While she was in the hospital some people texted me the room number, suggesting I could send flowers. I wasn’t able to be there because of work. So I really don’t like people suggesting “gifts” to me, as if I’m not her sister. Her older sister who’s already got a plan. When she gets to finally leave the hospital to start her recovery at home, her brother says there’s a gift for her. We are on the phone. She says, “Sis, you get me alcohol?” (Which is still so funny to me, like I sent her a jug of whiskey or something.)
“Well, maybe you should open it,” I say.
It takes a second of what I can hear is Rashida opening the box, turning the bottle around, saying, “Huh?” And then lightly reading out loud, “Romance Red…ROMANCE RED OH MY GOD.”
So, here we are after a smile: Black Panther changed lives. And Chadwick Boseman was the STAR. The hero to save the world. Black Panther. I think of Leda immediately. All these articles are beautiful and they all mention how his fight wasn’t public. His illness was kept private. I wouldn’t dare speculate on this here because there are so many reasons to talk or not talk.
Leda texts me the next morning: Hi! I miss you How are you?? I also have to tell you about an experience last night that sounds unbelievable but that I know you’ll believe.
I smile. I was just thinking of texting her. Me: Oh yes please tell me! And I was going to text you anyway. Because of the sad coincidence that the actual last night I had with Owen was when you guys sat in the best seats we have for the Chadwick Boseman dress rehearsal Not the last night. The last snl.
Leda: Omg YES exactly. And I was talking w Shanda about it. I’ll just send you what I sent her.
This is what Leda sends me. Her text to her friend Shanda. At first they are talking about Chadwick Boseman.
I know. No wonder he was too tired for a picture… I can’t believe he took any! But I’ll always remember the look on his face when we said how much our students looked up to him. You could tell how much it meant to him - it was his life’s purpose. (That’s part one) And I swear, last night I was all in my feelings and thinking about everyone Owen is getting to meet up there. I literally played out the whole situation where owen obviously wouldn’t recognize him at first (classic). Then he’d say “oh, snap!” or something similar and start to text me about it. And I really laughed out loud picturing it as I was brushing my teeth. And just then bathroom lights started flickering. Not like a subtle flicker, like… all the way dim, all the way bright. Maybe three times and then all was normal. Can’t make this stuff up.
I smile and write back: And you know my bathroom lightbulb popped.
Leda: I know. So I had to tell you.
Me: I’m glad you did :) And I remember when that happened it made me laugh because I was thinking “this is great, Owen, but can our place not be the bathroom?”
I imagine this makes Leda laugh to read. And then I text: That is really perfect. It’s also funny that in you texting me, it reminded me, and then I texted everyone and your dad was also writing about it at the exact same time. So there must have been a moment of Owen right then.
So I have to explain what I mean there in that last text. After Leda texted, I decided to reach out to the Owen’s Angels group text.
Cecily: I just realized that Owen and Leda were in VIP seats at the Chadwick Boseman snl dress rehearsal. We did the earlier show and not the live one (although Leda and Shanda did my dressing room for the air show) because I think Owen had recently started treatments. It was April 7. Leda set it all up
Dr. Henry: So many overlapping circles in our lives
Me: It was a night of superheroes
Dr. Henry: Absolutely!!!
Then Uncle Ed chimes in. He’s never as chatty as everyone so I want to see what he says.
Uncle Ed: I was just doing my daily mail to Owen reporting the sad news about Chadwick Boseman when your text arrived. What a convergence of impulses; thank you wonderful Cecily for remembering what must have been a special night for Owen and Leda!
Me: And for me!
And then Laurel writes next, after a couple of minutes.
Aunt Laurel: Cecily and Leda, thank you so much for making that happen. Knowing that Owen had these special events and times to carry with him gives a certain degree of what. Hope?
And of course Dr. Henry: Hope indeed!
All of us thinking about Owen in different places at the same time. I imagine him flying with his birds past our homes this morning, at exactly the same moment. So we’d want to reach out to each other. And when we did, we’d feel like maybe he set this up for us. As a way to say hello? A way to make sure we are taking care of each other on a tough day? Owen in flight.
There were beautiful articles written today about what Chadwick Boseman accomplished, and with so much grace, all while being treated for cancer. I’m totally blown away by this person I barely spoke to that week.
So, the world is without two superheroes. I don’t know comic books well. So I don’t know where that leaves us in comic book land. But for me, as hard as it is, I will leave it here: I think it’s great we got to be living here on earth at the same time as two superheroes.
Wakanda Forever.
September 3, 2020
Jack reached out earlier this week, upset, because a family friend had some bad cancer updates. I guess that’s what you call those. I remind him that we can’t and don’t count people out. That it’s a cruel disease but that means it surprises us in both ways. And does your friend want to be treated like she’s sick? No. Then don’t treat her that way. He says thank you for the reminder. He sees the friend the following day and it’s good, normal. The most comforting word. For both of them. He even later reaches out to Dr. Henry, and Dr. Henry makes some calls to fast-track her and get her set up with a good doctor at Sloan Kettering. He does it, he reminds us, because we are a team, a family. It seems to be the only way to take on a supervillain like cancer.
