Today is John's Birthday

This day, January 14th, will always be John's birthday. I will henceforth tick off each year as one more that he should have been here - with us. With me. He would have been 61 today. The day he was diagnosed, he said, "I'm not even going to make 60." He was right.

On his last Earth birthday two years ago I made him dark chocolate brownies from scratch, which we both devoured.

In my "Writing in Grief" course, we were prompted to write "What I Remember," and/or "What I Need to Forget" about our loved ones. This is what I wrote, which is so apropos for this day:

I Want to Remember…

The magical day we met at a pool in Palm Springs after my fortuitous u-turn.

How handsome he looked on our first date, and how I knew I was in trouble after he kissed me goodnight.

His beautiful smoky blue eyes and those long, sooty eyelashes I always envied.

How he still took my breath away, even after 35 years.

The aristocratic tilt of his nose.

How cute he looked in his wetsuit with his board.

How effortless it always was.

His pirate smile that lit up my life.

His gentleness, generosity and humility.

How dependable he was, and how he cared about others.

His wicked sense of humor.

How we'd pick up the phone to call each other at the exact same time.

How we'd miss each other after even a day apart.

How we loved and hated the same foods,

and how we made a sport out of guessing what kind of food each other was craving.

It was always the same food, we never guessed wrong.

How we finished each others' sentences.

How nobody knew either of us as well as we knew each other.

How devoted we were.

How he tenderly loved our cats and how we'd weep together when it was time to say goodbye to them.

How he gave me everything and more.

How our frequent "escapes" kept us childlike.

The way he turned his life around when he finally got sober 22 years ago, and how he inspired others.

I also want to remember and understand why I had a premonition something horrible was coming a year and a half before anything was overtly wrong. 

When I would tell him he'd say I was just being paranoid.

I want to remember and understand why I felt compelled to have more girlfriends when he appeared perfectly fine.

And then I dreamed he died.

I remember waking up in tears and meeting him in the hallway. He was holding his teacup and grinning, and when I told him my dream, he just hugged me and said, "I'm fine!"

I want to understand how my subconscious knew when my conscious mind was oblivious, and so was he, thinking his pain was muscular exertion. How did I know and not know?

And I want to remember how, right after he was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, the first thing I said to him was "Oh my God, our life is over." And it was.

And the first thing he said as he held me was, "You're going to be alone."

I want to remember how we couldn't let go of each other.

And then he said something remarkable: "As bad as this is, on some level I believe I'm right where I am supposed to be."

I want to remember these things because that was the last narcotic-free, rational conversation we had. As tragic as the news was, I treasure those last moments together on the last day he had a "Before."

I need to forget how two weeks later I was buying him a walker.

I need to forget the next month-long roller coaster ride to hell.

I want to believe he is in heaven surfing and eating chocolate cake, waiting patiently

for me.