The last picture of the three of us was taken in Fairfield at the
end of October. The Death Cab show was outside in Napa, having been postponed
due to Covid. It was during the weekend of the big “atmospheric river” storm in
Northern California. Nothing went well that weekend. You had actually tried to
get out of coming because of the weather, but we talked you into it. I was sick,
Beth was stressed out about stuff with her business, and you didn’t seem like
yourself. Your hugs had gotten distant and kind of watery. The weather sucked,
the parking sucked, the walk to the amphitheater sucked, the Home Depot rain
ponchos sucked. I came very close to having my cell phone plummet into a porta
potty. The band cut their set short by about 6-7 songs because of the weather.
Everywhere in Napa was outrageously expensive, so we stayed in Fairfield, and
the place wasn’t very nice. Things just didn’t come together as they usually did
for the 3 of us. We had breakfast the next morning, and we all drove home in a
monsoon. It was a scary drive home, I don’t think I drove over 40 because we
Californians aren’t used to rain like that. We had some good moments, but it
really wasn’t as fun as it usually was for us, and that bums me out since it was
the last time. But I didn’t know it was the last time.
So being the big planning
freak I am, I made new plans. I found an incredible Airbnb in Mill Valley, a
gorgeous mid-century home on the top of a mountain, with a view of San
Francisco. I chose that place because I knew it was an aesthetic that you
appreciated, I literally had you in mind. We agreed on the weekend in March.
This is so sappy and dumb, but there is this VRBO commercial that shows people
arriving at their rentals and Kermit the Frog is singing happily, “Now I’m here,
now you’re here, nothing can go wrong because I’m right where I belong!” It’s so
hopeful and cheerful and sweet and when I was anticipating our next trip, that
stupid commercial made me so happy. But about a week before, our communications
got odd. You were dealing with way more than what we knew at the time, but in a
group text in which I thought we told each other everything, you lashed out at
me. I was trying to talk you out of a bad decision as we always had for one
another, and out of nowhere, you said F next weekend, and some other things that
sounded NOTHING like you. I was beyond hurt but mostly shocked. A couple days
later you apologized, but it still didn’t sound like you, you said you were
sorry that you were rude. That wasn’t “rude”, it was irrational and hostile and
I still didn’t understand. I told you I had spent most of the day before
thinking that you might have hurt yourself. Soon after, you sent me an assurance
that read in part “I want to put your mind at ease about the suicide issue”. As
the days progressed, we tried to convince you to come on our trip, but you
declined, or just didn’t directly respond. Beth and I went anyway, and bonded in
a way we hadn’t in years, connected in our major concern for you and your
bitterness that didn’t seem to have an end. We knew you’d had a tough second
divorce and some other complications, but those were wrapping up and we thought
there was a light at the end of that tunnel. We were wrong. But we ate and hiked
and saw a beautiful waterfall, complete with a Bench in The Wild (Beth will
understand). We kept trying, but it seemed you were in the depths, so we both
gave you some space. I’d still check in from time to time and say I was worried
and you’d say “Oh, no. Don’t be worried.” Even in text it sounded stilted and
not anything like the person I knew. You reached out the Thursday before Easter,
saying you missed talking. We both immediately responded, we loved you, we were
worried about you, and that you needed to be honest with us and let us know what
was up! We joked a little. When I told you I’d walked 92 miles on my new
treadmill, you said “today??” and you made me laugh as you always did.
I
understand now that you couldn’t let us know what was going on with you. It was
too painful for you to admit that you were in that bad of a place, and I KNOW
you never wanted to worry us. I can’t imagine the darkness that must have
permeated every part of your heart and mind. I can’t imagine it because you
didn’t share it with us, and that hurts. The little bit that you did share
alarmed the hell out of us, and I know that’s why you didn’t elaborate or go
into the really desolate thoughts you were having. We would never judge you, we
only wanted to love and help you. By the time you couldn’t hide it from us
anymore, I think it might have been too late. The hole you were in was so deep
that you couldn’t see the light at the top anymore and no amount of dedication,
love, or logic was going to pull you out or make you change your mind. When I
think about those final days of yours, my heart just cracks. I hate to think of
you in pain, my beautiful friend who was so loyal, and SO incredibly funny. You
were the one who introduced me to school psychology. You were the one of the
ones I would tell everything to, and you gave the best advice. You made me laugh
my ass off for 31 years, dude! Where did that person go, and when did that
person leave? The tormented person wasn’t you…I don’t know when the shift
happened, although I know the last two years were particularly hard.
