Life of the party

I don't care for parties, really. I'm much more comfortable in small groups or, preferably, one-on-one. At gatherings, Sandy often held court while I tucked into a sofa with an old or new friend and discussed anything from politics to life goals to health issues.

I still don't like parties, but I've noticed recently that the conversations I have with people — always personal, always what one of my friends once described as real — have become even more personal lately.

In Sandy's family, gatherings often bring together anywhere
from ten to thirty people. Sandy enjoyed those gatherings,
but I'm not actually sure what she did at them. We'd split up,
typically, and when we got in the car to go home, she'd turn
to me and say, "So, how's everybody doing?" We'd spent the
day with the same people, but I was the one who knew who
was changing jobs, having health problems, getting a dog, or
worried about something. She'd just had fun.

The topic of death is taboo in much of our society, or is to be treated with great solemnity. I've found, though, that many people welcome conversing about it as a part of life. Indeed, it is very much a part of my life, and so when someone asks me how or what I'm doing, Sandy's death is likely to come up. I'm not self-conscious about it, but I try to gauge the listener's interest, just as I do with any other topic. (And I'm sure I fail sometimes to gauge it correctly, just as I do with any other topic.) But what felt good to me the other evening was to find myself in conversations with people who are dealing with the same thing, in slightly different shades.

It wasn't a death party. In fact, it was a fundraising event for the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force. I talked about any number of other things with people. I shared and heard political analysis and theories, caught up with an old friend on her life, learned about the parenting challenges of a new acquaintance, bantered a bit with a charming older gentleman. And when Sandy's death came up, I talked openly and honestly about it and about my experiences since, and I found the people listening incredibly supportive and warm. Those interactions alone would have left me feeling part of a caring community.

But then I saw an old friend and fellow activist, and when I inquired about his partner, who I'd heard was ill, learned that he became a widower in March of this year. We shared a common experience that set us apart from most of the people in our social circles. It's all remarkably fresh for me, and it's even fresher for him. We compared the similarities (the agony of watching a spouse die, the emotional rollercoaster during and after death) and differences (he's navigating the bureaucracy of institutions and Medicare whereas I saw few bills; neighbors and family and friends descended to support him after his partner's death, whereas we were surrounded by loved ones as Sandy died and I had some much-needed time alone afterwards; he went to work throughout the ordeal and slept in their bed alone each night, whereas I didn't work at all and couldn't imagine sleeping at home without her). He's doing pretty well. I was amazed to see him there, as I wouldn't have gone to something like that two months after Sandy died. But grief is an individual, personal process; it's different for each of us. And it was incredibly nurturing to connect, widow to widower, even with different experiences.

But I wasn't done yet. I got to tell some old friends about the language in the marriage law that means that (assuming we win the referendum) Sandy and I will be married on June 30, 2014, effective retroactively to July 2007. They were as thrilled as I am about that.

And then, as I was about to depart, I casually asked an acquaintance how he was doing. He told me that his mother-in-law was in hospice care, dying of pancreatic cancer. So we talked about that experience, and then his partner, whose mother was the one dying, joined the conversation. A parent is different from a spouse, but much of hospice is the same regardless. She's dying at home, and Sandy had originally had hospice care at home, so I knew enough about the routines and the emergency medical supplies and all the other pieces that go into the rituals of caring for the dying. Though you might think the topic sounds depressing, it was a lovely conversation. The dying woman had lived much longer than people with stage IV pancreatic cancer typically live, and she'd made good use of the time. It was clear that they spent a lot of time laughing together, and I was glad for them all that she was clearly still engaged in life.

I walked home savoring each of the conversations, grateful for old and new friends alike who aren't afraid of real connection, and who are willing to bring death and dying and all that accompanies them out of the closet. At some point, death touches each of our lives. Unless we've isolated ourselves from all love and community, we'll have occasion to grieve, and it will be much easier for everyone if we let the realities of death and dying mingle with the other guests in our conversations.