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September 30 - October 1, 2022
Sights like that made me look forward to our lives as an elderly couple, living out our twilight years in some classic, renovated brownstone on the main drag in quaint upstate Hudson, New York, the ground floor serving as our gift shop—featuring a mix of Kit’s Pretty Bitter stationery line, impeccably curated novelty items from local designers, and maybe if Kit let me, a small area of Smurf collectibles—and the upper levels functioning as our home.
I needed wine to calm the part of me that worried that Kit, after eleven years, was finally coming to the realization that he could do better than me.
“If you mouth the words ‘olive juice’ it looks like you’re saying ‘I love you,’ ”
“Olive juice, Mike.” “Olive juice, Kit,”
Hey, God. It's me again...
I envisioned what it would be like to marry the man of my dreams only to watch him slowly, painfully slip away from me. Kit saw me struggling to hold it together. “It’s starting to hit me,” I informed him. “Don’t you back out now,” he deadpanned.
“I’m going to fight as hard as I can . . . but if I can’t fight anymore, promise me you will live for both of us. Promise me, Mike.”
No, I will not fucking live for you. Because you are not dying. And if you do die, I’m going with you. Because a world where you are dead and I am alive is not a world I’m interested in being a part of is what I wanted to say. Instead, as I cradled him in my arms, my brain went rogue and sent a signal to my mouth. “I will, Kit. I promise.”
His resilience and spirit and perseverance filled me with such love it took everything in me not to throw my arms around him and beg him to promise me that we had a lifetime of Target runs ahead of us.
During the impromptu photo shoot, the rings lightly grazed each other, letting off the most magical “clinking” sound. Kit and I instantly looked at each other in wonderment, like we’d just accidentally mixed chocolate and peanut butter and invented Reese’s. Our marriage had an official soundtrack.
It felt good to love someone so much that literally nothing was as important as making sure that person was safe and comfortable and protected.
Kit was going to die. And soon. But mostly I was sad and angry and terrified at the prospect of having to say goodbye to the most wonderful person to ever step foot in my life.
One of the perks of having a boyfriend was getting to share the things you loved with the person you loved.
And then it hit me: It was privacy he craved more than anything. He just wanted to pee in a bathroom by himself like a normal human being. He was fighting to hang on to what little dignity he had left. I had never been more in love or felt more empathy for another human being than I did in this moment.
“Nice work,” I raved. “You ate pretty much the whole thing.” I gave him a kiss on the lips to formally reward him for a job well done. His eyes perked up, he opened his mouth, and much to my shock and awe, he eked out a very quiet, barely audible, but nonetheless heartfelt “Thank you.” Those would be the last two words Kit ever spoke.
“He will go when he is ready to go. And if you’re not present, that means he wanted to spare you that moment.”
“You listen to me, Fuck Stick. I am going to be OK. It’s going to be unbelievably hard, but I will be OK. You go get heaven ready for us, because, thanks to you, I have high standards. Thank you for the past thirteen years. Thank you for giving me a family. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being my Bodge.”
And, then, suddenly, I was startled by the . . . silence. The deafening, ear-splitting silence. It was the sound of the most important person in my life no longer making a sound. The oxygen machine was still clanking, and Marilyn and Bob were wailing, but all my ears could register was the noise I wasn’t hearing. I hadn’t realized how deeply tethered my soul had been to his breathing. Until, at 10:30 p.m., it stopped.
I would’ve done anything to spare Kit this fate. Including taking his place.
But I also feel a deep sense of gratitude, to a universe that put me in the right place at the right time 13 years ago, and to a support system that helped get us through these past 11 months. I never took the love for granted, and neither did Kit.
“This is our Brokeback Mountain shirt. When you die, I’m going to collapse in the closet while sniffing your man scent.”
It sounds corny, I know, but he spent the past year living like he was dying, and I feel so privileged to have had a ringside seat for what turned out to be his farewell tour. Which sounds depressing but was actually spectacularly inspiring. We should all be so lucky as to be brave enough to go out with such gusto.
So when you think of Kit, and the tragedy of his life cut short, and you’re feeling pain, may I suggest that instead of letting it bring you down, you look up and say, “Eh, that Kit Cowan, he had a good life.”
I searched for the flower petals now off in the distance. I found them. And I kept my eyes fixed on them as I reached into my pocket and pulled out Kit’s wedding ring. I then slipped my matching band off my finger and placed it on top of Kit’s ring in the center of my palm. And for one last time, they clinked. I stared out at the river, with Millersburg in the background, and I whispered, “Thank you, Kit.” And I tossed them in.
