It’s taken me nearly a week to process the news that my husband’s best friend and close family friend took his life last week. At first all of us were numb to it. The notion that he would was never in question. It has always been a “when.” It’s a dark an unfortunate truth, but real nonetheless.

I didn’t start to feel sad until I drove through his old neighborhood this morning, in a tiny pocket of homes in the north side of town. I remember going there once with my hubby back when we had just started dating.

The first time I had ever heard about Phil was during our second “date.” Nothing noteworthy or grand, it was just a late-night drive up to his dad’s cabin, about an hour north of town. At the time my husband was a truck-driver and had odd hours and infrequent days off. Me being jobless, still in high school (senior year), I was able to meet up with him whenever he could. We hopped into his white Mustang and drove winding back-roads to this little place in the woods.

At one point during our drive, my husband started chuckling to himself.

“What is it?” I had asked.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, what is it?”

“You’re going to judge me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Okay,” he had replied and then proceeded to drop, “I fucked my friend’s wife.”

I was stunned. “Okay… I’m going to need more.”

At the time my husband’s best-friend was heavily into meth. This event had played out while all of them were drunk at Phil’s place. Charlie was passing in and out of consciousness on the bed, and both Phil and his (ex)wife were high on meth. Instead of her husband satisfying the drug induced urges, because Phil was obsessively searching the internet for parts to a VW he was working on, his wife took advantage of my drunk husband. The whole ordeal is fucked up when you lay it out, but my husband turned it into a humorous story.

I was still coming to grips with the fact that my first boyfriend I ever “loved,” had dumped me because he didn’t think he was gay. (Or so he said.) I had vowed never to date anyone questioning their sexuality. I didn’t want to have to deal with that level of paranoia. Dating a bisexual was not something I wanted. This was when I still had the typical “gay” bias against bisexuals. I didn’t think they were “real.” I don’t think that at all now. Not even a little. (Just from my personal observed experience.)

His story did not tickle me in the slightest but I played it off like I was amused. The idea of us actually dating wasn’t something I wanted, so this story wasn’t upsetting. It was just odd. But, my husband is odd.

The first time I ever met Phil in person, this story playing in my mind, was when he came to pick me up from my place. Charlie was super drunk in the backseat of his crew cab truck. My husband was falling all over me, telling me how much he liked me, how hot I was… y’know, the usual drunk conversation. I wasn’t as adept at handling my drunk husband at the time and found this very, very irritating. Especially when he would ask me a question and then stop me mid-way through my answer to ask another; because my response bored him. The entire interaction started off bad, but then we swung through the Del Taco drive-thru and it took a huge turn. As we waited in line, Phil whips out a clear glass pipe and smokes meth right there, behind the wheel of the vehicle.

“This is where I’m going to die,” I thought. “I’m going to die.”

The dude in the passenger seat, who’s name and face escapes me, was unphased. As was my husband. However, Charlie could tell I was bothered and told him to put it away. Which Phil did.

“Sorry,” he said through a cloud of white smoke.

Phil dropped us off at Charlie’s apartment downtown and it would be sometime before I saw him again.

My husband’s and his relationship was like the seasons, It went through phrases, came and went. But their love and bond was always there. Nothing could shake it. When it came around again, they were right where they left off.

At first I genuinely disliked Phil. For good reason, I feel. I thought he was a loser and a bad influence on my husband. Whenever they got together Charlie would drink to excess. Most of the time I wished Phil would just go away.

Yet, he surprised me.

Phil got sober, cold turkey. He ditched every person he had gotten high with and found a new life in sobriety. This turn-around gave him godlike status to me. I struggled to quit smoking, and didn’t until October 2022. He got sober from meth in 2005.

After drugs he ditched alcohol and then realized his mental health required attention. The man was unstoppable. His constant ability to better himself was incredible.

The one thing that anyone who knew Phil would say: “He was always there to help.”

