Down We Go

Bob, my late partner of nearly 27 years, was a great provider. I’ve said this before. He was also a great life partner. A great spouse, as it were. Long before same-sex marriage became a recognized right, Bob committed to me and us in a way that inspired me to do the same.

Bob had a strength. He also had a fragility. I suspect each of us has both. Bob’s strength was that he was a man of great character. Somewhere along the way, a strong sense of loyalty, humility and propriety had been instilled in him. His parents, who died when Bob was young, would have been proud of the man he was. In many ways I admired his strength.

When he fell ill last year, it was my turn to be strong. Looking back, I don’t quite know how I did what I did. But there was this notion in the back of my mind that Bob expected me to do what needed done. I didn’t run, didn’t crumble, just stepped up and pointed myself forward. I hoped that if Bob got the chance to review my actions, he’d be pleased by my strength.

Which leads me to this moment. It’s been 10 months since Bob died, and it’s sinking in lately that there will be no review. Not by Bob, anyway. There is no Bob. It seems obvious, but lately I find myself thinking that Bob would like or dislike this or that. But there is no Bob. All my failures, all my successes, any opinion Bob might have would require a Bob to exist. Which he no longer does.

I’ve known this all along, but somehow it continues to have greater significance. One would think it’d be difficult at first and get better over time. I think the opposite may be more accurate. At this moment Bob’s absence is so profound that it is almost unbearable. Whatever I think, however I feel, whatever I do, there’s no Bob to approve or disapprove, scold or praise. I’m on my own.

There’s a meta-ethic at play, though, thankfully. All those years of pushback and encouragement from Bob plays in my head at times- usually when I’m fucking up. Bob didn’t like me to make a scene if I could avoid it. I adore making a scene and often struggle with crushing guilt ex post facto. Every now and then, though, he expected me to make a fuss. In those moments he would have my back. Loyalty.

There was a time when Bob was in the nursing home where he had hiccups for days. Non-stop. The nursing home refused to give him a medicine which made them stop. This completely incapacitated, vulnerable man, at the end of his life, was forced to suffer every waking moment with hiccups because the medicine that helped, Thorazine namely, was seen as “too serious” a medicine. In order to convince them to give Bob the medicine that would help, I had to storm in, and I mean STORM in, throw a huge fit to the point that I risked arrest, and demand that they give him the medicine which had worked in the past. I can still recall the glee on Bob’s face at my show of advocacy for his needs.

I could use some of that glee now. Bob believed in me. At times, he had a faith I lacked. At this moment, I’m lacking faith that I can find the path forward. I’m not saying this as a cry for help. Nobody’s coming to help me. Nobody particularly believes in me at this moment. Which is fine. Everyone has their own life to live, their own problems to solve. No matter how desperate I am for Bob to be my rock, there is no Bob. Just me.