The Death of He

No matter how death arrives—immediate or lingering, anticipated or unexpected—are we ever prepared for the loss of a loved one?

That afternoon, I returned to his apartment with several cardboard boxes to pack up his things—at least those items I wouldn't be throwing out, either because they were too worn or too personal. The rest I would donate to charity. Perhaps I should mail some of it to his family or friends for keepsakes. Or would that be too soon, too ... final? I wasn’t sure.

Unlike the new friends he’d acquired in this place far from where we’d grown up, and who, despite his physical appearance, thought him content in his circumstance, I had always been privy to his darkest thoughts, his quiet tantrums—not to mention the multiple suicide attempts. I not only knew of his pain; I’d felt it. More recently, while lunching with friends at a restaurant, he unexpectedly caught sight of his reflection in a mirrored wall across the room. While other diners seemed oblivious to his appearance, I saw the profound sadness his likeness, staring back, produced in him. He dropped the conversation and grew quiet. I realized then it would be only a matter of time before he swallowed pills or picked up the blade again unless I interceded.

I hadn't done this—sorting and packing up another’s belongings—since my grandmother died years ago. I’d certainly never done so on my own. Other family members or friends had always been there to lend a hand, to remember with, to laugh and cry with. Not today. Today I was alone while they were elsewhere—some trying to accept his passing, others wallowing in denial still.

I started in the bathroom, picking through our toiletries, extricating his from mine, tossing his into the large green trash bag. How funny, I thought, when I came upon our two separate canisters of shaving foam, sitting side-by-side in the shower—the different ways men and women are marketed to. Both cans were manufactured by the same company, both undoubtedly contained the same ingredients, and both were formulated to protect one of the few things he and I had in common: sensitive skin.

Soon only the bedroom remained. I pulled his clothes from the dresser and closet and began sorting through them, along with his shoes. One pair had never been worn. Then, my task nearly complete, I picked up his eyeglasses—brown plastic frames. I folded and placed them back in their case. As the case snapped shut, my accumulating grief burst forth.

“I'm sorry,” I said, over and over, runny-nosed and sobbing. “I’m so sorry.” And that’s when I realized, fully, he was gone—as well as the sacrifice he’d made so that I could live.

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I experienced many feelings when I transitioned my gender, including excitement, anxiety, fear, relief, and, ultimately, joy. Yet there was one emotion that rushed in, unexpected and without warning: guilt. Because the golem that had served for decades as my chrysalis—the meat puppet I’d constructed for my survival and had layered with lies, anger, and all manner of self-loathing—had created a life distinctively his own. Many people cared about and loved him. Even if he never truly existed, their loss was profound.

That’s why I continue to hold onto his favorite photo of himself, where he’s sitting at the table at a Denny’s, wearing an X-Men t-shirt, and performing the Batusi for the camera. Not because I fear others won’t remember him over time, but so I never forget.

'The Death of He' © 2008 Leith St. John