The airplane shakes as violently as I have ever experienced in a flight, and I can hear the engines whine as the pilot cranks them up. I push down into my seat just a bit as we begin to climb. Two years ago, this kind of turbulence would have terrified me to the point of white hot panic, but I am calm. Ever since I got medical treatment for my depression and anxiety, I have been able to rationally accept things that I was once irrational about. I am able to react to things the way I imagine a normal person would (my doctor discourages me from saying “normal” in this context, because it makes me sound abnormal. He wants me to say “healthy” or “non-depressive”, but he’s not the boss of me). I know what’s happening: we are flying through the leading edge of a storm front that is on its way down the Pacific coast. The winds that are pushing and pulling that front are shaking the plane, so I imagine that I’m on a boat in heavy seas, or in a wagon on a rough dirt road.
We dip slightly, and my stomach goes weightless for half a second before we resume our climb. Anne grips my arm so tightly it hurts a little bit. I glance at her, and she frowns. She does not enjoy this. I close the book I haven’t been able to read, lean my head back, and shut my eyes…
I am in my office. My phone rings, and I see that it’s my friend, Mikey.
“Hey! I know you!” I say, “want to do some crime? Like, go get sushi and not pay?”
“Can you sit down?”
“Yeah, of course.” In the four words he’s said, I can tell that Mikey has terrible — not just bad, but terrible — news. Mikey lives with MS, and I brace myself, expecting him to tell me something about his health.
“Wil,” he says, through a sob, “Stepto died.”
I fall into my chair like I’ve been hit by a car. My body goes cold. My arms and legs go numb.
“What?” I say. It’s a stupid thing to say, because I heard him clearly. I know that my friend is gone and is never coming back. Still, I hope that I misheard him, that this is a joke, that somehow I am misunderstanding him.
“He died earlier today,” Mikey says, crying. He tells me all the details that he knows, while I just say “Fuck!” with increasing anger and disbelief.
We talk for a few more minutes. I will not and do not remember what we talk about.
It is six weeks later. For six weeks, I have wanted to cry. I have needed to cry, but I can’t. It is six weeks later, and I’m a standing in the wings of the Triple Door Theater in Seattle, waiting to walk onto the stage and tell jokes, at my friend’s memorial service, because that’s what he wanted us to do when he died.
“I want to tell you about the time Stepto and I had cigars in the Caribbean,” I say, “I want to tell you about how he saved my Xbox for me, about how he made me laugh and how much I miss him in my life.” I think, but don’t say, that I want to talk about how sad and angry I am that Stepto successfully kept his alcoholism a secret from me, and from everyone who was closest to him, for the more than ten years we were friends. I want to talk about how angry I am that he got a second chance, when he survived a coma last year. I want to say a lot of swears, because he convinced himself and me that it wasn’t alcohol that put him into a coma, but some kind of genetic thing and a virus and something else that was a bunch of bullshit. But I am coming up on two years of an alcohol-free life, myself, and even though I’m not an alcoholic, and even though I don’t do any recovery programs, I do know that addiction is powerful and all consuming. I know that it’s incredibly easy to convince yourself that you’ve got it under control, and that the rationalizations and justifications come as easily as opening another bottle after adding an empty one to the lie. Huh. I was going to write “line”, but my fingers made the first typo I think I’ve ever made that was more apt than what I intended. I want to be angry, but I can’t be. Stepto was sick, and he couldn’t get well, so he died. But while he was here, he was a good friend, and a magnificent human being. The world is better because he was in it, and the sun is not as warm or as bright as it was, now that he is gone.
“I only have five minutes,” I say, “so I can’t tell you the story about how I had explosive diarrhea on the side of the road while the entire state of California drove past me, but I promise you that it was one of Stepto’s favorites.” But I tell some jokes. They feel awkward, and not all of them land. I end with a terrible pun that makes the audience laugh and boo and I know that it’s exactly what Stepto would have wanted, if he’d been there.
I walk off the stage and back into the dim light of the wings. Maybe now, I think, the tears will come. The wall of grieving emotions will give way. It will crack and crumble and I can sit right here while I cry it all out. I want to cry. I need to cry, but I can’t.
