who lives who dies who tells your story

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.

92 thoughts on “who lives who dies who tells your story”

  6. I am really sorry about the loss of your friend, Wil. May you find the peace that you need to get through this difficult time. Sending you a big hug and love ❤️

  9. 1) I’m crying 2) I’m sorry 3) I can’t believe how beautiful your writing is in this piece. Kudos

  11. I’m loving the Hamilton reference, BTW.

    Wil, I am very sorry for the loss of your friend. That sucks.

    My nephew died on July 31st. He drove his motorcycle into the side of a car. He was also an addict. He was 28 years old. I held him on the day he was born and again on the day he died. There are no words.

  12. In November I started working for a company that is a placement service for recovery centers. I’ve been doing a lot of research on recovery since then, and there is a center for everyone and a place in that center regardless of your income or finances. You can get help if you need it. Please do. If not for you then your loved ones, friends and family. They hurt more than you really will ever know. I don’t by stretch believe that addiction is a disease because a disease is a specific scientific term that describes a certain type of illness. Addiction itself is not a disease. It’s insidious and it’s genetic and it’s terrible, and you can still get help. And it’s not your fault. You do bear some responsibility if you continue in your addiction and cannot get help when it’s offered. But even still it’s hard to ask for help. No one wants to appear to be weak these days. Humble thyself and ask for help, it will come. Believe me it will come.

  13. There are moments that the words don’t reach. Your beautiful words will keep him alive. What is remembered, lives. All the best to you.

  14. That was so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it. Sometimes the words come out just how we want them too. My condolences on your loss.

  15. Thanks for sharing, Wil.

    virual hug

    I’m not sure what else to say. I’ll hoist a drink tonight in your, Anne’s, and his honor. And to friendship.

    “And now a toast! To friends not present.” is, I believe, how the line goes.

  16. Wil, I’m so sorry for your loss. I was just getting to know Stepto when I heard the news. We’d gone out together once, bonded over each of us surviving unexplained illnesses. We’d been trying to get together again when I learned the news from Mike. I’m glad you’ve found some peace with Stepto’s passing. Based on things he said to me, I know your friendship was important to him. I send my deepest condolences.

  18. Having nearly lost my husband to alcohol 2 years ago, reading this breaks my heart all over again. Words cannot express just how sorry I am for your loss.

  22. I’m so sorry for your loss. There never is enough time. My mom was in my life for 44 and a half years. We were prepared for her death for a few years. I made certain to spend time with her and she made certain to be up to spending that time. We spent lots of good time together. Still, it wasn’t enough time—there was…is so much more. There always will be. That’s the jerk ness of life—we have all this time and it’s still not enough with each other.

  23. That . . . was indescribably tragic and transcendent and amazing and beautiful and I feel and share your pain…if only a fraction of your pain of loss. You summed up life and death and agony and peace and turmoil and tranquility and how love can triumph over it all.Thank you Wil.

  25. What you wrote is beautiful. You have such a gift. I know it won’t always come when you call it, but you still have it. I’m glad that you finally found relief and comfort. And, by the way, if I’d been going through all that turbulence on the plane, I’d have been hanging from the ceiling by my claws like Sylvester the cat. That dis-ease is perfectly normal – if you trust ME on judging normal.

  26. Thank you for sharing that. You are an incredible human being. Stepto sounds like a wonderful person. Several people I follow have posted about him. You’re story reminds me of my own experiences with my grandfather. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  28. I’m so sorry. Grief and anger are natural when someone we love dies. I’m hoping that what you saw helps somehow.

  31. I love how you write. I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing what’s on your mind and heart.

  34. Wil,

    I’m glad you found your voice again. I’m more sorry for your loss. I once lost a girlfriend to a car crash who came to comfort me in a dream. Thank you for reminding me of that dream. Keep his memory close to your heart.

  35. Sending you so much love. My mom was murdered in 2005, and I had quite a grieving process. May you receive hugs from each one of your supporters, and be soothed. Blessings, Debbie

  36. Every time I hear of death, loss and grief, I always think first about myself, instead of the deceased and those directly affected.

    Selfish? Egocentric? Insensitive introvert? All those thoughts flit through my mind as I re-experience my own impermanence.

    Then I pass through, once again having had to come to grips with the finite, seeking and finding my own acceptance of such a simple truth, one we seem to do our best to reject and ignore.

    I’ve consciously kept this process as part of me, like a mantra, since it is also something that helped keep me from suicide during the worst of my (then undiagnosed) depression. Death is inevitable, natural. It is OK and not to be feared. It will arrive when it does, and I don’t really need to hasten its arrival.

    It has a corollary I’d ponder when that process wasn’t quite enough: I didn’t give myself life, so perhaps I should view it as a gift, rather than a burden. Don’t give death a chance: Instead, give life a chance. (Of course, therapy eventually gave me vastly better tools.)

    Western culture is so awkward when it comes to death. I watch people affected by death share their misery as if they were doubling-down on it, making things worse for themselves. This was impossible for me to do. I couldn’t even bring myself to utter the bland aphorisms often used in such situations.

    Forty years ago, back when I was young, dumb and in the Navy, I attended the memorial service for a friend’s high school teacher. That service was so maudlin and dark and oppressive that I felt I had to run from such misery. I felt a strong “fight or flight” desperation, the agitation and anxiety growing rapidly, quickly becoming intolerable.

    I jumped to my feet to leave, the motion attracting all eyes toward me, the eulogist falling silent. I froze like a deer in the headlights.

