Cheers, Joey

CW; death, suicide, alcohol consumption

I’m chilling next to a mausoleum at a cemetery waiting for my car to get some maintenance. I’m sitting on a big rock in the shade of a hickory tree sipping on coffee and reading “Dharma Punx” by Noah Levine when someone in a Mets jersey starts walking towards me. My initial reaction is to panic, am I about to be jumped? I acknowledge the person, they walk up to the bottom corner spot, tap the marble, and say, “Hey buddy.” I realize what they are here for.

“Would you like some peace?” I offer.

”No, thank you though. We just had a service,” they say choking back tears.

”Okay,” I affirm.

I feel the emotions swell up inside of me. I want to burst into tears and tell them how sorry I am for their loss. Instead, I try to continue reading my novel, yet the words barely register. I want them to tell me everything. I want them to share with me, but I’m kind of locked up.

They ask if I mind if they drink a beer. I say, “No, not at all.”

”Do you want one?” They offer tapping on their shorts’ pocket. “We do this every year don’t we, Joe?”

I say, “No, thank you.”

They accept my boundary, but say, “He would’ve liked it. You sure it’s okay?”

”Of course.”

I think, “Beer doesn’t sit well in my stomach,” but I keep that thought to myself.

Crunch, pssssss. They crack open a can of Miller Lite, tap the stone, drink it up, pour some in his plants, and say thank you to me for sharing the space and walk away.

”Take care,” is all I can get out even though I want to say so much more.

My mom keeps trying to tell me I’ll be sad when the people I’ve known for so long leave their bodies. There’s no doubt I will be. But I also think she’s projecting some of her own unprocessed grief. I’ve already lost people I love more than I’d like to sit and count. I’ve got a stack of prayer cards on my bedside table waiting to remind me. It hurts when they’re gone for good, no doubt, but it hurts even more when they’re alive and we can’t meet on common grounds. Death is just another part of life. Joe was barely 25 when he died. The people who knew him must live out the rest of their lives without him. That isn’t easy.

Yesterday, I thought about suicide. I asked a family member for help and they couldn’t come through for me. I cried while picking up people’s food who were too busy or whatever to pick it up themselves. I can’t hide the way I feel. I can try to stuff it down and turn it off, but where has that gotten me?

I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I don’t want to be hurt, ignored, or rejected. I want to be accepted. It’s what we all want. It’s a human need.

I don’t want you to show up for me when I’m dead in a grave. That’s for you, not for me. Quite frankly, I don’t even want you to waste the money. Throw my bones out to sea. I want you to show up for me now. Please.