I go back to my seat in the theatre, and I enjoy the rest of the show that we are all doing in tribute to our friend, who left us far too young and for the worst reason.
When the show ends, Anne and I go back to our hotel with some friends, and we sit in the lobby for a few hours, way past our bedtime, catching up and hanging out. We hardly talk about Stepto at all, which feels right in the moment but feels somehow wrong, now, in retrospect. We order Chinese food, after midnight, like we would have when we were younger. While we wait for it to arrive, a meth’d out kid wanders in, shows us that he’s lost most of his teeth and broken his jaw, then does a series of acrobatic somersaults before he wanders off. It is surreal and hilarious and sad.
“He’s so young,” Anne says, sadly. She could be talking about Stepto, or the kid, who we will describe as “Drugs Man” in the retelling.
At almost three in the morning, we go upstairs and go to sleep for a few hours. We go to the airport, and our flight is unremarkable, until the turbulence begins.
Anne clutches my arm so tight it hurts. I glance at her and she frowns. She isn’t enjoying this. I close the book I haven’t been able to read, lean my head back, and shut my eyes.
“Why are we climbing?” She asks.
“It’s the storm,” I tell her, eyes still closed. “Probably trying to get above it,” I say. I am so calm, I don’t recognize myself.
I have been practicing meditation for a few months. I’m learning to clear my mind and let it drift. I’m learning how to step out of the world for a few minutes at a time, while I allow my mind to show me what it wants to show me.
I stop feeling the movement of the plane.
I see a blue door that gets bigger and bigger until it is all I can see. I am being drawn toward it, then through it.
A whale swims slowly through the space before me. We are inside a mottled eggshell, and I am falling gently toward a field of tall grass. Before I hit the ground, I right myself and begin to run. I run through the grass, as it parts in front of me.
I have become an eagle. I am soaring high over snow-capped mountains. I swoop down into the forest and fly among the trees. The air is cold and it tastes clean. I land in an aerie, and fold my wings close.
Everything is gone. I am in nothing but thick blackness. It is not just the absence of light, but the absence of anything.
The blackness turns into thick, softly oozing oil. A rainbow sheen appears on its surface and glimmers in the light that is not there. It flows and swirls and then it rises up, splashing around me. It consumes me and drowns me. I feel it fill my nose and mouth and lungs. It fills me completely until I become the oil.
No. Wait. I am not oil. I am … nothing. I am now in a black void that I know is space. I look down and see the moon. I look up, and I see the earth. She is warm and inviting. And then she is gone.
There is only blackness, again the absence of all things. And Stepto is there. He looks at me and I know that he is at peace. He is calm and content. He was suffering before, and now he is not. I embrace him and he holds me tightly.
I begin to cry. He holds me more tightly as he turns into a black bear. He releases me and grabs a fish out of an invisible river. Then, he is gone. I miss him so much. I continue to cry.
I am soaring back toward the Earth.
I fly over a desert and toward a cliff dwelling.
I open my eyes and discover that tears have been running down my cheeks, collecting in my beard, and falling onto my chest. The images I saw were profound, and though I don’t wish to dissect them, taken as a whole, I am comforted. I need to cry, and I did. The captain speaks over the public address. We have flown out of the turbulence, and are beginning our descent to the airport. I raise my seatback to the upright position, and prepare to land.
I miss my friend so much. I have a long road to walk without him. Stepto was in my life for ten years. It’s not enough.
I’m sorry for your loss Wil. Thank you for sharing that.
This is some timing. About the time you were posting this, I was hearing that one of my uncles had died. He caught the flu, which turned into pneumonia, which killed him inside of 3 days. He was overweight, and he smoked, and if he wasn’t an alcoholic, he definitely drank too much. But he was a good man. He was kind and generous and one hell of a banjo player.
It’s not the same situation as your losing your friend, but there’s enough similarities that I’m really feeling your post. I haven’t cried yet. I think it might be too big for me right now. This post almost made me cry, but I’m at work, and losing my shit in my office wouldn’t be very professional. I know it’ll eventually hit me, and when it does, I’ll let it come. But for now…I’m fine.
Anyway, it was just weird timing.
I’m so sorry you lost your friend. There’s never enough time with those we love, but God, aren’t we lucky when we get to spend time with some good ones?
