Two Lucky

Week in review 

It’s been four nights since I returned to New York, and I’ve done everything I can to keep my mind from Rusty - going out to bars, eyeing and flirting with men all night, drinking and smoking myself into a torrid coma until there’s just enough time in the day to get ready for the night.

In the heady heat of New York City’s limitless summer partying, I feel as if I’ve finally climbed out of the proverbial pit. I’m no longer crying every night. I don’t have the feeling of being overwhelmed. Yes, I still think about Rusty, but my grief comes in ripples instead of waves. Am I on track in the stages of grieving, or is this another beguiling calm before a terrible storm?

Whichever it is, I decide, like every other New Yorker, to simply live in the moment. For now, to be drained physically - rather than emotionally - every night when I go to bed is preferable, and certainly a lot less confusing. I don’t want to keep processing. I want to be strong and accomplish things. I’ve always been a quick study, excelled others in my academic and professional lives; in my own grief management, I want to apply this same ethic and hold myself up to the same expectations.

But at the back of my mind, I keep thinking about last week when I spent five days in Virginia with Rusty’s mom. I see myself sitting out on Peggy’s front porch, cradling my knees and staring out into the woods. I see myself in Rusty’s bed, eyes to the ceiling trying to make his face out in the dark. I hear myself sniffling, my strength suddenly, mysteriously submerged in quiet weeping.

In the country, there is no agenda to distract you. Life is a list of chores and the great wide fields, impenetrable forests and swimming holes to dip in. Cities are different. To experience life here is to expect the provocative tease of single men, hip new restaurants and the latest clubs to be seen at. 

And New York, is the capital of cities. The city of all cities, Manhattan is so electrically alive it jolts its inhabitants into action, to keep moving. The mating ritual is frenzied, compressed. There is always one more drink to down, one more bar still open. Of course, taking a bite of the Big Apple is no sin, but I can’t help but wonder: When I finally stand still, and the partying is over, will my grief come back in full force; will I have bitten off more than I can chew?

The sun felt good on my skin. That was my first thought. We were driving up to visit Rusty at the grave site. I had just spent the week with Rusty’s mom Peggy in Virginia, in the house he had grown up in. I slept in his old room, in his old bed. In a few hours I would be on the train back to New York. 

In my head I wondered if I would be able to keep it together. After a week in a house filled with memories of his life, I was feeling tired, drained from crying and not sleeping. The sun felt good. I clung to that thought.

The truck stopped. I got off. Peggy drove off. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” I had told her earlier. There wasn’t time to brace myself. I started crying again even before I reached the grave. I sat down next to him. I collected myself.

“Hey stud, how’s it going?” I smiled.

I brought with me some of Rusty’s favorite comestibles. Nachos from 7-Eleven. Cheez Whiz. Fiji water. I lit up a Parliament Light and put it in the ground, like an incense. I lit up another for myself.

In the noon heat I talked to Rusty as I would if he were alive. I told him about my upcoming trip to Singapore to see my parents. How I sat outside on our apartment’s fire escape for the first time last week. How the New York boys were beginning to strut the streets in the summer heat.

Being physically there with him, even though he wasn’t physically there, made me happy. I knew he was, too. He was right here. I lay down. I could feel his body on mine. I caressed the grass as I would his hair. I touched the headstone as I would his face. In the vast, open field of graves there were no other but the two of us. The sun is shining strong. He always loved the sun.

As our cigarettes burned down, the truck pulls up. I pull myself together. I sat up and said my goodbye. It was time to go.

It’s again that time of night when my head bgins to clear. I’ve had more than a little to drink, and probably too many cigarettes to count. With only a few more hours to daylight, I wonder how many more nights I will have in this apartment.

Here I am, sitting on the bar stool, typing away on the kitchen countertop. “Tippity-tap, tippity-tap,” Rusty used to say when he got annoyed I spent so much time on the computer. That was my cue to walk over and give him a kiss.

I light another. There he is, sitting in his chair, by the window. Ever so often, I turn around and look at him. He winks at me. I don’t think I will ever forget his wink.

A conversation I had with Asha yesterday got me thinking about my memory of Rusty. She said the human mind is capable of remembering only 1/100 per cent of our lives. “Probably even less. Much less. Memory is so selective; plus, how do we even know if it’s accurate?”

As the years pass, will my bank of memories with Rusty slowly diminish? Will I begin to distill my memories and idealise our relationship as the ultimate standard of love?

I feel no directive from my emotional clock to find another man, no impulse to forge new memories. Rusty is dead, but I still love him. I am still in love with him. I am not yet ready to forget. But how long will old memories sustain me?

