I’ve tried to post something like the following many times, but never found the will to complete it or edit it or post it. But this evening I’ll try again. I intended to post this on the date.
On the morning of August 7, 1995, around 5:00 am, the phone rang. On the other end, Danny. “Den died just a little while ago,” he said. “They just picked up his body to take to the funeral home.” We exchanged some transactional comments…”Are you doing OK?” “Yeah.” I love you,” I said. I said, “Is Jules there?” “Yeah.” “I’ll be up this afternoon.” He said, “You know what to do? “Yeah,” I said. Then we said other things I don’t really remember before we hung up. My head full of events of the past few weeks, the past few years.
Danny had just been home that weekend to celebrate our eighth anniversary, me taking him that Sunday night, the night before, to catch a flight back to Minneapolis to continue to take care of Den, our good friend, my mentor at Saks Fifth Avenue, the person to whom I would attribute a large part (most maybe?) of what I can now articulate about fashion, art, architecture…an appreciation for beauty, sometimes in its most unseemly appearances.
I had a list of folks to call to let them know what happened. Before I did that, I went into the TV room of our apartment, I lit a cigarette, somewhere along about the sixth or seventh puff, I caught myself saying aloud, “Oh, Den,” over and over.
A couple weeks before, Danny had called, he missed me, asked if I would come up and maybe stay with Den for a couple of nights over the weekend so he could have a break and so we could see each other. He got me a cheap flight. When Danny picked me up at the airport, as we were walking the concourse toward baggage claim, Danny suddenly gasped and bent over, “Oh, sweetie! You want to sit down?” I said. “I’m OK.” he said. He straightenend up. A few minutes later, I was sitting in Den’s living room with Den and Danny. The evening sun slanting in the windows. Danny had made me a pallet in the floor of the spare room (Den’s “dressing room.”) A Hospice Aide that had been coming in for overnight arrived and Danny left to stay a few blocks away at our friend Jules’.
Den was much frailer than last I’d seen him. He’d started his morphine drip a week or so before. We sat up until midnight or 1:00 catching up, reminiscing about Saks, him telling me about shows he’d watched on The History Channel, one of his favorites. The Aide sat quietly at the table, reading, but would interrupt if it were time for a pill. When Den started to fade for the evening, I excused myself to my pallet. As I fell asleep, feeling like a little kid, my head on the floor, looking up at the ceiling, I heard the Aide, help Den go to the bathroom in the commode chair by his bed.
A couple hours later I woke up, he and the Aide were having a quiet conversation. I got up just to see if everything was alright, it was. I asked Den if he needed anything and he said, “You know what would be good right now? A good cup of coffee.”
And the rest of the weekend went sort of like that, doze a couple hours, get up, talk. Danny came back on Saturday morning, took me to breakfast.
The second night a different Aide. In the midst of a conversation, Den “went” somewhere. He looked up at the door to the living room, said, “Oh, Zshovanca! So nice of you to drop in. Here! Come sit by me, tell me everything!” He skootched over on his bed to make room. The aide said, “You know you’re talking to no one don’t you?” “No,” I interjected, “He doesn’t.” Dennis shot me a look that was half confusion and half rage. A sort of “Shut the fuck up, who are you?”
That night Den had many visitors, he talked for hours. I watched, fascinated. In memory, I believe he really had visits with all those folks that night. I imagine them in their homes asleep, visiting Den in their dreams, each one after the other, coming to say Goodbye.
Sunday came and time for me to say my own Goodbye. Den skootched over on the bed to make room for me. For all my internal rehearsals of that moment, I said little of what I meant to say. I said, “When I get to heaven, you’ll have to take me all around, show me the architecture.” He nodded, “I’ll be waiting,” he said. I touched his face. “You’re my person.” I said, “I’ll miss you.” He nodded.
Then a quick hug and I got up and felt my way into the sunlight outside the front door. Danny took my elbow, walked me the rest of the way to the car.