He truly was. After my husband’s diagnosis he helped us paint our old house and move. He let us stay with him for a few months while we waited on our new one to be built.

On my apple watch I have a series of deep cuts in the glass, along the top. I hate them and the way they make my watch look but I cannot bear to replace it for a new one because of what those scratches represent.

One night my husband and Phil got together for a drink at their favorite bar. This was early in the stages of Charlie’s disease, and long after Phil had started drinking again, but reasonably. (He always knew when he had had enough.) I got a drunk text from my husband to join them after work, which I did. Seeing as how it was just around the corner from my office, I saw no reason not to.

I got there, had a lone cocktail and bullshitted. At some point I went to bathroom and Phil followed after where he broke down crying about Charlie. I hugged him tight and let him cry into my shoulder. Little did I know that as he lost balance and banged my watch against the tiled wall, the grout had damaged the glass.

When I asked my husband how he was, when we were alone, he said, “There are only two people I worry about the most with me dying, my mom and Phil.”

There is so much I could share about Phil, as he has been a huge part of our lives. It’s because of him that Charlie and I got back together in 2008. He never judged his friends and family, and was always there when it mattered. When you needed him. He will be missed.

I feel as though I’m a broken record skipping and popping over the same fucking track, depression. For once I am regularly taking my meds. I’m not drinking, which with Lexapro is an issue because it makes it leave my system. Yet regardless of my taking it daily I am still sad. Well… not frequently. The swings are just giant arcs from one feeling to the next. Today’s seems to be the worst.

In addition to the sadness I am also riddled with anxiety. It is sitting like a bowling ball at the top of my stomach distracting me from thinking of anything else. What adds to this anxiety is this morning my husband appeared weak. Weaker than he has been the past few days. Now I can only compare this same feeling of anxiety to the day I felt the same, when we got his diagnosis.

I am sure it is nothing. It could be a great number of things causing these feelings. The primary one being, the meds aren’t working or are not strong enough to combat the level of my mental illness. I would much rather up the dosage than have to return to the parade of drugs that cause me more irritation than the last.

To ward off any further anxiety regarding my husband, I will just finish up at the office and work from home. I don’t like doing that because I will inevitably get pulled away from my work to do some task or I will have access to a whole pantry filled with food that I have (evidently) set as my task to devour before the end of the week.

Well it’s official, after a 2 year journey to get my parents’ house cleaned out and spruced up, it is no longer ours. It belongs to a whole new family, who I hope will make wonderful memories of their own. With any luck they will get just as much joy as it brought my mother.

One of the things she would repeatedly say to me, as her dementia worsened, was that she was going to die in that house because it’s where “my husband died and my mom died.” Both of them, including my mother, passed in hospitals. So, I don’t know where she got that idea. Yet, it did just occur to me, that it was my mother’s garbledegook she spoke. It wasn’t that they had died, it was where they had lived. The house brought her joy and comfort.

After my mom had lost the ability to swallow, I contemplated having her moved to her house to fulfill her wishes. I feel terrible that I didn’t. It would have brought her so much joy to be there when she passed. But all I could think about was her dying in the house, and me having to disclose it. Then there is the fact that the move may have been too much for her, and on top of that it wouldn’t have been cheap. Also, I would have had to stay there with her, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it would have put all the pressure on the brother-husband to take care of Charlie.

It is this exact scenario in which my husband has outlined his wishes for his final days. He’s seen how I blame and beat myself up for doing all the wrong things. Even years after my dad’s death I still doubt my decisions. I feel like I made all of the wrong ones. To avoid that, he had a frank conversation with Tony and I about what he wanted. We also filled out his advanced directive. (Every time I think of it I always call it ‘prime directive.’ Without fail.)

Now, with my childhood home gone all I need to focus on is caring for my polycule, specifically my husband. Once he has gone I will have officially lost everything related to “my youth.” I will enter into the next stage of middle age.