The White Elephant in the Room

   “I am so rarely speechless. But I have been sitting here for hours, silently devouring every word of White Elephant in the Room.

People at work are starting to get suspicious.

Somehow, I don’t care. I simply cannot do anything but soak up your brave, honest journey.

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going!” — Jennifer, America

Most mornings, I awake wearing last night’s dreams:

Amazon jungles, baseball stadiums, dance floors, high-rise hotels, banquet halls, treehouses.

In these dreams, I’m a sister, superhero, daughter, friend, widow.

But whenever I dream of Alberto, I am a wife:

Laughing together on our couch, half-naked.

Shutting his PR girl out of our hotel room so we can embrace.

Reaching for his goddaughter before we board a train.

When I wake from these dreams, it’s as if a reset button has been pressed.

My equilibrium, sense of self, even my brain chemistry feels altered.

A filled-up and as-if-I’m-whole feeling follows me into my day.

These are the mornings when I skip the shower.

So the sense of him will remain on my skin.

Linger in the rooms of our apartment a little longer.

Today, I skip the shower.

“Today marks the first day since my breakup that I’ve been ‘fine.’ I’m over the sobbing and am trying to figure out how to repo my belongings. Since focusing has been a lost art for me lately, I decided to do something I knew would make me laugh, cry and genuinely feel like love exists: read White Elephant in the Room.

I was stunned when I got to Last Stop: Koreatown. Your questions are my questions. Portugal’s actions mirror my own experience so closely that I’m concerned we were dating the same person. At any rate, it’s comforting to know someone else thinks like I do and that this was one of life’s lessons on the path to something beautiful. 

Until then, I’ll be thinking of you every time people ask where he is and I find myself running to the bathroom!—Maggie, New York

“This is the most moving blog I have ever come across on Tumblr. Just started reading tonight and I am hooked. Thank you, thank you, thank you for writing and sharing all of these stories.” — Caroline, Brooklyn

On Ninth Avenue last night, the blaring horn of a moving bus startles me.

Up ahead, I see the reason for the honk:

A white-haired woman is trying to cross too much street in too little time.

In a panic, she starts to lose her balance.

I sprint toward her and in the beam of bus headlights, her bags and cane and legs go flying in opposite directions.

She goes down headfirst, a millisecond before I reach her, a millisecond before the bus swerves.

Blood has already spattered the asphalt when I lift her small, sobbing frame toward the curb. 

You’re gonna be OK, I whisper.

I sit behind her and elevate her head as a crowd starts to gather. 

Will someone please block oncoming traffic, I ask.

A man wearing a hat steps into the street and holds out his arms.

I make eye contact with a girl and make the sign of a phone with my hand.

Call 911, I mouth. 

She nods and pulls out her cell.

I’m sorry, the woman in my arms explains. I thought I had the light, but then I saw the bus—and fell on my face.

It’s OK, I assure her. Better to fall on your face than under the bus.

That’s true, she sighs. But I never should’ve gone out tonight. I didn’t really need to go out tonight.

Happens to the best of us, I say. I’m Tré…what’s your name?  

Phyllis, she answers. I live just across the street.

Another voice chimes in, asks if he can do anything. 

Yes, I reply. Reach into my bag—front pocket—and find the package of Kleenex. Can you hold it to her head?

Another man—who I recognize as resident celebrity Ethan Hawke—is handing me one half of Phyllis’ broken glasses.

Thank you, I say. Can you try and find the other half for her?

Ethan shifts the young child in his arms and scans the street as another man steps into the scene.

Phyllis? Is that you?

Larry! she exclaims.

Are you her neighbor? I interrupt. 

I’m a friend—what happened?

I fell on my face, Phyllis repeats. 

Phyllis, I say. Do you want Larry to take your groceries to your building?

No, no, she says. I’ll take them myself—if you’d just help me up. What happened to my cane?

I tighten my arms around her and find her ear.

I have your cane, I whisper, but you’re bleeding from the head and if you try to stand, you could fall again. Let’s just stay here until the EMTs arrive.

EMT? I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just need—she starts to struggle—to get up and go home.

I understand what you’re saying, I tell her. But if you go home, you’ll know you need medical attention as soon as you look in the mirror. So let’s skip that step and see what the medics say.

She ignores me and reaches toward Larry.

Larry, she calls. Can you help me up? I need to go home.

I shoot Larry a look that says don’t-you-dare.

I think it’s better if you wait for the ambulance, he says softly.

Phyllis, I say. Besides your head, does anything else hurt? Your legs or your arms?

No, I just fell flat on my face. 

So no other pain? Can you tell me how old you are and if you have any medical conditions?

What—no—why? 

So I can inform the medics. Remind me how old you are? 

I’m 94, she says. And if you can avoid it, don’t ever get as old as me.

I’ll keep that in mind, I laugh.

As the sound of sirens grows louder, there’s a collective sigh of relief from the crowd.

Our human traffic barrier steps aside for the ambulance.

Ethan gives me the missing half of Phyllis’ glasses.

