A Triptych: Men, lost and found (cont'd)

Hill Two, Joe

Despite the ending, our story was a beautiful one.

I met Joe when I was 14 and I loved him by the time I turned 15. He placed the earphones of his walkman over my ears so I could listen to Puff Daddy’s first single, Can’t Nobody Hold Me Down, while we stood outside the BB&N ice rink, and everything about him felt kind, warm, hopeful. Joe was ingrained in our small family’s fabric as we both headed off to different colleges. I have more memories that include him than memories that don’t.

I know nothing of fighting in wars. But I do know experiencing the most terrifying of circumstances with others binds you to them for life.  Maia, Joe, and I sat in our muddy trench, bombs exploding overhead, passing a cigarette between us. As we held vigil in my mom’s room, night after night, our band of brothers was formed.  We alone watched our mother deteriorate. We alone knew the hard questions, the devastating answers; it was like I was trying desperately to hold water in my cupped hands. I knew it would inevitably all slip through. And Joe held his hands under mine, not because he knew he could stop the unavoidable, but so that we would experience the loss together. In the tumultuous and trying years that followed our mother’s death, Maia, Joe, and I knew that there was one thing that could have made the entire situation intolerable: if we had for some reason been forced to go through it all alone.

I don't think I ever admitted to Joe how much I learned from him throughout our time together because I was too proud and I get uncomfortable having to lavish praise on people.  But I know that some of the lessons I learned from him are the reason I was able to survive losing my mom, and (ironically) losing him. Joe was an unusual case. Someone who could be candid with his emotions while retaining fiercely masculine traits and behaviors; an anomaly, and a difficult feat in a world that places so much pressure on men to provide but not feel. And for me, being raised by a mother who never allowed herself to get too emotional or to discuss her feelings (at least not to her children), Joe’s candidness, after years and years, wore off. He wouldn’t let me get away with unjustified or unexplained anger or sadness as my mother often got away with. Most importantly, he forced me to be accountable for those emotions. It seems simple and obvious, but once I took accountability, I realized I had more control than I ever had while sweeping those feelings aside.

Joe was adept at playing devil’s advocate; he understood how to challenge me so that I could better understand my values. But when my mom got sick, he knew when to offer advice delicately, and when to just offer silence. The last few days of my mom’s life were spent in hospice, in an old colonial mansion, surrounded by an ice-covered forest. She was not awake. Our last true words had already been exchanged. Over the previous few months, mom and I had gotten sucked into watching my absolute favorite show of all time, Gilmore Girls. The series had reached a climax right around the time we started watching together: Rory and Lorelai, daughter and mother, had finally reunited after an uncharacteristic time apart.  Unfortunately we started missing episodes after her health took its final turn. Joe bought me all the DVDs, so we had the show on constantly while in that old white house, waiting for my mom’s last breath. Late one evening I was sitting in a rocking chair in her room, in the dark, half-watching Gilmore Girls, half-watching my mom’s body, and waiting. The waiting blended everything together during those weeks. My memories from that time are like a recollection of a dreamscape, not reality. Food had no taste. Meals were forced and I was never sated. And Joe was always there, in the background, trying to take care of me so I could take care of my mom.

That evening he had slipped out to run some errands and I barely acknowledged his departure. He returned to the darkness quietly and placed a paper bag in my lap. I looked up at him, and he smiled “pumpkin loaf!” Endlessly enthusiastic. I broke off a small corner and put it in my mouth. And cried. It tasted so good. He then handed me a chocolate milk which I took and drank like a thirsty child. He held my hand as tears streamed into my lap.

Joe had always easily understood what made me happy, but during that time when happiness wasn’t an achievable end goal, he understood what brought me comfort. Moments we never spoke of again but that are invisibly seared into our flesh. So I guess that is why, despite the tragic end of our partnership, our story is one that must continue. Awkwardly at times, but written with forgiveness in our hearts and a lightness in knowing the worst has passed.

Exhausted, I reach Hill Three, Roy.