Devastated

"When you die, I'm not going to be sad," you told me, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

"What? Yes you are," I replied, trying not to show how hurt I was. 

"No, I’m not. Everything is transient. I love you. I'm just not going to miss you or be sad." 

 "Well, I'm going to be sad when you die." 

It was about sixteen years ago when you told me this. We were sitting on your couch in your apartment in Chelsea, where we spent much of our time together. I didn't really believe you wouldn't be sad when I died. I thought you were just being an idealistic Buddhist, convincing yourself you were a strong practitioner of non-attachment. We both knew how righteous you could be.  It still felt like a dagger in my heart. I did feel it was a possibility that you would be unaffected by my death, and that hurt. Why did you even need to tell me that? I knew that if you died, I would be devastated. 

 We had first met in San Francisco in 1993. You went by Marcus then. We were both new students of Rama. You worked in a condom store down the street from my house on Union Street, and we would bump into each other often. You asked me to help you learn how to code in C. When it came time to move to New York, you found cheap airline tickets and arranged mine for me.  

We weren't particularly close in San Francisco, but we were even less so when we first moved to the East Coast. We liked each other well enough; we just found ourselves in different circles. We didn't really reconnect until you moved in with Derek, Sven, and Gary in 1995. One day, Derek phoned me. 

"What are you up to?" Derek asked. 

"Who are you talking to?" I heard in the background. 

"Is that Marcus?" I asked. 

"Who's Marcus?" said Derek. 

"Oh, sorry. I mean James. He used to go by Marcus." 

"Hey James, did you ever go by Marcus?" Derek asked James. 

"Yes, I did. Tell Karin she's fabulous, and I miss her," you said. 

"All the best men are gay," I replied. There was silence on the other end. 

Derek came over later that day. We were chatting in my kitchen, when he suddenly got very serious. 

"Can I ask you a question?" he asked me. 

"Sure." 

"Earlier, when you said 'all the best mean are gay' did you mean James? Is James gay?" 

"Of course. You didn't know?" 

You and I had many a laugh over that. Derek later tried to claim he knew all along. I was so glad that he moved in with you because it forged our relationship. We found it funny that Derek would get jealous of our closeness. Admittedly, I was sometimes jealous of you because I wanted more time alone with him. In the end, however, it was not our relationships with Derek that survived, but the one that we formed with one another. 

Later that year, I moved into my own apartment. Shortly thereafter, you had lost your job and needed a place to stay. You came and lived with me, and we had a great time. I let you use my car. In exchange, you were the perfect house husband. You dropped me off and picked me up from the train station. You took care of my dry cleaning. You made delicious meals. 

"Have you seen my ring? I can't find it," you called from the bedroom, where you slept. 

"It's in the bathroom to the left of the sink," I called from the living room, where I slept. 

We laughed. It was kind of like playing house, but without all the complications of an actual marriage. 

Even after you moved out, we spent all our spare time together. We went to Bikram yoga almost daily. You were always so bendy, and I still envision you in virasana leaning forward with your head all the way down to the floor. I couldn’t even get my butt to touch the ground between my knees, let alone lean forward. When it was time to come up, you would pop your head up and gingerly sit up. You always looked like an alien hatching out of a shell with your bald head. In fact, we always joked about you being an alien, and for my birthday one year, you gave me soap with an alien inside so I could always think of you while I was washing myself.  

We wiled away hours in restaurants comparing merlots and key lime pies. We would hang out and do nothing--I would read a book and you would paint. We did not need to be entertaining one another; we just liked to be around one another, even if we were not interacting. You were my best friend, and I would do anything for you. 

My favorite Christmas is still the Christmas we spent together alone in 1998 when I lived with Joe up on West 96th Street in Manhattan. He had gone to Pennsylvania to spend Christmas with his family, but he had gotten this huge tree and decorated the entire house (something I would never do). We decided you would come up on Christmas Eve and spend the night. We were going to get each other stockings and fill them up with presents. It was so much fun to go out and find the perfect stocking and stuffers for you. We made dinner and watched a movie in our pajamas before we went to bed. In the morning, we made pancakes and exchanged our presents. You completely overwhelmed me with gifts. Not only did you fill up my spikey velvet stocking, but you bought me jewelry, bags, art. It was too much. I almost couldn't receive it all. You were so generous and full of love. 

Rama died in 1998, and all of his students were going in different directions. We both had gone to see several different spiritual teachers. You really liked this Tibetan Rinpoche and spent much of your time serving him and practicing with him. I had found Adi Da and was drawn to his teachings. I was afraid if I became a devotee, we would drift apart. Although neither of us said anything about it, you wanted me to study with your Tibetan Rinpoche, and I wanted you to be a devotee of Adi Da. I was torn. I didn't want to lose you. One day, I received an email from you. It wasn't just addressed to me, but also to Jon and Mariah, and whoever else we hung out with at the time. That was the worst part. It wasn't just addressed to me, but I was lumped into a mass email.  

Dear Friends, 

I am at a point in my life when I need to change. I can't do it while being friends with you. You all are holding me in a pattern, and I need to break free. I wish you all well.  

Happy trails, 

James 

I was heart-broken. This was worse than being told you wouldn't care when I died. This was heartless and impersonal.  

