Posts tagged “death

9/11: Never Forget

Dan, David and RonOn this somber anniversary, I invite you to celebrate with me the lives of Ron Gamboa, Dan Brandhorst, and their young son, David, lost far too soon. Please click here to read my tribute to them, written just after Bin Laden’s death. It was a difficult piece to write, and I hope you find some value within it.

Thanks,

Kergan

 


Twenty Years Ago Today…

Shane - LouvreIt is astounding how our bodies hold and store memories, filing them away, only to open their drawer unexpectedly to remind us of their presence. I had planned on sleeping in late this morning, as I rarely do anymore given that we have kids, but our dog Toby was whining to be let out. Even so, I tried to remain half asleep as I did so, returned to bed, and placed an eye mask over my eyes. On my first deep inhale to restore sleep, though, I immediately woke fully: today marks Shane’s last full day of life, exactly twenty years ago.

It seems impossible that so much time has gone by, as so much of him and that experience remains within me, prompting memories such as this. I think of him often and relate to our children each year, as we unpack Shane’s trove of nutcrackers, just who he was and what he meant to me. And yet I’ve also packed so much into those subsequent years (a commitment ceremony, the birth of Mason, the unexpected and dramatic breakup of that relationship, subsequent costly court battles with my ex, the years of trying to heal, eventually meeting Russ, adopting Marcus, getting married, writing books and embarking on countless other new adventures), that the length of time also seems substantial… As if another life, one so disconnected with the life I lead today.

Just a few weeks ago, on March 5, I turned 50. It was twenty years ago, on the day of my turning 30 in 1995 that we checked Shane into the hospital, where he would die two weeks later.

That year, we had planned for me a simple 30th… Given Shane’s months of decline, I could not bear any major celebrations, of attention being placed on me instead of Shane, and instead opted for my family to join us in L.A. for dinner and cake. When I called my mom to tell her that couldn’t happen, as Shane would be in the hospital, her words and tone communicated to me that she felt as if his health were a direct attempt to sabotage her plans.

For this year’s birthday, I opted for no celebration as well. For some reason, I just didn’t want the attention. I took my birthday off Facebook, blocked the ability of people to post to my wall, and decided instead to have a simple family dinner. Many thought that I was hesitant about turning 50, but I have no qualms about aging. I wear my years on earth and my varied experiences as a badge of honor. But this morning I realized that my reluctance for attention is also tied into Shane and what he was going through 20 years ago on this very day.

Shane and Kergan - Eiffel TowerIn the fall of the prior year, 1994, we’d gone to Europe. I’d never been and Shane wanted to return, both as a likely last-hurrah and to share it with me. While he’d had a few minor health incidents in the months leading up to our trip, as well as a decline in t-cells, he was still relatively healthy. But our 5 week journey to France and Italy took an increasing toll on him as each day progressed. By the time we got to Rome, from which we’d depart, it was physically apparent how taxing the trip had been–you could see the strain on his face. All of the walking and stairs had been too much, and those last few days he would journey out from our hotel only once each day, to quickly take in a sight, sometimes just from a taxi cab window, and then we’d return back to the hotel again. Too weak to go out for meals, I’d bring him takeout–he was craving McDonald’s–and I became inordinately familiar with their location near the Spanish Steps.

Upon our return to the states, his health began to quickly spiral downward. He began having mobility issues. Walking down a straight corridor, he would suddenly veer to the right or left, or stumble. Driving, he would either abruptly stop short, or too far into a crosswalk. It soon began to affect his speech, as his words became muddled.

His eventual diagnosis was Progressive Multifocal Leukoencephalopathy (PML), which essentially is a lesion which grows on the brain and increasingly affects the motor skills.

Shane Michael SawickIn just a few months, he went from a vibrant young man, filled with exuberance about life and excitement about our upcoming trip, to a bedridden, shrunken figure, rarely leaving our bed.

While we had hoped to keep Shane at home and comfortable, his body and organs began to fail him, leading to his hospital admittance. In just two short weeks, he lost the ability to speak, as well as the ability to blink to signify “yes” or “no,” and even to squeeze my finger. He was fully alert inside, with all of the knowledge and emotions he’d always had, but he was completely unable to communicate any of it. Each night, after his mother had returned to our apartment and all visitors were gone, I would crawl up alongside him in bed. I would talk to him about my love for him, share the news of the day, and remind him of all the wonderful things we’d experienced together. I talked often of Italy and France… Of the countless kitties of the Pitti Palace. Of the jasmine-like scented grapes we ate in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. And of our last night ever of sex, in Rome, when it became clear the end would soon come.