Can another man love me, knowing he will never quite fill this hollow completely? Will I ever be able to love again completely? When one person loses the love of his life, can that really be replaced?

New York City is truly beautiful in the morning. It’s a time when the city stirs from its hangover, starts to rouse into activity. I stayed up all night watching old re-runs of Sex In The City, and just when the sun began to peek, I climbed out onto my fire escape to watch the light come on.

It’s the first time I’m out on the fire escape in my apartment. Watching my street begin to people, the spring air coming to life, I immediately fall in love with the city again. The promise of morning is intoxicating. It’s the time of day when life begins again. The night is put away. How amazing that we can live to see another sun rise, to be given a chance to start anew, an opportunity to see ourselves in a new light.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear impatient cars in traffic. A man in a suit walks under me. Across the street, an old woman drags her labrador from the fire hydrant. The garbage truck is on its way. I love New York!

Cigarette in hand, I can’t help but think how much my life has changed. In these past few years, the city has watched me grow from a shy, earnest young boy from Singapore into a sassy, confident young man. It split open my core and insisted I challenge what I thought I knew. It gave me my one great love, and a home to call our own.

Above all, in the mess of living, it gave me my voice. The voice I know to be unflinchingly honest, important, and true.

That’s the beauty of New York City. In its daily cacophony, we all strive a little harder to locate that one voice within us we know to be ours. Knowing who you are, what you stand for - it’s what gives us strength and hope. So no matter what the night brings, we can still wake in the morning believing in the promise of tomorrow.

Week in review 

It’s true what people say about a man dying. First, your appetite goes. Then, your body. It starts to shut down; the senses leave you. The heart stops.

I don’t remember a specific moment when I believed Rusty was going to die, though in retrospect that seems irresponsible. It was obvious to anyone who looked at him. In the last weeks, he had lost so much weight his face was carved bone. He was in a wheelchair. He couldn’t climb stairs.

But I never saw it. In my mind I kept waiting for the good news that would set us free from this disease. In my head I imagined how we would react when the doctors tell us the cancer had shrunk. We would hug, our crying heads buried in our bodies, then go on a long trip to celebrate. It would be a life suffused with new hope and expectancy. I imagine that’s what the phrase means, a new lease on life.

That never happened. Instead, with each monthly scan I saw my lover’s body slump into dejection, his spirit expiring. Hope waned as our numbers became increasingly dire.

But we kept what little hope we had close, and believed fervently in our future. After years of being terrorized with fear, all we wanted was a peaceful life together, away from the hospitals and their needles. So, we fought back. At each bad turn, we armed ourselves with research and resolve. We battled with vigilance and pride. Rusty and I were not used to losing. The core of our strength was our partnership, a mutual belief that having beaten the odds in our personal lives, we would be able to apply that principle to beating cancer. 

In fact, one might even argue the odds were in our favor. We had the intelligence to seek out the best doctors and weigh the effectiveness of different treatment options, the money to pay for them, and at the end of the day, love as our buoy in this sea of uncertainty.  

On the day he died, Rusty still wanted to live. He said to me at the hospital, “I’ll stay one more night, get better, and then we’ll go home, ok?” I nodded. “We’ll go home tomorrow,” I said.

I don’t think we ever stopped believing. In his last sleep, I think Rusty still expected to wake up. He would smile, wink his exaggerated wink at me, then ask if I would bring him some tea. We would go home. I would sit next to him while we held hands and watched TV. Soon, we would fall asleep. A new day would start.

I haven’t stopped believing. In my mind, I know he is dead. But in my heart, he is alive as he was the first day I met him. He is still my man. I still worry about him. I wonder if he’s thirsty, if anyone is bringing him his tea. In my sleep I call out for him. His toothbrush is still by the bathroom sink. His T-shirts have been cleaned, folded, and put in his closet. I feel him with me, inside me, when I am alone, or with friends.

My love is stronger with each passing day of his death. As I acquaint myself with grief, I discover new depths of our love. Now that the daily rituals of medicine are over, there is time to live in the thick of my sadness. My sadness began when he was diagnosed, became stronger as we loved each other. And now, I must learn to cherish this sadness as an expression of our love.

Dad,

Please do not be angry. I know you want me to come home. I am not trying to upset you. I am trying to communicate with you as best I can.

You can take your time to figure things out, but the outcome will only be one: You have to carry on with your life without Rusty.

