(NOTE: This was originally being written as a single-entry but turned into bits and pieces over the last couple days. I’ve intentionally left the “I am doing this right now so as to not affect how I was feeling when I wrote it,” so it may be a little confusing as I jump from the apartment to the plane to the hotel room, where I sit now typing.)
Twenty-four hours ago, my mind was boiling. Literally boiling. I was sitting in my apartment. Stewing. It is snowing up north; there are invites and options to be other places. I want to run. I need to stay, but I should be somewhere else. It probably includes sand, sun, and waves. I sit boiling in my apartment.
I stare at the screen. American Airlines’s website is staring back. One of my bucket list destinations is on hold, seats picked, upgrade accepted. The price alone would be a good enough reason to say, “Fuck it,” and hit the “Cancel Reservation” button. The other tabs are hotels with availability.
A year ago I was in China, en route possibly the same day I came down with E-coli in Nanjing (I’ll need to check that). The year before, David and I were barreling down three feet of fresh snow in Kirkwood—the second (and last) year doing what I thought we would be doing for years to come.
As I sit here, I’m 30-some-odd thousand feet in the sky. Bags are packed; my gear is about 50% mine, 50% DP’s, as I always try to have at least one thing on me of his that is riding with me at any time. But he isn’t. It’s just a nice thought. A reminder to live.
This morning, I woke up in a room akin to a 70’s porn set. Lots of brown—not the kind of brown that is earthy and trendy, but that faux-wood brown with lots of faux-wood patterns.
I’ve managed thus far to check in, a bit tipsy from the two flights and endless drinks offered, while taking twelve hours to get to a destination. I think it’s funny, actually, when you begin to think of the class differences on airlines. My upgrades were accepted to first class on both flight segments. The announcement on the plane always makes me laugh a little. In first class, you can have whatever you want: You electronics can be left on that much longer, your drinks are served in a real glass (free of charge), and you have two meal options, some warm mixed nuts, a hot cookie, and towel. Coach… half a soda. Thanks for flying the friendly skies. When I have a layover, one of my credit cards allows me complimentary access to more isolation. So it’s more complimentary drinks than random discussion with another of the almighty flight-privileged.
When I checked in, I realized it had been two months since I have been at an airport. Thanks Foursquare for keeping tabs on that. Mostly though, this trip I have realized how awfully alone it is, this decision I have made. Back to the check-in.
So I checked into the hotel, and they were nice enough to upgrade my room to a mountain view. A little note about how I booked this trip: David and I would spend whatever it costs to get where we needed to go. My status upgrades happened about the same time David was falling apart. I really wish he could have been with me on some of this as I think he would enjoy it, and I would have gladly used my upgrades for him, too. It would have been fun. But the point really was the room never mattered. Cheap as can be; as long as it had heat and two beds and was clean, we were golden. So I opted for the $64-a-night spot in Jackson at a place called the Ranch Inn. I threw my stuff in, and I immediately recognized that it was double occupancy—the upgrade from the single queen I originally requested.
It immediately tripped me off a bit. That was DP’s bed. I’ve left it completely untouched this entire trip. Once I settled in, I decided to have a look around. So I went over to a little bar around the corner to see what was going on. It was your usual ski bum spot: pool table, little stage, a mixture of tourist and skibum-types with over-sized gear and flat brim hats. Normally in this situation, I would be elated. We’ve found our snowy beach destination, and this place was going to be super fun.
Then it hit me: It’s just me… DP isn’t right behind, taking a pee, or getting some drinks. So I sat down at a table, ordered a shot of Jame-O and a PBR, and then realized the gravity of my situation. It’s just me, a couple thousand miles away from friends and family in one of the more difficult snowboard destinations in the world. My usual-chatty self has been subdued, and I am not really in a place to be all “chatty Kathy” and make friends.
When I went to the mountain yesterday, I took the bus. It took quite a bit to get me out of the hotel and get going. There wasn’t the typical rush of anticipation we usually had together, pushing each other to get out the door and take a look at our new destination.
I did end up making it out of the hotel and onto the bus. I bought the five-day. All the while, I am getting texts from back home about the big snowstorm throwing fresh snow all over the northeast and how the conditions are so not like the northeast. Note: It hasn’t snowed here in about a week, and if you’ve spent as much time playing in the snow as we have, I could easily see that I was about to embark on some very steep, very stale snow.
When I was in NYC, I was boiling, as I mentioned up front. I was pacing about my apartment, conflicted. “I should be doing what I said we would be doing for the Christmas break,” I thought, when a new thought came: It’s time to make changes and start to adopt a “without David” plan. I did what I thought was an in-between. I figured that in order to make some change, I would get out of NYC. I had to get out of NYC. I would have just paced about my apartment with ideas of doing something, having only stayed right where I was. I would have been pissed at myself for wasting the quiet time that we are lucky enough to have in our world that shuts down for the week.
What I did not anticipate was how utterly alone it was going to feel. Table-for-one for dinner when they don’t have bar-seating is… well frankly, it sucks. Last night, I wandered into a place to snag some BBQ and was the only person sitting at a booth. Part of me was mouthing “motherfucker” at David at this point, as I wouldn’t be in this position if he’d stuck around, and we would be talking about the days riding (which was weak, partly because I wasn’t pushing in any capacity due to the fact I didn’t have my co-pilot with me and partly because I was mostly exploring, trying to find some spots that might have more snow than others). Either way, it sucked. I was supposed to check out this other little spot—it was, after all, Saturday night and a good night to go out and kick the shit with some people and make some new friends to go riding with. But by the time I was done eating, all I wanted to do was go home. David would not have allowed this, and if David was acting the way I was, I would not have allowed him to do it either.
I went home. When I woke up this morning, I had the familiar “lower back first day on the snow” aches and pains. Not the bad kind—the kind that said you haven’t used these muscles in a while, but it’ll be good in a day. Normally we would get up, suit up, then find a breakfast joint that we would make our spot for the rest of the week. DP would order an american-cheese omelette. I would find something on the specials and switch it up each day until I had a full accounting on their breakfast prowess.
I am sitting here now, typing in the room. I’m not sure if I want to go riding today, but I did find a breakfast spot that I am going to check out. But I know the same spectral reminder will come when I walk in and sit at a table-for-one, wishing that my little buddy was across from me ordering his oh-so-generic american-cheese omelette.
I’m gonna try my best this week to adapt. I am not entirely sure if this was a good idea or a bad idea to take this particular trip. It has been on my list for years and was one I wanted to share with David. I would have liked to have taken somebody with me to go riding with, but then I would have tainted the routine of it all. We’ll have to see how it pans out. But the facts still stand: A year and two months later, and the hurt is just as real as it was on October 15th. In fact, the magnitude of the impact that it has on you only multiplies, as you realize the ways a person can weave their life so delicately into your own “life-cloth.” You have to go on living, but you’re constantly in a process of trying to pull out those strings woven so tightly into your routine in order to make room for new routines.
I think I understand now what girls experience when they get a “run” in their stockings—it’s just never the same again.
We’ll see how it plays. I really wish DP was here with me, but I’ve said it before. Wish in one hand, shit in the other—tell me which one fills up first. Reality is what you make of your days that you are given, so I’ll go find the breakfast spot and try to be my own sherpa on this one. More to come on this as we continue this journey as the survivor of suicide.
