A year ago today we were lying in bed together. I was curled up in the nook of his arm - the spot where I had spent thousands of hours over the course of our relationship. His one hand was gently resting on my thigh and the other was tucked safely inside my own, our fingers entwined. He was asleep and I was lying next to him, listening to the fierce rhythm of his heart.
It was the first morning I woke up and wanted it to be over - a thought that is hard to admit, but one that, unlike so many other thoughts over the last year, comes without guilt. After my own struggle with cancer, we had more conversations about life and death than your average young couple. We knew how we wanted to live - and equally as important - how we didn’t. I woke up, snuggled in the crook of his arm, and for the first time I knew: Brad wouldn’t want to live like this.
He hadn’t spoken in 24 hours and it had been days since he had been able to carry on any conversation beyond a few words. Brad was a man of many words. Words that gracefully poured out of him like poetry. Words of passion, about social justice and equality and Detroit and most of all, words about love.
Brad embodied love.
He was a lover of life, taking big risks with even bigger payoffs. He was an optimistic dreamer who had the unique ability to both have faith in his ideas and recognize their barriers. He was a spectacular listener, allowing conversations to linger in thought before offering feedback. He toed the line of comfort, loving the quiet space between awkwardness and self discovery. He was hilarious and quick witted, both in his self deprecation and his joke telling. He was a fierce and passionate leader, who knew the power of leading by example. He constantly wanted to know more, always encouraging to dig just a little bit deeper. He was thought provoking, challenging basic assumptions.
He was, oftentimes, way too serious, but he was silly too. He loved his family, especially his nieces and nephews, and regularly taught us all what it meant to show up. He was hard on himself, most notably in situations I found hysterical (he was never more angry than the time he flipped a burger so it landed perfectly - and got stuck - in the one inch space between the stove and the wall). He was intimidatingly brilliant, but never made you feel as if you were less than. He was unconditionally supportive of other’s dreams, quick to pull out the white board for a brainstorming session to make them a reality. He was fearless, never afraid to take the road less traveled. He was gentle and kind. He was a romantic, we all witnessed that. But not just in love, also in life.
He was authentic.
He was vulnerable.
He was courageous.
He was ineffable.
Brad was love.
And a year ago, I woke up and I knew. And I believe Brad knew. This was no longer the way in which he wanted to live. And shortly after that, with me curled up in his arms in the quiet of our home, his hand still grasping mine, he let go.
A piece of myself died with him that afternoon. A version of myself I will never get back. In its place, grief quickly settled in. There is not a single facet of my life that loss has not touched. From the obvious gaping hole in my heart down to the minuscule details of my daily life, like the chipped “Brad” mug that he used to drink his coffee out of. It's all a blaring and inescapable reminder of loss.
But there is also not a single facet of my life that love has not touched. Because Brad was love. And his impact so deep, it would be impossible not to carry that with me. Brad constantly reminded me what it felt like to be loved. To feel safe. To know trust.
Loss has followed me every day for the last year, but so has love. Because love - the kind of love we shared - is something that not even death can take away.
Thank you, Brad for showing me what love feels like and allowing me the greatest pleasure of being your forever. I will miss you always - and in all ways. I love you more than the sun and the moon.