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 a few cardboard boxes, planning to pack up his things—at least what I wouldn't be throwing out, whether too worn or too personal. The rest I would give to charity. Maybe 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 made here, far from where we grew up, who believed him content despite his appearance, I’d always been privy to his darkest thoughts, his quiet tantrums—not to mention, the suicide attempts. I didn’t only know his pain; I’d felt it. Then, not long ago, while lunching with friends, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall across the room. The other diners seemed oblivious to his appearance, but I saw the sudden sadness his likeness, staring back, stirred in him. He fell silent mid-conversation. I knew then, 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’s belongings—since my nana died years ago. And I’d never done it alone. Other family members and friends had always been around to lend a hand, to remember with, to laugh, and to cry with. Not today. Today I was alone, while they were elsewhere—some trying to accept his passing, others mired in denial still.

I began in the bathroom, picking through our toiletries, separating his from mine, and tossing his into a large green trash bag. How funny, I mused, 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, and 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 dresser and closet, sorting through them along with his shoes. One pair had never been worn. Then, my task nearly done, I picked up his eyeglasses—brown, plastic frames—and folded them gently into 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 understood, truly, that he was gone—along with the sacrifice he’d made so I could live.

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When I transitioned, I felt many things—excitement, anxiety, fear, relief, and, ultimately, joy. But there was one emotion that 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 built a life distinctively his own. People cared about him. Loved him. And even if he never truly existed, their grief was real.

That’s why I continue to hold onto my favorite photo of him, where 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, but because I never want to.

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