Back again..

It's been quite a while since I posted on this blog.

It's been a busy interim, to say the least Let's see -- planning and executing a cross country move, getting my 18 year old off to college, seeing my husband and family through his new job and subsequent layoff after two months, taking a depressing low paying retail job to pick up the slack (I'll have to speak about that experience at some point), understanding working poverty all too well, recovering back into the professional class, getting my new life into gear, etc. etc...

But the worst experience, by far, has been losing a lifelong friend.


Chris and I were boyfriend and girlfriend in college, but our friendship managed to surpass the trauma of our eventual romantic breakup, and we remained close friends over the years. He was the one person I could always really talk to -- I knew that when he called me up every few months and asked, "What's up?" I could really tell him. He'd always have some unique insight that would make things seem ok, or at least less bad.

When I felt like my marriage was probably kaput, he was the one who told me to hang in there, and he would always give me the male point of view. He would listen to my songs and my crazy ideas and opinions, and he'd always manage to make me laugh at myself, or at him. He was the best kind of friend -- he kept it real, but he'd make you feel better about it, no matter what was going on..

Unfortunately, he was also a heroin addict.

He managed to keep his addiction hidden from me for several years. He had traveled out to San Franciso with a group of our college musician friends to play in a band and live. They were folks who never, ever said no to drugs, and they were eager to explore the myriad opportunities to try heroin that existed in San Francisco.

When these friends tired of the lifestyle, they left. Chris, however, stayed behind, and got hooked deeper and deeper. I didn't realize the depth of his problem until I had occasion to visit, and he refused to allow me to stay at or see his place, insisting it was too messy. This was odd, considering that he was always somewhat of a neat freak, and usually kept a really tidy place.

After he came back to New York, his addiction became more obvious, to everyone. He finally leveled with me about it, and what he had gone through to try and get clean - at that point there had been several attempts. During subsequent years, there would be more relapses, rehabs, and perhaps most heartbreaking, the onset of mental illness - bi-polar disorder - that seemed to fuel his need for self medication. He hated the lithium they gave him for bi-polar - "It kills my creativity" was his complaint, and the rest of his life became an endless cycle of depression, mania, heroin and alcohol, breakdowns, detox and rehab, taking meds and 12 stepping for a while, stopping his meds, depression, mania, etc.

He was from a wealthy family and could have lived comfortably on a trust fund for the rest of his life, but they cut off most of his income at some point, probably to keep him from OD'ing.

His calls became less frequent - instead of months between our conversations, it became years - and the last time he called, it was obvious he was in a really bad way. He was ranting and raving in a way I had never heard, and while he had previously taken great pains to only call me when he was straight or clean, it was pretty clear that straight, clean and sane were no longer part of his existence. To realize that a guy of his intelligence, wit and creativity was so far gone was hard to for me to deal with. I didn't know what to say, so I just let him go on.

At one point he stopped, and said, "Am I scaring you?" I replied evenly, "Well, you're not making a whole lot of sense." He apologized, and told me of his struggles with his illness. Before we hung up, the last thing I said to him was, "Chris, you know I love you and I'll always be there for you." He did not say much in reply. It turns out to have been the last thing I ever said to him.

His family informed none of his old friends of his death. Some of us later surmised that at that point, after dealing with his addiction and bi-polar issues for the better part of 12 years, they probably had no idea who was a true friend and who was just a crazy junkie, although they had known me for several years when we were together.

I guess in a way, Chris himself was the one to tell me he had passed on. Out of the blue a couple months ago, I dreamed of him. It was a vivid dream, and unsettling. He was younger, looking like a rock star with blond streaked hair. He was searching for something - I never did quite find out what - but it was obvious that I was there to try to help him find it.

The dream stayed with me all day, as did my unsettled feeling. Finally, I sat down at the computer and googled his name along with "obituary" and "death notice." This was a morbid practice I had taken to at various times during the four years previous, when he had remained out of touch after that final conversation. (I never knew how to get in touch with him, as he rarely had a phone number and his addresses changed frequently.)

This time, however, the horrible reality was staring me in the face from the computer screen: a stark listing from a funeral home that gave his full name and date of birth and death. I remember letting out a scream - I was home alone at the time - that was more like a a wail that overtook me and would not let go. It was like a knife through my heart. There would never be that phone call from him again, never the communication I had hoped for - "I'm finally clean, I'm ok." He was gone, forever, one of my dearest friends in the world. I would never see him, never hug him, never talk to him again.

It was some comfort to subsequently find out that he had died of a heart infection that had come on suddenly. He had been living with his mother for some time when it happened. At least he didn't just OD in some squalid apartment, surrounded by junkies, or worse, alone.

I sent a long condolence letter to his mom -- she never replied. I guess she lumped me in with his "bad" friends, or maybe she was just too torn up or out of it herself to deal with it (she had been an alcoholic for many years). I wrote to his sister, care of his mom, but the letter was returned.

A few of us are planning a memorial in the spring, in our old college town, when the mountains in upstate New York come back to life, and the ground and air turn warm. We will play his songs and share funny remembrances and probably laugh and cry and hug each other -- the gathering of those who loved him that we haven't yet had. Maybe it will help.

I have a feeling his spirit is OK. For weeks after, his name kept popping up, repeatedly. I was working at a bookstore at the time, and customers with his name would come in to pick up books on hold, or I would grab a book off the shelf - one time one actually fell off a shelf - and the author's name would be the same as his.

And then one night, very late, I was driving home from work, along a deserted rural road. I said to the emptiness, I just wish I could have some sign that he is OK. And this old song came spilling out of the radio into the Texas hill country night:

If you had not have fallen
Then I would not have found you
Angel flying too close to the ground
And I patched up your broken wing
And hung around a while
Tried to keep your spirits up
While you were feelin' down
I knew someday that you would fly away
For love's the greatest healer to be found
So leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground
Fly on, fly on past the speed of sound
I'd rather see you up
Than see you down
Leave me if you need to
I will still remember
Angel flying too close to the ground

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