“Throughout our lives, we are brought in contact with spiritual advisors; the trick is not in meeting them, but in recognizing them when we do. I only know that in our choice of friends and lovers and teachers who will change our lives, we are guided by forces which have nothing to do with the rationalizations that we give.” ~ Erica Jong ~*
Blanche gets back in the saddle, big time. After his brief setback he digs his heels in and gets back to working the program. In addition to recovery, he now gives lectures to cancer survivors. Because survivor he is: Lymphoma loses another round.
He moves to Florida. His mom is there now, and he has other family and friends there, too. The New York winters are too cold and dreary and they fill him with aches and pains that he no longer cares to tolerate. Blanche also confides that New York harbors too many negative connotations for him. Florida’s gentle weather, the energy of the sun and especially the healing power of the ocean are calling to him, and he knows that he will thrive in its environment. I know he’s right and I’m happy for him.
We phone often and email every week, sometimes several times a day. He sends wild, hilarious, raunchy stuff. When he gets a new digital camera, he records a nutty little film of himself dancing around to loud house music in his bathroom. He’s whipping his Cher-length black hair around, lip-synching theatrically from behind the shower curtain. I watch it over and over, just cracking up. It is so goofy and endearing. Here is a dude who knows just how FABU he is and he’s not afraid to SPREAD IT AROUND.
Blanche visits New York several times a year. When Blanche comes back to visit New York, it’s like The Pope is in town. His homies clamor for his attention and his calendar is always jam-packed, but we never miss at least one outing together.
When he comes during the Christmas holidays, we make it a point to hit JOE’S restaurant with a small crowd that usually includes Chris, Teresa and Nikki. In the warmer months, me and Blanche usually make a whole day of it. I pick him up early at his sister’s house in Middle Village and we take a drive down to an outdoor pub in Rockaway called The Wharf. There, we loll on picnic tables in the sun for hours and partake in a fresh feast of clams (raw and baked), crisply battered calamari, broiled scallops and fresh-brewed iced teas with lots of lemon. We laugh, we bitch, we dish the dirt. We enjoy languid, absorbing speculation on our infinite fascination with mysticism. We bask in the celebration of kindred souls.
Thurday, May 28, 2009, we take pleasure in just such a Blanchian Celebration. When I pick him up at his sister’s, he is positively radiant. Tanned, trim and dapper as all hell and sporting a sharp new haircut. He proudly model-poses for me, announcing that he can now fit into and is wearing his young nephew’s jeans. And of course, the hug.
I have seen him at what I thought was his best, but today is different and I am enthralled by the sight of him. He has blossomed into the rare, exotic flower that he was always meant to be. Or rather, he has cleared the path so that - finally - this flower is now in full view.
And in a little over 24 hours, he will be gone.
* * * * * * *
This past Saturday while we are walking our dogs, I ask Chris what he feels like doing later.
Chris: “Anything, whatever. Knowing YOU, you’ll end up at your computer typing away…”
Me: “No I won’t.”
Chris: “Really? Why not and since when?”
Me: “Because right now in my story, Hiram is still alive. But if I go back to the keyboard, soon he won’t be.” Do I actually believe this? The naked pain in my own voice startles, then saddens me.
So yes, my words for the finale of this story have stuttered and stopped, stubbornly pausing mid-syllable, mid-clack. Words have filtered into my mind and yet downright refused to appear on the screen. Words have forced me out of my chair, away from my desk and out to my frozen front stoop where I perch huddled, bereft and vacant. Frozen, for a change not wanting any more words. No more words, please, not right now. Not just yet.
* * * * * * *
I pick Blanche up around 3:00 in the afternoon. It is unseasonably chilly for late May and pouring like crazy. The plan is to meet up with our good pals Teresa and Nikki at Lenny’s Clam Bar on Crossbay Boulevard. The drive to Lenny’s is usually less than half an hour from Middle Village, but we are delayed every step of the way by what seems like one huge traffic jam encompassing literally all of cross-town Queens. We don’t care. We’re glad, yammering all the while and reveling in the silly splendor of being Blanche Squared.
Finger always on the pulse of celebrity-dom, Blanche commences to discussing Susan Boyle, the latest (and somewhat unlikely) diva songstress from America’s Got Talent.
Blanche: “She may be no great beauty. But she DOES have the PIPES, Blanche!”
Me: “Yeah, but the poor thing should just change her name to ‘Frumpy Singer’, since every article written about her begins with the words: ‘Frumpy singer, Susan Boyle’…”
I remember him laughing himself sick over that one, and me laughing too, saying: “Okay, it’s not that funny, Blanche!”
