An ending, a memorial

A good friend of mine passed at the end of July from complications of diabetes. Our friend group knew that he was sick, but we never knew just how much. Then he was gone. It was like a heavy rock thrown into a river.

Through the help of another friend group, I was able to commit the physically painful but necessary act of boomeranging myself across the country for the celebration of life. By boomeranging, I mean that I flew out early of Baltimore back to northeast Washington State, checked into my hotel in Spokane Valley, attended the event the next day, and then got up ass early the third day to fly back to Baltimore. It was discombobulating. But I felt a need in my spirit to be there, so I went.

Why didn't I stay longer? I'll get to that. But the trip itself is something that I almost couldn't believe if I hadn't been there.

The flight from Baltimore to Spokane included a five-hour layover in Denver, in which I made two lesbians and a middle-aged retired guy excitedly uncomfortable by publicly shotgunning my afternoon medications - somewhere around seven pills, chucked down my gullet at once followed by a long pull of water. I regret nothing. Airports are a liminal space in which the bounds of time, nutrition, and regular human behavior are bent into Escher-like forms.

My flight tickets included one free drink. I found myself swigging a rum and Coke - more of the former than the latter - at 8:30am. I was wrestling with fierce anxiety because I was flying to visit a place that I didn't want to be to say goodbye to a friend. So... rum.

The car rental agency at Spokane International Airport gave me a Toyota RAV4. I usually drive a Subaru Outback that I've lovingly dubbed the Lesbian Limo, and this vehicle change gave me a sudden, clear insight into the mind of a middle-aged man going through a midlife crisis. Completely coincidentally, my stepdad drives a RAV4. It handles like a tank. Gross.

Looking at a map, I realized that my hotel for this adventure was almost exactly between the super sketchy first apartment that I'd found after my discharge from the Navy and the Walmart Supercenter where I'd worked. The universe is rarely subtle. This was no different.

As for the celebration of life, I won't repeat the remarks that were made because they were incredibly personal and not mine to share. It was a beautiful, heartfelt moment of the kind that can only happen among a group of nerdy-ass theater kids. I dressed in a closet cosplay inspired by the Sisters of Battle from Warhammer 40K - an interest that I'd shared with my departed friend - and I gave his mother a Space Marine mini that I'd painted at my local game store.

We were each given the chance to take some of my friend's ashes back with us in little glass vial pendants. Magnificently goth. A problem arose, though, when we couldn't get the casket open. We made it happen with a creative use of the surgical steel scoop that the organizers had obtained to divvy out the cremains. During that moment, we had the hushed communal realization that we were handling our dear friend's ashes with what was most likely a coke spoon. (Spokane is known for weed and meth. Don't at us.) Not knowing what to say, we all burst into side-aching hoots of laughter.

We said our last farewells at sunset on the bank of a river in my friend's favorite LARPing spot. As the wind ruffled my white cosplay wig, I remembered how my friend had always commemorated my brother's deathiversary with an appropriate Space Marine quote. I found myself uttering the words aloud:

He shall know no fear.

A few things affected the duration of my stay. One, I didn't have the paid time off to take a long trip. Two, there was not a lot remaining for me in that part of the country. As I've alluded to previously, my family doesn't live there anymore. My childhood home isn't even in the same form that I remember it to be. As I drove east on I-90 in the all-too-familiar evening traffic, I felt a kind of detachment. I knew the place where I was, but it didn't mean much to me. Apparently this is normal. It's not a slam on the particular location; it's just shifted in your personal hierarchy.

My return itinerary passed through Richmond. There I saw a mother accidentally drop her infant. A flurry of panic arose. The child was too still, too quiet. I stayed out of the way and watched the flight crew soothe the mother, assess the child's health, and call for emergency aid. Then, suddenly, the child shifted and smiled. As it turns out, he was okay - he was just distracted by a ceiling vent fan.

There's no tidy way to end this. It's just what I've been dealing with, and that three-day span neatly encapsulated the upheaval around me. Life, death, distraction, sudden burst of surreal humor. You find yourself precisely in the place that you need to be, and even though the process is painful, it leaves a beautiful fingerprint.