Epilogue
Photo by Yen Feng
Last words
The first sentence Rusty said to me was: ”I’m sorry I didn’t have time to shave, I came straight from the airport. I’m Rusty.” That was how our first date began.
Before Rusty was diagnosed with melanoma, a deadly form of skin cancer, his adult life was a dizzying rush of parties and meetings. He left his size-11 footprint in over 50 countries. He lived in seven of them, among them Germany, Korea and Benin, and he spoke six different languages.
Most of the time, he lived out of a suitcase, packed with plane tickets, appointment books and cell phones. He drank a bottle of red wine every night. “Chilean, cheap and good,” he’d say. He clubbed hopped in Paris, Tokyo, and Sao Paolo; he shopped at Hugo and Paul Smith. He lived life like a meteor. It was dazzling, seductive, and awesome.
And like a meteor, Rusty’s life gave out before we were ready to let go.
In the last three years, Rusty fought a valiant battle against his disease. In the first month of his diagnosis, we consulted five melanoma oncologists, four of whom advised that it was time to “put his affairs in order.”
As partners, we rejected the dispassionate medical opinions and focused our energies on the positive. Hope was always at hand. Passion gave us the muscle to keep fighting. Love was our fuel. Even in our darkest hours, we took comfort in the light that was to be our future at the end of the tunnel.
His battle was our marathon, and together we strived for the finishing line.
Rusty may have left the race prematurely, but his love for me lives on, through his family, through his friends, and through me. This is the greatest gift he left me, and it may be the greatest gift anyone can hope to give. His love endures, and as I grieve his death, I am kept afloat by it.
Our love was brief, torrential, steadfast, and tender.
I will always remember the arch of his brow, the same that frowned and delighted at my teasing. I will always remember the color of his hair, the color of sun-soaked wheat in an open field. His eyes, deep pools of forest and earth. His laugh, like a river. His kiss, like a cloud.
Most of all, I will remember his touch. The hands that nestled my hair when we woke in the mornings, the hands that clutched my body in the orchard as we stood in the spring rain, the same hands that would search for mine in bed, even in the deep stupor of sleep.
Rusty’s last words were of love. He told his mother he loved her, and then said to me: “I love you,” and blew me two kisses before falling asleep. He hadn’t shaved, and neither had I.
Good night, my sweet prince. You are my hero, and you will always be loved.
May 19th, 2007 at 9:38 am
I am glad to have met this awesome man in your life, even if it was for that one time. Let this amazing love flow on in your life and all those around you who once knew and loved this man for who he was and what he might have become.
Hugz & Kizzes.
May 19th, 2007 at 10:47 am
I met Rusty once too - he shook my hand in your apartment in the Village and my hand wilted from the strength of his shake. But I knew him through your stories and I looked up to you both as pillars of strength, love and hope. I’m glad he went peacefully in his sleep, and that his last words were that he loves you. My thoughts are with you.
May 19th, 2007 at 11:06 am
I just heard the bells ring at the church on the corner near my house. I thought of him and of you.
Peace.
May 19th, 2007 at 10:49 pm
A stroll on the curved path by the lake
In misty rain
My clothes weigh a little heavier
Kuo Mo-Jo
May 19th, 2007 at 11:40 pm
Bless you, Yen. You will always have Jesse’s love and mine as well.
May 20th, 2007 at 1:13 am
Thank you everyone who came to the service today. It was incredibly touching to have you all there; for some, it was a great privilege to meet y’all for the first time. Helen, thank you.
May 21st, 2007 at 12:25 pm
beautiful
May 21st, 2007 at 8:47 pm
This is Sze’s friend who kept running into you at various locations in Singapore. I stumbled across your blog… and dear Yen, I am so sorry for your loss.
May 22nd, 2007 at 2:16 am
I could not be there FOR the service, but in my own heart and space, I was there in spirit.
May peace and blessings flow over you now Yen. And my thoughts and prayers are with you.
(HUGE bear hug) ….b
May 22nd, 2007 at 11:52 am
Wish I were there. Do take care. Hugz…
May 22nd, 2007 at 1:35 pm
Reading this, I finally understand why this blog is called Two Lucky.
Thank you for sharing this journey with us. It has touched me and taught me a few things about love and life. Take care, Yen.
May 23rd, 2007 at 4:52 am
*hugs
Take care lad.
May 23rd, 2007 at 8:43 am
My thoughts are with you… Be OK, my friend… Hugs…
May 23rd, 2007 at 8:46 am
Hugs. That was beautifully written.
Jesse certainly lived a full ten lifetimes - and I think the best all the rest of us can do is to continue trying to get as much out of every single day as he did. The man is an inspiration.
May 23rd, 2007 at 8:48 am
Sorry on your lost. Be strong!! Take care.
May 23rd, 2007 at 10:12 pm
Both of you are an inspiration.
Take care.
May 23rd, 2007 at 11:12 pm
My condolences. He’s left you a lot to treasure him by.
July 23rd, 2007 at 4:37 pm
From all of Rusty’s stagemates (Peace Corps Benin 96-98), our deepest sympathies.
Although we spent only one year together as a group, we all envied his energy, his spirit, his lust for life, and his abillity to be “bien integré”. He is always an inspiration.
Edabo, Jay-mes et bon voyage.
Mary Kelly, Holly, Susan, Pallotta, Trashy, Spej, the J-boys (Jed, John, Jeff and Jay) & Doog; Mike, Trish, Phyllis, Jason, Sam, Molly, Deb, and the co-creator of Crackhouse Christman, Andrew.
August 18th, 2007 at 12:15 pm
[…] It seems daunting, if not impossible, to search for inner peace in the wake of your lover’s death, but I’ve come to understand that peace is unequivocally necessary, and fundamental for a person to truly honor the dead. That his death does not blind me to the love and beauty of life; in fact, it should increase my awareness of it, and give me the courage to seek it. I was lucky to have found Jesse; his life was a gift to me, and that gift, like his love, is immutable, even in death. […]