September 8, 2020
Jack sits next to me on my Airbnb porch, while we soak up the last bits of sun and last bits of summer and last bits of being together before I leave for nine weeks to work.
I’m traveling to Vancouver to film a show I was supposed to have filmed over the summer. I love the show. I love the script. It’s a musical comedy and the characters are great and it’s full of joy and love and it makes me cry happy tears at every table read we’ve done. It doesn’t even feel real that I get to do it. It’s one of those projects that will never feel real, I think, even after it’s totally done and someone is watching it across the world. But I’m still terrified. I’ve said no to this total dream job at least twice. Somehow I’ve been lucky enough that the people in charge were gentle enough with me—and persistent!—and worked with me to get me to terms and conditions that made me finally feel safe enough to say yes. It really is bizarre, because it’s this absolute dream job I’ve been so excited about for two years, but at the same time I’m crossing a closed border during a pandemic. Nobody can visit me. I can’t leave. I have to quarantine again for two weeks. What if something happens to my family while I’m gone? Or me? I’m going to be singing and dancing and kissing, and we can’t wear masks while we film, right? I have a lot of anxiety, so I try not to think about it too much. Just remind myself how lucky I am to have the opportunity. Hold on to that.
And hold on to Jack now. I’m gonna miss him.
We’ve been holding hands a lot, hugging. He’s on his zero-gravity chair next to mine. He’s texting a friend from college. About fishing or baseball, who knows. And he says to me, “You know, he had cancer and it went away. But I guess it came back in February and he did treatments.”
I turn to him. “How is he doing now?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I ask him how he’s doing, but…”
It seems none of us know quite how to talk with each other about cancer.
“It’s tough, I know,” I say. “You don’t want to seem invasive or bring up a thing he doesn’t want to be remin
ded of. But you aren’t asking because you want to know how sick he is to decide your manner of speaking to him. You are asking because he’s a friend that you care about. I bet you could say something like, ‘Hey, I hope you are finished with those treatments. How are you feeling?’ ”
Jack texts his friend. He responds right away.
“He says he’s only got a couple treatments left. But he says he’s good. Seems to be responding to treatment.”
The response is clipped, but to me that sounds like good news on the horrible warped scale of good and bad when it comes to cancer news. They return to texting about baseball/fishing.
I turn away, look up at the trees who have let me hide all summer. I let myself cry a little. It seems like none of us quite know how to talk about cancer, but it looks like more and more of us are going to have to do it. Then I let myself smile a little, too. I’m happy to hear his friend is okay. I’m happy he asked.
Maybe it’s like what Aunt Laurel said and it gives me a little, what. Hope?
September 13, 2020
Jack Jack you are something else
You called me dandelion,
I call you sunshine
Summer creatures barreling into fall
I pretend I won’t wait for you
I won’t work for you
But of course I will
I believe in you
And you say I see you?
Well you hear me
You can even read my silent language
You hear what I need
And what a gift to get from someone
* * *
TODAY I WAS so happy I screamed your name on top of every mountaintop in my home: my kitchen island, my shower, my strange aboveground potted garden.
I ran down my long driveway with the heavy trash cans and I laughed so much with Kevin, because of our crazy awkward movements—heel-toe-heel-toe… sort of… somehow—and because we were going so outrageously fast.
I feel okay to go now, across the border.
I feel okay about this show.
I never feel okay.
I’m scared of so so so so so so so much.
I never feel this okay.
And now I do.
I’ve never been able to believe in a handhold, a hug. No matter how otherworldly it felt. No matter how absolutely real I knew it to be.
And now I get to believe in you.
(And my therapist would love to pause right here in this moment to show me that, look, it is possible to feel that connection again. Now resume.)
I’m too special for most of the world.
(I use the word special on my best days.)
But then there is you.
With your awkward hugs like being captured.
With your falling asleep after ten minutes on the couch.
With your phone calls and your motorcycle and your good vibes and your trout fishing and your loud-to-louder car. With your winks and your smiles, me never knowing if there is a phone call happening on those things in your ears. Your attention is often elsewhere no matter where we are.
Me with my Ketel botanicals and bad TV and good British TV and anxiety and fears I can laugh at while still knowing they are there. Me with no lights off in the room because I’m most scared of myself in the dark. Me with stubborn beliefs and fears that I think have kept me safe and a propensity to self-sabotage because sometimes I’m so much better at a really fucking good retort than a really fucking good response. I like to throw dynamite and say, “It doesn’t fucking matter.”
And then you.
And then there is you there.
And you said I lasted three “of these.”
Of these moments.
I assume you mean times where I really was drawing a line, ready to walk.
But I’d last ten more.
Because the one keeping track was you, not me, as upset as I seem.
You reach for my hand as much as I reach for yours.
You reach for my hand as much as I reach for yours.
You reach for my hand as much as I reach for yours.
Sorry, I don’t get to say that often.
Have I ever?
October 13, 2020
“You’ve done so well in 2020.”
