Nahala -- One Year

One year has passed; all four seasons.

One year ago October 22nd was a balmy 80 degree day in Cleveland. Funny how Michael lost the ability to feel the temperature sometime during that summer and ran around in that same sweater (or OSU sweatshirt) regardless of how warm it was outside.

Michael lived only to make sure I was okay. He lived to make me breakfast, to keep me company, to make sure I was able to move through the pain of losing my job; to find another; to regain a sense of purpose. He said so. He was good company. At times it was joyful; at times excruciating. His life was about doing things that he felt would make me happy. He loved me dearly.

Eventually, I found a wonderful job in Washington DC with the American Chemical Society. I was to start work in early November. We were both excited for the opportunity, for the adventure, for life in a new place. He was truly excited for me. He seemed excited too, except that he'd grown increasingly uncommunicative as October progressed. He had grown tired and was experiencing some pretty severe memory loss and functionality. I was concerned for him. We talked about not taking the job. He insisted that he, in fact we, would be fine and we'd have a great time in DC.

One year ago October 22nd I was leaving the U-Street Corridor where I was visiting my apartment that I had rented -- sight unseen -- for the first year. It was an even hotter day in DC. The miles seemed to stretch longer as the drive back to Ohio proceeded with no communication from Michael. It could have been normal -- there was a dog walking, a vet appointment for Orange, teaching two classes, maybe lunch with Tom from Fairhill Center. But around 4 p.m., with no word since the going to bed the night before, remembering the eerie sound in his voice (a sound that I had never heard before) the heaviness of dread settled in. Like the time of his first suicide attempt in May 2004, I steadied myself for what might be next.

I knew what those minutes of calling 911 would be like. I knew when I found him, it would be his last emergency trip to the doctor...yes, this time would be his last. In the past four years, there had been ten emergency room visits with him psychotic and/or suicidal. This time would be his last. This time it would be a trip to the doctors at the county coroner's office. I didn't know how I would find him, where he would be, what I would do...after. But I did know how it would feel to make the call. It was too late to do anything but let him go. This was the time everything would change.

I know that in this life, there are two things: love and loss. That had become abundantly clear to me over the last few years; in the time of loving and caring for Michael. I believe that we have the great opportunity to love and the responsibility to understand the impermanence of life. Nothing we love will be the way it is forever. Everything; everyone breaks down, moves, changes, and the living do eventually die. Even lifelong friendships, loves and family ties end in death.

What I learned about life is that there are some events that are the catalyst to making everything change. What I learned about friends is that they have an astounding ability to rally around you. What I learned about myself is that it is essential that I celebrate life; that I invest fully in life and the living because life is often much too short. What I learned about my place in this world is to keep my eyes and my heart open for its infinite possibilities and beauty.

Tonight, Michael's Yartzeit (or nahala in Ladino for the Sephardic Jews like my family) I meet with Cleveland friends over dinner to celebrate the struggle of life and the continuation of love. Saturday, October 25th is Michael's birthday. That evening I will celebrate my new home with my Columbus friends. We will celebrate each other, enjoy good food, raise a toast to our joy; to Michael's joy.

I feel as though my new life is the legacy to that joy.

How am I different? Everything has changed.

What I know is simply what is now.