you always hated saying "Goodbye". It was too final, and you never knew how to handle grief. Instead, you always said "Goodnight" or "See you later". In ornery opposition, I have long resented the term, "See you later." It implies that I can foresee and/or control the future, which is not true. So, being compulsively honest, I would respond with "Goodbye" or, in a more empathic mood, would compromise with a less final-sounding "Goodnight" or "Have a good day" (depending on the appropriateness of the timing) or, with increasing frequency over the last few years, "Take care of yourself," and more recently, "Please don't die". I might as well have stuck with "See you later" for all the honesty it evoked in our relationship, because taking care of yourself and not dying were not promises you could keep, and I knew it.
You were terrified of and resolutely avoided so many of the things that could have healed you, and so many of the things you stubbornly strove for were the things that killed you. You were always intensely determined to do things your own way- it was your greatest strength and your greatest weakness.
"You have lost much of your muchness"- the Mad Hatter, Alice in Wonderland. As external, internal, and physical crises took over more and more of your attention, I felt like I was saying a slow, silent series of goodbyes to you. Goodbye to your hope of marrying and being loved by someone who understood and cherished you. Goodbye to your trust in the basic goodness of most people. Goodbye to your hope of being accepted and valued as a member of a warm, supportive family. Goodbye to your confidence. Goodbye to your hope of becoming a strong, exasperated, adoring mother. Goodbye to your faith in a personal God who was present with you. Goodbye to your sense of curiosity and adventurousness in the world. Goodbye to your mischevious grin, full-out laughter, and sense of humour in all things ridiculous, including yourself. I mourned those losses. I mourned the losses of those pieces of you multiple times each, as they would sometimes gasp back to life for a brief, unexpected period, before fading away or being buried alive again. Maybe they weren't ever fully dead, just MIA, like someone who enters the witness protection program and must remain in hiding for years while the mob boss who is faced with being testified against finds innumerable creative ways to stall their trial. I missed you. I missed being able to just be your friend instead of feeling like your incompetent therapist. I kept hoping those MIA pieces of you would come back, and we could do things together we used to do: "walking" your dogs in Nose Hill Park (we'd walk, your dogs ran); swimming at the Village Square Leisure Centre; having living room picnics of wine, chocolate fondue, and fresh fruit; driving to the mountains to breathe fresh air and beauty (okay so the letting you drive part freaked me out, but I liked it once we were walking on solid ground); watching children's movies; exchanging music we identified with (I wish I had appreciated the depth and beauty of Plumb when you first introduced me); sharing delicious smoothies; horseback riding at summer camp; having random adventures like taking a bunch of silly photographs and using them to make up a story about parachute-pants-wearing-fairies and evil tumbleweeds.
I wish we had gotten to do the things we'd planned to do: like visiting Ireland, and growing old together and annoying everyone at our seniors' residence by wearing obnoxious purple outfits with a giant red hat that doesn't go. There were some things we never talked about that I secretly wished we'd do together, like discussing books we were reading. We exchanged books sometimes. But more often than not, we didn't talk much about what they meant to us. Sometimes I would see a quote from a book I had given you that I hoped would change your life posted on your blog or facebook page years after I had given it to you. It was always kind of a surprise what stuck out to you, and always a mystery to me how much of that stuck with you. I wish that seeing others' children didn't hurt you so much- I really wanted to introduce you to my neices and nephews, to Sindy's little girl. I know you would have liked them, and your heart would melt into mush or dance with pure joy at their excessive cuteness the way mine does when I'm with them. I always believed that one day you would face your demons and see a counsellor long enough to actually work through the attachment issues that wrought so much damage in your self-esteem, emotional regulation, and relationships. I was looking forward to being your maid of honour at your wedding to a sweet Christian man who treasured your beautiful, fiery heart, in a cute country church surrounded by good friends that you love and whom you know without a shadow of a doubt love you. I was going to proudly read out a toast to the amazing person you are, regardless of how much my hands and knees would shake from being subjected to public speaking. It wouldn't have been a boring wedding speech. Nothing about you was ever boring. I may still get the chance to do the toast, just not in the scene I dreamed of.
There were some pieces of yourself you never lost, and I clung to those bits. You had a fierce sense of protectiveness towards vulnerable others- animals, the elderly, those with disabilities, children. Nothing could raise your wrath more quickly than witnessing injustice. Admittedly, sometimes this led to incidents of road rage or smashing things, but it also gave you powerful resolve to do things you believed to be right, like following through with a childhood promise to never allow your grandma to be put in a care home against her will. The people you really loved were the ones you seldom spoke of on social media- they were your magical treasures, things you kept hidden safely in a secret pocket because you were constantly afraid they would disappear. People didn't always see it, but you could be very tender. You maintained enduring compassion for and loyalty to others, even while raging about their betrayals. On the miserable living allowance that is income support and incapacitated with physical pain and social anxiety, you would find the will and way to do things for others you couldn't do for yourself.
I miss you, Tachae. The other day on Bloor Street I saw a Nascar race car balanced on 4 porcelain tea cups on a fine dining room table. It just seemed like the sort of thing you would appreciate, maybe because it was a little like you- powerful and fragile, dangerous and beautiful, and a little bit preposterous. I wanted to send a photo to you, only to remember there's no way for me to do that anymore. God alone knows where you are now. I sure hope you're in heaven. If you are, please send my greetings and salutations to your grandpa and give a hug to my mom and your Caleb on my behalf. And when I die, and have finished that one-on-one judgement of my life/therapy session with God, I'll look for you there. I expect heaven has some pretty rockin' dance parties where you could be the disco queen, and where even introverted, self-conscious people like me can dance uninhibited, and nobody needs drugs because they're free to feel pure joy and love, uncontaminated by pain or rejection. There's no death in heaven, no more permanent separations among those who already live there. But at least for now, you have gone away where I can't follow. So to you, friend, this is my last goodbye.