Larry asks if I’m going with her.

Yes, I nod, if they let me. 

The medics appear and I introduce Phyllis, recite the basic information she’s given me.

Questions are asked and answered before she’s lifted onto a stretcher.

Except for Larry—who I promise to call later with an update—the crowd of good neighbors has vanished. I climb in the ambulance holding Phyllis’ cane, bag of groceries and purse.

Based on her wounds, the medic says, our best bet is Bellvue. It’s the nearest trauma hospital.

Bellvue it is, I say, and turn toward Phyllis. Is there anyone you’d like me to call? Maybe someone who should meet us at the hospital?

She pauses before shaking her head slowly.

I don’t have any family in the City.

Then tonight, I’m your family in the City.

She smiles and asks what my name is.

“I’ve encountered many people in my life. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve taught thousands of students in college, from the U.S. and from abroad. I’ve had philosophical conversations that sometimes have changed my life or changed others’ lives. Yet you are the first I’ve ever encountered who has the power to write about life and death with a clarity that is so real, stunning and profound. Every time I read White Elephant in the Room, I am reminded that life IS profound, and that is an amazing feat. So thank you. Thank you for writing in a way that touches the soul.” — Shannon, Tennessee

Helluva season, pal.

The line is from Wedding Crashers and it startles me out of a snowy Sunday nap.

I blink at the TV set and at an unexpected memory:

Wedding Crashers was the first movie Alberto and I ever saw in a theatre together.

He had turned up one June Thursday on my West Hollywood porch for what became our third date:

Just a weekender bag, a bouquet of flowers and a big grin.

Surprise!

During his visit, I showed him my version of L.A.: under-the-radar spots for brunch, for sushi, for a nightcap. In the neighborhood of Los Feliz, we’d browsed an independent bookstore, ducked into an old-timey theatre to watch Crashers and stopped into the Dresden, a divey lounge where the legendary Marty and Elaine still perform.

That June weekend was 14 days before he proposed and eight weeks before our whirlwind wedding, where there were crab cakes and dancing and the only crasher was the five-year-old daughter of a dear friend.

Helluva season, pal.

Helluva season.

Joan Didion is a storyteller with whom I feel a strong and visceral connection:

Her references to fire season in Malibu. Berkeley’s English department. An adopted daughter. New York’s magazine industry. The shit show of shooting in Mexico. A husband’s sudden heart attack.

Tonight, a line in her latest work, Blue Nights, gives me pause.

Didion is struck by how many of her memories involve visits to the ICU. The many hospitals. The multiple cities. All with the same blue-patterned curtains and disturbingly medical sounds. Nearly all of her ICU flashbacks are accompanied by the patient’s subsequent death. 

My own encounters with loss rarely involve ICUs.

To me, the ICU represents insider trading, borrowed time, luck.

Put another way: the ICU represents other people’s experiences of loss.

I am more familiar with the non-negotiable, after-the-factness version. The ICU almost seems to be—dare I say it?—a luxury. A civilized departure from the usual phone call or coroner’s visit. My experience is with the quick death, swift death, sudden death.

But because the ICU words belong to Didion, I’m taking pause.

Taking stock.

Acknowledging that I do have friends and relatives who are HIV positive. That I do have a pair of 90-year-old grandparents with heart conditions. That I do have a family history of cancer and kidney failure.

That it may be a matter of time before the word luxury in reference to ICUs is replaced by a familiarity with blue-patterned curtains.

“I’ve just discovered White Elephant in the Room and I am not exaggerating when I tell you I’ve been reading for 10 hours straight, breaking only to pee, eat and wipe tears. First and foremost, your strength. It astounds me. Second, your writing has the ability to place me in the moment with you, seeing what you see, feeling what you feel. I admire your courage to be so raw and so open. Third, thank you for sharing your travels around the world. I’ve been right there with you, feeling the flowers and Alberto’s ashes, especially in Brazil, where your hands released him from his fear of heights.

This new year came with decisions to make changes in my life and your story came at the perfect time for me. Through your words, your love, your adventure and your life, I have reaffirmed that my recent changes are absolutely the right things for me. Not only that, your words have lit a fire inside of me to realize all the love that surrounds me and ensure I do not let a day pass without saying what I should say.

Much love and respect to you for learning, growing, crying, living, overcoming and most of all, sharing. As others have said before, you are helping so many. I look forward to reading your book and continuing to be inspired!” — Delba, California

Today I receive an email blast from a church I’m involved in.

Their homeless program is in need of men’s items:

Razors, clippers, aftershave, shampoo.

All of these things are in my bathroom.

All of these things are collecting dust.

All of these things were left behind by a man who has no earthly use for them.

I gather the things into shopping bags.

Razors, clippers, aftershave, shampoo.

And arrange for someone named Paul to pick them up on Monday.

I set the bags in the foyer.

Razors, clippers, aftershave, shampoo.

Remind the things—and myself—that they’re bound for something grander.

Something grander than a bathroom cabinet that hasn’t seen light in nearly three years.