Thanks for sharing your experience and I am truly sorry for your loss. Another Zen Hug for you.
Tomorrow is the third anniversary of the death of my best friend. We were friends for over 30 years, and like you and Stepto, it wasn’t enough. I still find myself wanting to talk to her about things, or share in some moment. Big virtual hugs from San Diego. <3
“Stepto was sick, and he couldn’t get well, so he died.”
This simple sentence sums up the powerlessness we feel when someone close is lost this way. Thank you, Wil.
Thank you for this Wil . I hope it was as cathartic for you to write as it was to read. I am sorry for the loss of your dear friend. You’ll be in my thoughts.
I miss him too. I’m crying though, because I had no idea he was an alcoholic 😖
You used to be such an IPA guy. Do you no longer indulge in any, ever? Or on rare occasions?
I gave up drinking alcohol two years ago, today. I will always love IPAs, but at the moment, I have no desire or intention to drink booze.
Death will always be a mystery to me, but you have put it into some kind of perspective with this writing, and I thank you for that. I guess we’ve all lost someone. First my Dad died then my only sister/sibling then my mother. I’m the last of my family. Strange! I’m so sorry for your loss!
All things considered, that’s a smart move.
Glad to hear that. Wil I’m almost finished with Just A Geek. Trying to find my own “sails” too. Had to tell you, when I knew you were going to appear in Nemesis, it was a thrill. In fact it is one of the highlights of the entire movie, to see a glimpse of you there was fantastic, it really made the movie for me! It’s a reason to watch it over, just to see you there. To true fans of TNG, it was important to see you there and they made a huge mistake cutting your lines. I am a life long fan of Trek, only last year did I get to Vegas for the convention though. Seeing the Hilton Experience through your eyes was fun and reminiscent for me too, recalling my two visits to that. At the Rio, hearing the back stories of the actors lives, and how they relate to the show makes a richer experience, fandom, and for a better picture of the entire experience. Many actors like yourself, loved being a part of it, many also express that it was just a gig ( I understand their job as an actor now, but hearing that kinda rubs me alittle wrong, after all I love the show). It’s actors like yourself that it mattered to, that makes for good fan relations and for fans like me to warm up to the show. Thank you for sharing it all. Would you consider attending the Creation convention in Vegas 2018? I would love to meet you and hear you speak in person! I have a greater appreciation for what actors go through for Star Trek, and for the ones that their role mattered to, I love it even more. I feel I understand the show better, because it’s not just what we see on TV but there are equally important backstories, and what all it takes behind the scenes and in the lives of the actors that help to create it. Thank you for sharing your backstory, your life experiences! For you to have a few seconds film appearance on something like Nemesis and make a greater impact on someone like me than most of the entire rest of the movie, says a lot. I hope it says a lot to you to. Its not how much time we spend doing something, its the quality of what we have done. Deepak Chopra says something like the whole banquet is in the first bite! Love you man, and will keep reading your work. I have my Wesley Figure and your photo hangs prominently with my Star Trek collection! Fan for life!
Glad to hear that you quit drinking. Thought my reply would show directly under your comment. Sorry for your loss.
Life is rough….being clean and sober makes life less rough. Stay the sober course, you will never regret it💜
that was really beautiful, wil. i’m sorry you lost a friend.
My deepest sympathies. The passing of loved ones is one of the hardest things I have been going through. Grief has no timeline.
Be well. Godspeed
Thank you so much for sharing. May time heal what mere words cannot.
So sorry for your loss. I miss my son who we lost a little over two years ago; he was twenty. I still cry about it sometimes. I’m glad you can feel your feels.
That was beautiful, Wil. I’m glad you were finally able to cry. Zen Hugs all around!
This is beautiful and terrible and I am so, so sorry for your loss.
💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚
May the pain you feel abate with the memory of your lucid dream. May your friend Stepto find bliss.
After losing two dear friends within the last month another friend said to me, “Impermanence hurts.” But she also said, “Dying is absolutely safe.” In both cases, she was quoting Ram Dass, a Buddhist teacher. I’m finding comfort in his thoughts on dying and death.
I wish you peace.
Sad but incredibly beautiful.
