, the last thing I'd say to him each night. After helping him let out his bed, making sure our front door was locked, the lights were out, his television remote was nearby and he was tucked in comfortably, and before heading into my bedroom myself to retire, I would say, "Here we are, safe and cozy." And, each night he would reply "Yeah, safe and cozy...." and smile, sleepily. Before leaving his hospital room that final night, I leaned over, kissed him one last time, and murmured, our parting words, "Safe and cozy, Lionel." He was no longer suffering. I'd like to think that he was at peace.

Christmas Shopping

In just a few weeks, it will have been two years since Lionel died. Yet, I'm still catching myself making mental notes of things that would make good Christmas presents for him. Things he would like. It happened just now, when I saw something that would have made him happy...and it's too late to give it to him.

Early morning. It's still dark outside, and raining. Sometimes, it sneaks up on me. I get up to go to the bathroom and it is not him snoring softly in the darkened living room. I still expect to see him. Cutting his hair in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with his noisy, battery-powered toothbrush (still in the medicine cabinet because I can't bear to throw it away.) Still hear him puttering around in our tiny kitchen, fixing breakfast, grilling cheese sandwiches, cooking those smelly crabs. See him, reading the newspaper, glasses sliding half down his nose. Still hear him cussing the Redskins on t.V., arguing with his younger brothers on the phone - then laughing about it. Ironing his clothes in the precise, post-military, fashion. Singing along with music videos in his off-key way. Cackling at cartoons in the middle of the night. Admonishing me to "Fix your collar." Going downstairs to check for the mail. Happy because he found a cigarette he'd forgotten he had. Fussing about too many commercials. Mixing his orange juice and vodka with that casual satisfaction. Calling me, interrupting rehearsals, to see what time I'd be home. Stopping to talk to every dog we encountered and every baby rolling by in a stroller, as he walked me to work. Or sitting outside my job on the wall grinning, waiting for me when I finally got off. Cramming all his clothes in one washer and dryer to save the extra change for a beer. I forget. Then, I remember. I forget. Then... I remember.

I don't post updates here as often...

...not because I no longer think of Lionel, or because I have "accepted" his death. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Everyone said it would get easier with the passage of time...but it hasn't. It is just as hard. I don't write in the blog because it is painful to even see it. I wouldn't dare go back and read over any of it. That would just be like reliving the whole experience and I do enough of that as it is. For a while now, I've been keeping myself very busy, stupid busy, because I know that, as soon as the motion stops, as soon as it gets still or quiet, my heart and mind go instantly back to what I spend so much time and energy trying to avoid. Early on, in the hospital, before I realized what was actually happening, I took some photos and video of Lionel on my cellphone...mainly because, after his many previous hospitalizations, once he had recovered and come home, he found it fascinating to see what he looked like in the hospital and I think he got a certain sense of relief from seeing how far he had progressed from how bad his condition had been. It let him know that he had, indeed recovered. Of course, this time, he never recovered. And one day, looking for something else on my phone, I stumbled across a short video of him, there in is hospital bed. It was devastating, like having a brick wall fall on me. I was plunged into a deep depression from which it took days for me to emerge. And yet, I didn't delete the photos and videos. I can't. Just like I haven't taken his name off the mailbox in the lobby of our apartment, or his name off our outgoing phone message. That would have a type of finality that I still cannot face. I have a bad habit of saving old voicemails...and everyone of his that happened to be on my phone when he got sick is still there. Sometimes, I will listen to a couple of them, just to hear his voice, saying normal things like reminding me to stop at the store on the way home, or asking what I wanted for dinner. Even the one angry message he left when he was worried about me being out so late at rehearsal, is oddly comforting. The ones he left when he was sick, sad, or feeling bad are heartbreaking. The apartment still looks pretty much the same as when he left. Some of his favorite shirts are now hanging with my things in the closet. I notice them, unexpectedly sometimes, and my heart gives a little leap. I'm not alone, a friend is staying with me, but he does not disturb any of Lionel's things, including his toothbrush and other items still in the medicine cabinet. Today, I started to exploring my transportation options for finally going down to the military cemetery in Quantico, VA where Lionel is buried. I was wondering how I would be able to find his grave among the many, when it occurred to me that they must have a website. Sure enough, they did and the search function made it easy to find information on Lionel. What I did not expect was to find a photo of his gravestone. It was heartbreaking to see...and yet I was glad to see it, if that makes any sense. Apparently, they have volunteers who take and post photos of gravesites for the loved ones who cannot travel to visit in person. The photo of Lionel's grave was probably posted shortly after he was buried. There is no grass around it. It seems unbelievable that it has taken me this long to go looking for this information. But maybe I wasn't ready to see it yet. But now, ready or not, I have. I was even able to pay a fee and sponsor his memorial website, which removed the miscellaneous ads and enabled me to post a photo of him, as well. That was oddly comforting, even though I know that it is only symbolic and that he is no more there in that grave than he is anywhere else. And yet, at the same time, he is everywhere. And so it goes....