"Eh, you know James," Mariah said, unconcerned. 

"It's okay, Karin. He just needs some time. James has always been a flake," Jon told me. 

They didn’t understand. They were never as close to you as I was. I was devastated. Heartbreak turned to anger, and I vowed to never be friends with you again.  

Since you were no longer a hindrance to my desire to study with Adi Da, I became a devotee shortly thereafter in July of 1999. The following April, I quit my job and left my studies at Columbia to go travel with and serve Adi Da full-time. In June of 2000, while I was in Los Angeles with Adi Da, I received an email from you with an apology and a stated wish to reconnect. Despite my vow to never have a relationship with you again, I was ecstatic. We began emailing regularly, and our friendship was reformed. You realized what a selfish fool you had been and how important I was to you and promised to never do that again. 

I married Justin in December, 2000, and I convinced him to move back to New York with me. We started our drive across country in February, 2001, and you offered to let us stay with you in Brooklyn when we arrived. We loved staying with you, and I loved having my best friend back. We moved into our own place in May. Shortly thereafter, I got another email from you, asserting your independence. I think next I heard from you, you were in Hawaii. You apologized again, stating that you've really learned this time that cutting off from those that you love does nothing to help your spiritual process. Once again I accepted it. You did this over and over again, and even when I felt I could not bear it anymore, whenever you would reach out to me again, my love for you overwhelmed any kind of hurt I had, and I welcomed you back. 

In 2005, while I was pregnant with Tara, you were back in my life, and we were both living again in San Francisco. You were going by Marcus again, but I could never get out of the habit of calling you James.You were having strange symptoms, getting red blotches all over your body and feeling ill. Nobody knew what it was. Honestly, I did not think too much about it, and I did not see you too often.  

I gave birth to Tara on November 25, 2005 and emailed you a picture of her. I had no idea where you were. I had had a difficult and long labor, and Tara would not sleep. I was not producing enough milk, and Tara was not getting enough food. I had not slept in days and was exhausted and suffering from post-partum depression when I received your call. 

"Hey, it's James."  

You sounded like death. 

"Hi! How are you? Are you okay?"  

"I'm in the hospital. I almost died. But I saw the picture you sent of your baby. She is so bright and beautiful. I can really feel her spirit. She just lifted me up and had such a profound effect on me." 

"You almost died? What's happening?" 

"I'll be okay. I have a rare form of blood cancer. The doctor's think I will be all right." 

I tried to remain strong for you, but it was too much for me. I was terrified for you and extremely sad. At the same time, I was mad at you for telling me when I was in such a vulnerable state. I took a bath, and I wailed. I felt so conflicted. I wanted to go to the hospital to see you, but I had just given birth and was in no state to go anywhere. 

Your health greatly improved. Your health got worse. You had cancer and HIV. At one point, the doctor even said you had AIDS. You moved from San Francisco to Colorado to Hawaii to New Mexico to Santa Cruz to I don't know where. You would cut off from me and then reach out to me again. I never felt I could be there for you, but you never let me either. If it went too long without me hearing from you, even when you were in a state of not talking to me, I would panic that you had died. I would email Fred and hope that he would respond to me. 

You finally reached out to me again in February 2013. I was so happy to hear from you. You were living in New Mexico and had just fallen in love. You sent me pictures of your paintings. We talked on the phone. We thought we might see each other, but we never managed to cross paths.  

On July 15, 2013, I received a text from Laura saying "Hey Karin. I need to talk to you. Let me know when a good time to call would be." I felt a foreboding. I texted her to call at 1PM.  

"Hey Karin. I'm afraid I have some bad news," Laura told me over the phone. "It's about our friend Marcus James." 

"No, no NO!" I cried. 

"He died this morning," she went on. Honestly, I heard nothing else. Even though I think I asked questions, I remember nothing. I left work and went home, but I could not go inside. I couldn't explain to my children my wailing and grief. I called Mariah. 

"It's so much better this way. He was in so much pain. Now he is free," she told me. Of course, she was right, but why wasn't she in more pain? Was I not supposed to feel this way? Finally, I emailed Fred. He gave me the details of the Buddhist ceremony you were having and when your cremation was. He informed me of all the details of the water ceremony. I felt calm. I felt useful, as I prayed for your easeful transition.  

He invited me to meet him in San Diego the following month to help spread your ashes. We went to Torrey Pines and hiked for a while before we found the perfect spot on the beach. Fred cried, and I felt like I had to be strong for him. We walked out into the ocean, opened the box, and flung your ashes out to the sea. I kissed the ashes and told you to fly free. It felt good to let you go. 

While my pain is still acute, I realized that you had prepared me for your death all along. Each time you pulled away from me, it was like you had died, and I grieved for you. Each time, it got a little bit easier. While your death was not easy for me in any way, my longing for you is a familiar ache--a feeling with which I am almost comfortable. Although I hope you have been liberated from reincarnating in this realm, I find I am always looking for you, like devotees trying to find the tulku. I think about what items I have of yours that you might recognize in your new form.  

In the end, I guess you were right: you will not be sad when I die, for you are already gone, my friend. I was right, too. I am devastated.