I know this. Rusty was sick for so long. But knowing this intellectually, and knowing this emotionally is quite different. He has just died, Dad. I am not worried about “carrying on”. I am just grieving.

The longer you stay in NY, the weaker you become, the harder for you to think rationally.

It is difficult to be here, by myself. In this apartment, I think of Rusty all the time. That is why I considered returning to Singapore in August. But now I think differently. I am thinking rationally.

I need time to make peace with Rusty’s death here. This city is where I came out as a gay person. It is where I met Rusty. It is where we fell in love. We shared a home here. He died here, in my arms. 

New York is my home. Singapore is my home, too. My family is there. You and Mom are there. But Rusty was not just a boyfriend. We were going to get married. We wanted children. We wanted to spend the rest of our lives together.

I am not running away from anything by choosing to stay. I am choosing to face my grief. It is something I must go through alone. I will come home to Singapore. Give me time.

You have your family, family must always come first. Next is your work and career. Relationship is the third. It sounds like you have made Relationship your priority.

My priority is my life. I am my own man. I must weigh every factor - you, Mom, my career, my emotional health, Rusty, his family, et cetera - to decide my next step.

You will see me in Singapore soon. I plan to start work at the end of the year. But right now, these next few months, will be all I have of New York and of our home. Rusty was my husband. I love him so much, and so dearly. I am not yet ready to leave.

I have always advised you to be strong in any kind of circumstances. Setbacks and trauma can break a man, or make him stronger and smarter. Which is it going to be for you? You are a smart boy, you can figure it out, but don’t take too long, ok?

Do not worry. I will not be broken by this. I have always been strong, and will continue to be. But, as I said, Rusty just died, Dad. Even those who are strong, when hurt, need time to recover.

Rusty loved me more than anyone, more than anything. At his funeral, I was his grieving husband. I picked out his casket. I put him into the ground. I am handling his financial documents. I am replying to the cards and flowers we received.

You have lost a father, a mother, and a brother. But it is not the same as losing your lover, your partner, your best friend. Our grief is the same, but different. Please know that I am trying my best.

Even though my journey has just begun, I am already terrified at what everything means. I second-guess my emotions often; I feel, and wonder why I feel, wonder if (and when) I will feel differently, and why, and if I want it to be different.

I cling, almost desperately, to details - his smell, the feel of his hair, the way he says certain words, like “It’s so nice,” when the sun is out. I say it out loud: “It’s so nice,” and try to hear his voice instead of my own. “It’s so nice,” I say. “It’s so nice.” I cry, but I am comforted. I am both sad, and happy. I am proud to grieve for my husband.

I don’t want to be “normal.” What does “moving on” mean? I am fine as I am. These tears, these moments of grieving keep me anchored to my love. Eventually, life will go on. I cannot stop time. Nature will do its work, but this, this remembering, I have control over.

In Montreal, it is everything I imagined. I take walks with my aunt and help my cousin with his school work. In the evening, we sit in the yard and enjoy a good bottle of wine. Dinner is always rich with a delicious spread of cheeses au lait cru. My French has improved leaps and bounds in the four days I’ve been here.

I have also been crying every day and every night. I dream of Rusty all the time. Letting out my sadness has been good for me. With my aunt, I am a child again. I don’t feel the pressure to be strong. When I speak of my grief, she understands me perfectly.

But I am ready to go home. In a few hours I will be on my way to the airport. I am beginning to miss the apartment and the familiarity of our home. I miss Rusty, too. It’s silly, I know, but a part of me still thinks he’s there, waiting for me to come home.

I ran into Rusty again last night. I was at an airport, waiting to board a flight (Where was I going?). I was still on the phone when I saw him. He sat about 10ft from me, flanked by three friends. Monte, whom I’ve met, and two Korean businessmen. They were all in suits. They were all smiling, but Rusty seemed to be the most animated. He was laughing. It was this laughing face I saw, except it was not exactly the face I knew. It took me only a moment to realise this was Rusty when he was younger. His face was fuller, brighter. He had an easy slouch untouched by the weight of sickness. He was in his mid-20s.

On the phone, I told my friend of my amazing discovery. I stood up and walked over. As I approached, our eyes met, though his registered no recognition. He hasn’t met me yet, I thought, bewildered. I watched him track my movement toward the group. He was expectant, with a slight twinkling in his eyes, and a little embarrassment; it was a look I knew from our first date.

It was then, right before we put out our hands to say hello, when I found myself in my seat again 10ft away from my young lover. I looked across, and there was Monte and the two Korean businessmen, but next to them was a man I had never in my life seen before.