Four years sober here. I can attest to the fact that alcohol tricks the mind into believing that we are in control, when the sad reality is that (for some of us) we have no control whatsoever. As the saying goes, “there but by the grace of God go I.” I look back on my drinking days and can draw a straight line from where I stopped to where I could have been today had I taken just one more drink. Unfortunately, not all of us are fortunate enough to break free from the stronghold of booze and lies. I’m very sorry for your loss, Wil. I know there’s nothing that can be said to ease your pain (and the pain of others who called him a friend, pal, brother, son, etc.). Those who have not experienced the soul-crushing affects of alcoholism often struggle with questions of “why” or “how” when someone is unable to escape the disease’s grip.
If anyone reading these words wonders if their drinking is becoming or has become a problem and the thought of not drinking today fills the mind/soul with dread, please (PLEASE) find a local meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Just go to a meeting and listen to the words from others who may have experienced similar feelings as you. Be brave and take the first step towards recovery and life.
Thank you. That resonates on many levels.
Wil, thank you for writing this. Yesterday was the fifth anniversary of my best friend’s death. All of those emotions are still so fresh and raw. I still reach for the phone to call him on my way in to work on many mornings. It sucks and it’s not fair that amazing people come into our lives and are taken from us way too soon.
Thanks. J
Stepto is missed. I don’t know what hurts more, the fact that he died or wondering if he felt alone these last years lost in the alcoholism. I think about what he went through with the coma and wonder how that wasn’t enough, why didn’t he reach out? I guess that’s the anger phase.
Your words are beautiful. The grief will come and go, at odd times. I lost my mom, who was my world, 2 years ago, and it still feels like yesterday. Don’t be alone. Keep remembering him with those who knew him, it helps more than I can say.
Happy non-boozeiversary. Your writing is just so good. I’m sorry you lost your friend, and I’m sorry it was in such an unfair, terrible, and unfortunate way. Alcohol is complicated. Thinking of you guys.
Wil, Thank you for this one.
I’m sorry for your loss. It seems cliche and so very obvious to say it hurts to lose the ones we care about, but it really is a gut-wrenching thing. But this is a beautiful post, and I hope putting your experience into words lessened the pain somewhat.
Wil, I only recently came to your blog (not sure how I missed it for so long) but you have a way with words and an honesty goes with them. I’m sorry for your loss. But while we talk about them and remember them, no matter how hard, they stay alive in us. It’s much worse when they go way before their time.
Sorry for your loss, Wil. I wonder if there was something that the doctors missed in 2014, when Stepto went to the emergency room with chest pains. They sent him home with the diagnosis of a panic attack. All too often, it seems, ER’s just want to get you out of there. He said in 2014, “My family on my father’s side as I mentioned has a huge history of sudden heart related death experience, an experience you only get to have once. I quibbled for a few minutes over bothering to call 911 until I remembered that.”
Sorry for your loss, at my age I have been through too many and have never ,so eloquently depicted the experience.I have always had a deep respect for the talent you have shown in all of your movie efforts. It will be my prayer that you will come to a greater understanding and peace with all that surrounds you.
I am so sorry for your loss. May his memory be a blessing.
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Wil:
Sorry for your loss. You are such a great writer.
Grats on your sobriety. When I met the woman who is now my wife I was able to cut down on my drinking. I go through months now of no beer then back to two on a Friday for a bit. I am under no illusion that I did not drink too much before I met my wife 9 years ago. She gave me a reason to stop, she gave me perspective. My goal is to kick the beer altogether one day like you did. You give me courage and hope that at the very least I can enjoy my 2 Beers a week and never “need” them… one day.
your story took me along for the ride and I appreciate that .In your friend I see my own brother, his path is made by his alcoholism and that I have to accept. He too hid it well until it almost took his life and even then he tried to convince me it was just a fall, couldn’t be the alcohol. I plan to follow your words, not just for this post but also because my Mother fought a daily battle with mental illness and that shaped who I was as a child and who I am now as a grown and aging adult. Thank you for the words you write, they are being read.
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So well written! I enjoyed reading about your emotions, and fear .. everything a normal human being goes through.. So sorry about your loss.. Hang in there. Meditation is a helpful tool.