Do you know that you died on my birthday in 2017? Do you know the impact you had on my life? Do you hear me when I still talk to you?
I wish I could go to your house and get the hugs you gave, where your chin would dig so hard into my chest that I wanted to pull back just a little… but I never did, because they were so full of love. And then, after a minute, you would pull away just a little and say, “Dirgy, busy day? good day?” Do you remember you used to call me Dirgy, because that is how you said my name? I remember every time you asked me that question over and over again. Sometimes it was to ask me about my day, and other times it felt like you were asking my heart how it was today and reminding it over and over that it was okay - even on the really heartbreaking days. Then you would say, “I love you too, Dirgy,” and I would respond, “I love you too, Elise.”
If I was with you today, I would pick up two cups of chocolate “ice com” and sit in the sun to eat it in the park with you. And I would ask, how do I cope with all that is breaking my heart, how do I love better, like you do and how do I…we, teach the world what you taught me about holding love? How do we heal collectively and personally?
I have been watching movies about kids with developmental disabilities lately to feel close to you and find hope in the world. One was about a little boy who loved every part of people, especially the parts they didn’t want anyone to see. Another was about a group of unapologetic teenagers with various types of disabilities unashamedly following their pleasures and holding those without disabilities ruthlessly accountable to their hearts.
I was hired to care for you for 10 years, but I am not sure I ever cared for you as much as you cared for me. You were only 15 years older than me and yet 100s of years wiser than anyone I have ever met. You raised me in some ways because I was only 18 when we met.
You taught me how to be present when all I had ever learned was to disassociate and scatter as survival skills. I remember taking a breath before walking into your house each day. Grounding myself…choosing to be fully present for you and, for the first time, learning how to for myself as well.
You taught me how to be in my body when I had learned to hover outside it. Somehow in the tightest of your squeeze, where I could barely take a full breath, I learned how to be more in “me.” Your hugs changed me.
You taught me how to truly love a stranger. You would tell the cashier at a grocery store who was clearly having a bad day, “I love you too,” and then you would hug them. I melted each time.
You taught me how to play, and that curiosity is the most valuable way to connect. You would wrestle me and pin me, and we would laugh and laugh and laugh.
You taught me how to care for me and to care for you by anchoring inside me, returning to my body, loving deeply and living in play and curiosity.
You taught me how to hold another, by holding you. You couldn’t tell me what was wrong if you were sick or your heart hurt, and so I had to pay attention. I had to learn you… learn when something changed, what patterns you had and when they shifted. I had to learn to listen with every part of me to every part of you.
In our friendship in the years before you died, after I had stopped being your caregiver, your hug returned me to me and made me want to love everyone and everything more. And you would say “I love you too, Dirgy” over and over, before I could say a word.
I miss you.
And, you are still here every moment. Thank you for helping me remember. Always.