Strangely
enough, even though this was my biggest fear, when I got the message from your
sister to call her, I thought you’d just be in the hospital. I really did. I was
in an IEP on Zoom when I got the message and I excused myself to call. She told
me you’d died. And it is truly a trippy experience when you receive news like
that…something so incomprehensible and unreal. I don’t remember a lot about the
rest of the conversation…I asked about your dad and your daughter. I didn’t
understand that you’d just been found that morning. I started to shake, I told
my sweet coworker who hugged me, and I drove home to tell Mike. He was in the
garage as I pulled in, and he asked why I was home early because he knew I had
an afternoon meeting. “Lesli killed herself.” I don’t think I will ever forget
the look on HIS face for the rest of my life. Just total shock and horror, and
he said, “Oh BABE! Oh no.” and rushed to hug me. You were in my life longer than
he has been, more than half my life. He knew who you were to me. Then I had to
call Beth and tell her, and I have to admit that I’m going to have a hard time
getting over having to do that. That was one of the hardest things I have ever
done, and I’ve had to do some hard things.
The next morning, I was doing the
dishes and listening to music on shuffle, I have hundreds of songs. These were
the four that came on in a row: Save it for Later by the English Beat…that was
one of your favorite songs by them and we had seen them a few years back and it
represents so much carefree fun we’d had over the years. The next was You’re My
Best Friend by Queen. Self-explanatory. The next was Wish You Were Here by Pink
Floyd. By that time, I was crying at the sink and I remember saying out loud to
the empty kitchen, “Really???” The last song was Surrender and Certainty by
Sarah McLachlan, who we had also seen in Berkeley. A snippet of lyrics: “smooth
stones down by the waterside, give in to ebb and flow. Collide in blindness,
embrace and part, no fear of letting go. There’s no fight to get ahead, nowhere
that they’d rather be. Safe in the arms of surrender and certainty, caught in a
moment, and sure they’ll be carried. Take me back down to the water to feel that
sure of anything.” I heard you dude. Loud and clear. We had so much fun
together, we were best friends, you were going to miss us, but you truly felt
like you had to let go.
The day before your burial last week, Beth and I were getting ready to leave my house, but a little red headed finch (?) got into our garage and wouldn’t fly out. We opened all the garage doors and the side door, but he just flew around in circles and wouldn’t leave. Finally Mike told us to go, he’d take of it because he knew we had a long drive. Later I asked if he’d gotten the bird out and he said “yep, as soon as you guys drove away, he flew away.” So that was you. You wanted to be present, and maybe delay our sad drive? Once in Fresno, we helped your beautiful girl pick out
something to wear, and I helped tie up the back. The service was really lovely,
there were maybe 12 of us? We were asked for a couple songs to be played and we chose Angel by Jimi Hendrix and Transatlanticism by Death Cab. The pastor did a beautiful job, I was worried he
would shy away from the reality of what had happened, but he didn’t. He spoke
about mental health and depression and suicide. He assured us you had been
suffering but you weren’t anymore, and that was very comforting. We all cried
and most of us spoke. Before we left, I went up alone and touched your casket
and said goodbye to you. I took a rose, I think we all did. I have a picture of
your casket covered with those roses, but I won’t post that. I think I just
needed to take it to remind myself that this is real.
You were always supposed
to be here but now you’re gone. No amount of reading back over texts or
replaying conversations will change that. This kind of grief is really
debilitating because it was your choice. While I hate that Beth has to
experience this too, I am SO glad we have each other right now because there
truly is no way to understand what this is like unless you’ve been through it. I
can’t concentrate or focus on crap, I’m lucky in a sense that the school year is
winding down. The physical part is NO joke, I feel like I have an anvil on my
chest. Although I’m losing a little weight, my body feels about 50 pounds
heavier. I have a perpetual headache. And while I know your pain was larger than
anything I can imagine, I have to admit that I’m mad. While I do take comfort in
the fact that you’re no longer hurting, the pain we’re all feeling isn’t fair.
Could you have stuck around and gotten the right kind of help and gotten better?
Could we have gotten our friend back? I will never know the answer to that.
Back
to the collage. I will still make it, one day. For today, I’ll simply include
the pics of us the last time things were happy, or we thought they mostly were.
Pics from last June, on our trip to belatedly celebrate our 50th birthdays that
we all missed due to Covid. In our beautiful little haven in Marin County, we
ate and talked and slept and listened to music. We drove through the redwoods,
we took pics of deer in our courtyard and sat out by the fire table. It was a
perfect trip. You told us both that you hadn’t laughed that hard or felt that
cared for in a long time. That is how I will remember you.
I love you and will
always miss you. I wish things had been different, but your friendship was such
a gift to me and when I can come out of this fog, I will write down every
memory, every fit of laughter. Godspeed, dude. Feel free to haunt me on
occasion.