    Some eyes were narrow and accusing, as if to say; “How dare you interrupt this service and our grief?” But most were wide open, as if saying; “I want to leave with you, but can’t.”

    Rooted to the spot, I started to nervously blabber an apology, that I didn’t know the deceased, that I was just here to support a friend, that I was sorry to interrupt. I started to cry in shame. Then I started to repeat myself; “I didn’t know the deceased. I can’t share your grief. Sorry.”

    Wait. That’s the source of my discomfort: That I didn’t know the deceased and couldn’t share their grief, that I was massively uncomfortable being so close to such extreme distress.

    My blubbering quickly faded to silence. I took a big loud sniffle that caused a few kids to giggle. Then I asked to be introduced to the deceased, what they would want me to know about him, as if I were going to meet him in person in a few minutes.

    One man in the front pew stood, turned to faced me, and said: “Well, you should know my brother was a jerk. No matter what you say, he’d try to make a pun from it. It was always terrible. So embarrassing. To everyone but him, of course.”

    That opened the floodgates. One characterization or story, then another. Some interrupted by sobs, occasionally to be finished by someone else. At some point folks stopped waiting to tell their stories one at a time, and the church became filled with a hubbub of stories being shared. Before long someone got on the PA to suggest we move outside to the pot-luck buffet.

    Once outside, I got more hugs and thanks than I could believe. As if I had saved them from something. I felt guilty that, in my distress, I had shifted the focus to myself, away from the deceased and the grieving. I started to feel anxious again, as if I had really screwed things up, ashamed of the misplaced attention. My smile became brittle, my eyes looking for the easiest path away. I was afraid my discomfort was visible, and would further affect the gathering.

    An arm landed on my shoulders; the brother of the deceased, the first to share a story. He said: “They’re not thanking you, as a person. They don’t really know or care who you are. They’re thankful for the chance to share life rather than death. Have a beer.”

    Still, I left as soon as I decently could, my mind swirling with questions about what had just happened.

    Yes, Western culture has its problems with death. Except, that is, for one small corner; the Irish and their joyous Wakes. And that is my path back to those affected by death.

    Since then I have always asked for stories, no matter if I knew the deceased or not.

    It can sometimes be cruel to ask folks to prepare a list of stories, then stand in front and present them. I think it would be better if a stranger came to the front and asked to be introduced to the departed, so the storytellers could stay with their friends and family.

    Fortunately, over the years it has become much more common for someone to ask for stories after the eulogy. It is important for the stories to be remembered and shared, especially the ones that are in our minds alone, known to no others.

    It shouldn’t be necessary to wait for someone to die before sharing such stories, but it often is: It can be uncomfortable if the subject is around to give a different perspective, or if the stories are being told behind someone’s back.

    Fortunately, it is always OK to share stories with a person one on one. When you are with a friend or family member, be sure to occasionally start with something like “Do you remember when…?” or, “Tell me about…”

    I’ve been making a point to do this with my 87 year-old mother. Always great fun. And I’ll certainly do it again at her memorial service, though hopefully she won’t do it at mine!

    Why? Because she’s a much better storyteller than I am. My blushing would be visible outside my urn.

  38. I’m so sorry, Wil. This is beautifully done. I thank you for letting us in to such a personal and profound moment.

  39. I’m so very sorry for your loss. I am also glad you were able to experience some catharsis. I hope you gain more comfort from happy memories.

  40. I was glad to be able to share that evening with you and so many other friends whom Stepto brought together. I missed the ones who couldn’t be there, enjoyed the company of those who were, and thought about how much I’ll miss our friend. I’m glad I decided to take him up on his invitation to visit after his first hospitalization; I’m wondering if somehow I knew it would be my only chance. And I’m glad I took the chance to be there this weekend. I’m thinking I need to take more chances to be with my far-off friends.

  41. That was a beautiful tribute. I just want to hug you forever and ever, if that’s okay with you.

  43. Thank you, Wil, for sharing what helps you cope. I feel positive it will help someone else learn to cope, and that’s why we’re all here: to learn from each other.
    Many here have made this personal, due to losing someone to addiction, and I’m no different. My husband’s brother passed away last April at the age of 53, having been drinking since high school. He hid it well, as the family wasn’t aware until about five years ago. He was in and out of rehab, and just couldn’t break the addiction. He was miserable for at least the last year.
    My son, 24, has so many of his mannerisms that it’s eerie, though none of his addiction. It’s comforting sometimes to see a few bits of my brother-in-law in the way my son raises an eyebrow, etc. It brings me some joy when I see those quirks, remembering the man who made us laugh, and shared our lives for a while.
    Maybe you can focus on remembering the joy Stepto brought you and others, at least until you can cope with the rest of his legacy. We are all combinations of positive and negative portions, and hopefully the positive will outweigh the rest.

  45. Thank you for sharing this. Reading this while sitting with my terminally ill brother. Thankful for every hour I can spend with him, knowing it will never be enough.

  47. Sorry about your loss sounds like he was an excellent friend. But beautiful tribute. My dad died from heavy drinking my mom urged him to go to rehab, I’m grateful for all my friends who got clean and sober. But yeah its tough. He officially died of a heart attack but alcohol caused him heart problems.40 years of heavy drinking every night will do that.

  50. Thank you – that was … actually all the words I want to use feel trite as I try to select them, polished or cliche – so I will settle for a thank you for sharing and a Zen Hug – they’re the kind of hug I would give you if I was there with you, but I’m not – so the hug will be Zen 🙂

Comments are closed.

Related Posts

Recent Posts