We stop at a gas station when I realize my tank is almost on empty. While we’re filling up, I remember to give Blanche some incense as well as a tube of fancy, holistic arthritis cream that I know he’ll like. “Just a little something for my bubby’s aches and pains.” He gets all teary-eyed and I get another hug.
When me and Blanche arrive at Lenny’s, Teresa and Nikki are not there yet. The traffic is murdering them, too. We grab the front-window booth and order some iced teas and the requisite clams and calamari.
Blanche (slurping his first clam): “Keep right on talking, Blanche, but DO pardon me as I make passionate love to my food.”
Teresa is next to arrive, and as she enters the restaurant Blanche is telling me that he finally got around to seeing the Sex And The City movie, and that the four characters kept reminding him of the four of us: Nikki is Charlotte, Teresa is Miranda, I’m Carrie (“Of course, honey...you’re THE WRITER…and you MUST KNOW that I’m Samantha - the hot number!”)
Finally, Nikki appears and our Fearsome Foursome (as Blanche has always called us) is in full-swing. Lots of laughter. We take pictures. More food is ordered, and drinks. I’m usually good for a few glasses of red wine when I go out to dinner, but tonight I stop after one glass and join Blanche with some sparkling water. He gives me a little wink across the table.
Somehow we’re on the subject of cremation. You never know what’s gonna fly with this crew. Blanche volunteers that if you practice Santeria, cremation is a burial taboo: “Your body must go back into the ground - in it’s full form - to nurture Mother Earth.”
He also declares that while he is satisfied and mostly fulfilled with his life, that his one true regret is not having had a child of his own. I’m surprised to hear him say this.
Me: “Well, you could always adopt, Blanche. You’d be a wonderful dad to some little kiddo.”
He shakes his head: “No, no. I want a child of my own blood. A part of me.”
I take his hand: “Don’t forget, bubby – when all is said and done, we’re all a part of each other.”
He brightens, smiles back sweetly: “That’s true, my love. That’s true! Who knows, maybe some day I will adopt. I suppose we can’t rule ANYthing out with MY life!”
* * * * * * * *
It’s still miserable and rainy when we leave the restaurant hours later, and now it’s dark outside. I had considered bringing Blanche back to my apartment so he can visit for awhile with Chris. But I’m a lousy night driver, especially in the rain, and the traffic already looks bad so I opt to bring Blanche directly home. He can see Chris next time he’s in town.
Incredibly, the drive back to Blanche’s sister’s place in Middle Village is EVEN LONGER than the one earlier. Cars are insanely backed up all over town, the roads are so slick that cars are hydroplaning down Woodhaven Boulevard and it seems as tho’ the sound of ambulance sirens are everywhere. I opt to take the side-roads the whole way. It takes a long time because of the back-ups but I’m honestly relieved. I’d rather be forced to drive slowly in this mess and besides, me and Blanche get to talk for the next hour.
He will only be in town for another few days. His mom is moving to another section of Miami this week, and he needs to be there to help her. She’s actually been living in a condo directly across the street from him these past couple of years, but now she’s lucked into a gorgeous new penthouse across town. I ask him if he’s going to be sad not having her right across the street from him anymore.
Blanche: “WHAT? Nooo, Gurl. That new penthouse of hers is on the 25th FLOOR. It’s like a VIEW of the ocean FROM HEAVEN. I’m looking forward to visiting her just for the change of scenery. She’ll get sick of me, I’ll be over there so much.”
The Ocean. He tells me that being near the ocean nourishes him like nothing else can. He tells me that he sees an Ocean Child in ME.
Me: “Me? But I’m all about the mountains, Blanche!”
Blanche: “No, baby. You are a Goddess of the Ocean. You are a typical Yemaya.”
Then he says that this is a phase of his life where it feels like anything – all good things - are possible. I tell him that just by looking at him today, I know it’s true.
He tells me that he hopes for a Chris of his own soon - A calm, gentle man who understands him and with whom he can find true communion and peace. I tell him I have no doubt that his great love is out there and that when it finds him - watch out, Blanche and watch out World.
We pull up in front of his sisters house. We sit parked, holding hands and talking a little more. He really, really, REALLY wants me and Chris to come visit him in Florida. I tell him that we really, really, REALLY want him to come to the mountains and visit our cabin, as well. We make a solemn vow that this will be the year we do these things. We simply MUST - no ifs, ands or buts.
And then it's time for me to make tracks. A chaste Blanchian kiss followed by possibly the tightest hug EVER. I sit back and smile into his beautiful face.