Shane and friends - Boothbay Harbor, MaineI hold Shane up today, as I have continually over the twenty years since. In that time since, his dear mother has died and his beloved sister, whom I think he loved most of all, has bravely battled cancer. Shane’s best friend Vivian still lives on, but Shane’s L.A. circle of friends has drifted apart. We lost David to AIDS not long after Shane’s death. Another of the group with AIDS came close to dying, but through the miracles of an experimental treatment is alive today. I know Shane would be disappointed to know that this dear group of guys, with whom years of memories were made, would not survive his passing. In many ways, he was the glue, and his absence led to consequences none of us would have imagined.

Shane Michael SawickAnd so today, on the 20th anniversary of his last full day on earth, I hold up Shane Michael Sawick. Without loving him, I don’t think I would have come to love myself. Without him, I would never have become a writer. And without him, I couldn’t have grown up enough, to have explored myself enough, to be the father and partner that I am today.

Shane died on March 22, at 12:22am. He was surrounded by his family and friends, and we played a tape cassette of his beloved Bette Midler singing his favorite song, “Shiver Me Timbers,” as they pumped morphine into his veins and he took his last breath.

He will not be forgotten.


Found Objects, No. 1

Every once in a while I find things online that really move me, such as this. While searching for lyrics to a Mary Chapin Carpenter song, I stumbled on a website that a man made in tribute to his deceased wife. I thought his story, along with the poem he discovered, were well worth sharing with my dear friends. But he tells it better than I…

I was loved once, by an angel.

This is my tribute page to my late wife Beth since she isn’t here to make her own. I hope she would approve. As you can see she was beautiful on the outside. She was beautiful on the inside too. And brilliant. So brilliant it could scare you but she never ever made anyone feel “small” in any way (except if they really deserved it).

I watched an Ally McBeal (repeat) recently. The episode where the older famous (now deemed incompetent) artist paints only his dead wife. If I could paint (like my brother), I would paint Beth over and over again too.

For all of you out there, maybe alone, and wondering if you’ll ever meet your special someone, Beth and I lived in different states (me in upstate NY and she in NC) and “met” through a personals ad in the Mensa magazine. So you see, it can and does happen.

Beth died suddenly of a heart attack at the very young age of 44.

She wasn’t one to keep things (sayings) on her wall but she had clipped this one and had it hanging in her office. I asked that it be read at her service and include it here in case you may find it relevant to your own life and whatever time is left you.

You never know, do you.

* * * * *

“If I Had My Life To Live Over”
by Nadine Stair, age 85

I’d dare to make more mistakes next time.
I’d relax. I would limber up.
I would be sillier than I have been this trip.
I would take fewer things seriously.
I would take more chances.
I would take more trips.
I would climb more mountains and swim more rivers.
I would eat more ice cream and less beans.
I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I’d have fewer imaginary ones.
You see, I’m one of those people who live sensibly and sanely hour after hour, day after day.
Oh, I’ve had my moments and if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments.
One after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day.
I’ve been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a raincoat, and a parachute.
If I had it to do again, I would travel lighter next time.
If I had my life to live over, I would start barefoot earlier in the Spring and stay that way later in the Fall.
I would go to more dances.
I would ride more merry-go-rounds.
I would pick more daisies.

More of his tribute can be found here.


30 Years of AIDS

As we note the 30-year mark in the ongoing battle against HIV/AIDS, it seemed an appropriate time to publish this short story.  I dedicate this to all of my friends, gone, but not forgotten, as well as those still fighting.

HOLES
A short story by Kergan Edwards-Stout

Jeffrey gazed up at the ceiling and, again, he began to count.  It didn’t matter that he’d counted them before, or that he knew the number of holes by heart — 3,016.  It also didn’t matter that he always counted the same square, never changing.  The number of holes was constant; as constant as his mother sitting numbly in her chair, stumbling through her crossword.  What mattered most to Jeffrey was that he knew it.  And since he knew it, it could never be taken away.

He sighed, though no one heard it, and thought of Kevin.  Blond, handsome, studly Kevin.  How had everything gone so wrong?  Jeffrey’s mind raced over the details of their relationship, sifting through the rubble for clues.  The beginning, middle, end.

No one thing stood out as wrong or imminent or foreboding.  When Jeffrey’s suspicions were confirmed and it did end, there were the expected rows, and tearful apologies, and scenes in restaurants.  But no one could have foreseen the agonizing pain that would come to Jeffrey.  He’d gotten through it, eventually, and now Jeffrey was alone.  Sadly alone.

He filled his time well, though.  Going through his Rolodex and renewing friendships.  Making dinner plans, and festive theatre outings, and endless gym workouts–anything to stay away from that apartment.  The reminders.  The memories. (more…)