I hear it a lot. I’ve said it, I think. I laugh. I stayed healthy! I got a Netflix animated series! I ended up in a love story! I am filming a new delightful show in Vancouver, where I’m the star and it makes me wonder every day if it’s real, if I’m the one who is supposed to look pretty today. Every day. I got a nomination. I’ve done so well in 2020.
I write that as a joke, because how can I say that? I lost the most beautiful boy. I thought I’d lose another. I worry still that I may. I’m worried I’d lose myself in some way. I lost Hal. My friend lost his grandma. I lost my landlord. Life stopped. But I did well, still, I think. Even if work means wearing thick masks with tests three times a week, separated across a border from my family because nothing is safe. But I’m working. It’s good. It’s inexplicably good. It makes friends sigh happily to ponder it. And then I go to bed like this, in a beautiful West Vancouver house, looking over water, and I sob. Because maybe I have found ways to share you. Maybe I have felt you around. Maybe it feels like you have a hand in the good news. But there is no changing you are gone. I miss you so much. And I hate GBM.
But just like every dark night, I look up at whatever star formation is there—tonight is too cloudy to see—and I look for you. And if there’s nothing, no stars, I look at our skies and I say out loud, “I promise you I want to be better.” How much I fucking miss you. I am good at keeping my head up. I want to smile when people say I’m doing well. As well as I can do in October. I lost you in January. I lost you. I love you, Owen.
December 3, 2020
There are anniversaries coming up in this story. Some pretty big ones.
Lucy needs a tooth cleaning. I know that because she got her teeth cleaned the day of the Christmas party where I met Jack. The last Thursday in December before SNL’s hiatus, right before Jack would go to Cuba. Owen wasn’t responding to our group texts in December, but Leda was. So it didn’t stick out as much. COVID was apparently in California—where I was, with Rashida. I haven’t seen her in ten months. What’s a life become when you take so many people out of it?
I am back in New York, in my apartment tonight. It’s the second night I’ve spent at home since March 24, 2020. I almost wrote 2012. That’s weird.
Yesterday I got back to my apartment and looked around. There’s not much to look at; it’s a small space. But I tried to enter the rooms like I didn’t want to disturb anything or even really touch anything. At first, I sat on my couch like I always do. I’ve lived here nine years. Why am I thrown by nine months? I watch TV here. I sit here every Wednesday and lose my mind over the sketches picked for SNL and I feel anxious until I take my herbal sleeping pills and ZzzQuil to sleep. Though since about the beginning of the pandemic, I’ve become an Ambien gal.
I was doing fine, emotionally I guess, until I looked at the coffee table. Sorry, my coffee table. It’s mine, isn’t it? I have to remind myself these things in this apartment are mine. It’s covered in a lot: various weird cosmetic products, like masks and serums and gel nail polishes; sunglasses; cords; pads of cute dog-print stationery; Bluetooth speakers. There are two unopened DNA tests I never took. A book of Rilke my friend got for me when I did my first Second City job, working on a cruise ship for four months.
I was twenty-six and it was my first real paying gig in comedy. I spent four months on the Norwegian Jewel, going back and forth between New York, Florida, and Nassau. For the first two months I felt like I was on the best vacation ever. Then by the third month it weirdly started to feel less like vacation and more like purgatory. I missed spending a night on land. I slept on a thin mattress on the floor because they wouldn’t give my roommate and me two beds, only one. (“The room is only berthed for one.” Bless them.) I went in thinking I’d work out and
write and see the world and eat well, when in reality I drank a lot of very cheap wine most nights and gained a bunch of weight. I didn’t quite see the world as much as spend every Tuesday drinking giant sugary $2 margaritas at a chain restaurant called Dogs in Port Canaveral, Florida. But it was still my first job! I was now a working comedian! And it inspired the cruise passenger character I used at my SNL audition. My apartment in New York isn’t far from where the ship docks in New York, so I pass by it pretty often. I like to think it keeps me humble.
I had taken the Rilke off the bookshelf at some point earlier that year, looking at it desperately during one of the moments after your heart has been broken a little and so you think, POETRY! ANY POETRY! And the task of finding the perfect poem to totally describe this pain I’m feeling winds up distracting me from this pain I’m feeling.
In front of everything, though, there are four things that hit me hard. It’s like they are on display, downstage center. There’s the wrapped present I was supposed to give to Leda. It’s a framed print of a bird drawing my friends Crystal and Graham made for us after we lost Owen. It’s in a square box, wrapped in paper that looks like extensions of the feathers from the wings of the bird in the drawing. Owen’s bird.
Next to that wrapped drawing is the COVID care package the young Broadway phenom Syd, Dr. Henry’s friend whom I was supposed to mentor, and her mom, Keri, dropped off back in March. The individually wrapped roll of toilet paper. The half-opened box of liposomal vitamin C. I’d only gone through a few packets before I left for the Hudson Valley. Thinking about the generosity of Syd and Keri makes me emotional—their willingness to help out me and Jack when they’d never even met us, and possibly put their own health in jeopardy to do so.
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