Me: “Isn’t it amazing how we stick together, Blanche? We’ve really got that stayin’ power thing goin’ on!”
Blanche (big, dimpled grin): “Gurl, let the fuckers TRY and separate us. LET THE BASTIDS TRY.”
He bounds from the car, up to his sister’s stoop, and I hit the road – beeping like a nut all the way down the block All the way to the corner, I can hear him yell-laughing:
“BLAAAANCHE!!”
As exhilarating as my day with Blanche has been, my solo drive home is downright terrifying. Within moments of getting back on the road, the rain becomes torrential, the wind driving it sideways making visibility next to nothing. Ambulance sirens continue to wail all over town and they follow me until – over an hour later - I reach home. The short walk from my car to the front door leaves me completely drenched. I enter the apartment exhausted and shaken.
Chris is laying on the couch reading a CD cover, and what must be Neil Young’s latest release is playing on the stereo. He looks up.
Chris: “Is everything okay? I was getting worried.”
Me: “That was the worst drive of my life. I’m completely fried.” I peel off my soaked jacket. “Blanche sez HI and he missed you terribly.”
Chris: “How is he doing? I wish I could’ve been there. I thought maybe you’d bring him back over here for a bit.”
Me: “I almost did, but the weather was too fucked. I’ve done 4 hours of driving today in what should have taken one hour. Anyhow, Hiram’s doing amazing. You should see him. He’s looking like a super-model.”
Chris (smiles): “Ya don’t say.”
I sit down in the kitchen to take off my wet boots and the dogs are jumping all over me. I mention to Chris that Neil’s new record sounds slightly nursery-rhyme-y: “Sounds like he’s losing his edge a little bit, no?”
Chris: “You’re hard on these artists, hun. It’s a nice record. Give it a chance.”
* * * * * * * * *
May 29, 2009 - The following morning, Blanche Facebook-posts sentimental endearments to all of us Fearsome Foursome Gals. He also sends me the following email:
“How appropriate this one is Today, God always gives the answer if we are willing to listen! You are responsible for the footwork, Not the OUTCOME!!!
Accepting those things we cannot change frees us.
It's so easy to get caught up in other people's lives. Assuming that we know what's best for them seems so natural. Many of us have excelled at being caretakers, but it's time to back off and let our loved ones fend for themselves. That means letting them make their own decisions and live with their own consequences.
We can't change other people. Certainly we have made others feel guilty enough so that they have given in and done things our way. And we have won many power struggles. But ultimately we can't claim ownership of anyone else's mind, and we aren't the stewards of anyone else's life. We may feel diminished by our lack of control initially, but in time we will love the freedom of living only our own lives. The extra time we'll have and the peace we'll know will comfort us.
I will experience many moments of relief and peace when I let others be their own stewards.”
* * * * * * *
Early in the morning of May 30, 2009 – While coming home from a superb, fun-filled evening out with his beloved younger sister and some of their friends, Hiram swiftly and unexpectedly collapses and subsequently dies of heart failure.
* * * * * * * * *
We all know – or at least most of us do – that life is fragile and fleeting and that anything is possible at any given time. It won’t do me or anyone else any good by re-living the moment when I found out that Blanche died. I can only say this: If I thought I knew what grief was before that moment, I was sadly mistaken.
* * * * * * * * * *
It’s the day after the devastating news, and devastating news or not - dogs still gotta be walked. Me and Chris and the 4-legged posse head up to Forest Park. It’s an incredible day. A more cloudless, bluer sky there never was. I am numb and soul-sick, a walking zombie.
I can’t recall our actual walk, but when we get back to our car, there in The Dome parking lot we are greeted by an astounding sight: A group of six or so Latino Santeria bata` drummers. I know what these are. I have seen photos of the ceremonial celebrations.
They are marching and drumming in harmonious unison - an infectious, intricate and joyous beat. Directly in front of them are their women – dark, striking, smiling and march-dancing in accompaniment, their tanned arms moving like serpents. We are transfixed. We watch for a long time, and then smile and nod our heads at this incredible, powerful display. They smile and nod back at us. Every smile is Blanche’s smile.
* * * * * * * * *
Months later, when I give that Neil Young CD another listen, it will dawn on me what song was playing that night when I came in out of the rainstorm.
The Way, we know the way. We’ve seen the way
We’ll show the way to getcha back home
To the peace where you belong.
If you’re lost and think you can’t be found
We know the Way, we’ve got the way,
We’ll lead the way to getcha back home
To the peace where you belong.
~ * ~ Neil Young - Chrome Dreams II ~ * ~
* ~ Hiram - May 29, 2009 ~ *
