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 cardboard boxes. I planned to pack up his things—at least what wasn’t too worn or too personal. I would donate the rest to charity.

Should I 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 made here, far from where we grew up, who believed he was content despite appearances, I’d always been privy to his darkest thoughts, his quiet tantrums—not to mention the suicide attempts.

More recently, while lunching with friends, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall across the room. I saw the sudden sadness his likeness stirred within him. He fell silent mid-conversation. I knew then that, unless I intervened, it was only a matter of time before he swallowed pills or reached for the blade.

I hadn't done this—sorting and packing another person’s belongings—since my Nana died years ago. And I hadn’t done it alone then, either. Other family members and friends had been there to lend a hand, to share memories with, to laugh and cry with. Not today. Today, they were elsewhere—some trying to accept his passing, others still mired in denial.

I began in the bathroom. I picked through our toiletries, separating his from mine, and tossed his into a large green trash bag. How strange, I thought, when I came across our two cans of shaving foam sitting side by side in the shower—the different ways men and women are marketed to. Same brand. Same ingredients. Both 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 dressers and closet and sorted through them. One pair of his shoes had never been worn.

Eventually, with my task nearly complete, I picked up his eyeglasses—brown plastic frames. I folded them gently into their case. The case snapped shut. My accumulating grief finally broke.

“I'm sorry,” I said, over and over, runny-nosed and sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”

That’s when I realized the sacrifice he’d made so I could live.

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When I transitioned, I felt many things: excitement, anxiety, fear, relief… ultimately, joy. But one emotion rushed in without warning—guilt. Because the golem that had served for decades as my chrysalis—the meat puppet I’d constructed for my survival and layered with lies, anger, and all manner of self-loathing—had somehow created a life distinctly his own. People cared about him. They loved him. Even if he never truly existed, their grief was real.

That’s why I continue to hold onto my favorite photo of him. He’s hanging out at a Denny’s, wearing an X-Men T-shirt, and performing the Batusi for the camera. Not because I fear others will forget him. Rather, so that I don’t.

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