Moving Bodies

Shortly after I learned there was no hope left for Milo, I messaged my friend Garreth with this news. He replied that he would book a ticket and head down from Dallas to help me through the putting down of my best dog. I, having been on the receiving end of his exquisite friendship for nearly twenty years, did not waste time protesting too much, did not offer up the default lie I had trained myself to dole out (and believe) in my younger days: Oh no, that’s okay. I can do this by myself. But thanks for offering.

Instead, I swiftly accepted his offer and thanked him. Then, testing the old adage about how a true friend will help you move a body, I asked him if he would be willing, if necessary, to help the vet carry Milo’s husk out to her truck once she’d released his spirit back into the mystic. For while I possessed the physical strength to perform this task, I knew in advance I would not have the emotional fortitude. Garreth unhesitatingly agreed. 

I know, I know, this thing about true friends possessing a willingness to move bodies is supposed to be a joke. But living amongst a menagerie of critters who are at various life stages, for me the test is real and (literally) dead serious. Which is why last week, for the second time in a month, I again got to use the same extreme measuring stick of fidelity. 

On Wednesday morning I found Cornell, my last living sheep, lying on his side, struggling to die. I knew from past experience he was beyond saving. I also knew the kindest thing I could do was to expedite his passing. But despite my gun training and plenty of target practice, I still cannot bring myself to shoot an animal, not even a dying one. 

This time I called Rompe, who has helped me manage the ranch for years. Rompe and I refer to each other as gemalo, which is Spanish (his first language) for twin. And we are, very much, twin spirits, well matched temperamentally, for better and for worse. We both are dynamic go-getters, rescuers, problem solvers. We are also equally stubborn and hot-headed. 

I explained the Cornell situation to Rompe. A plan was hatched. I would leave for work, then he would show up, dispatch Cornell and then, yes, move the body. Just as he had, last summer, moved the bodies of Cornell’s two sons when they succumbed to the horrible heat. 

An hour later Rompe called me to let me know his sad work was done. We talked about the mercy of his act. He told me a beautiful story about transporting Cornell out to the back pasture, to the very spot where his sons had been offered up to the circle of life, where the vultures and the flies and all the other critters would make short work of dispersing Cornell’s atoms back out into the universe. 

I cried very hard during that conversation, less about the sheep—though that was very sad—and more about Rompe’s loyalty. In truth, the last time I’d seen him we’d had a blow up over some stupid ranch task. And yet I knew, even as we were hollering and despite our flaring tempers, that Rompe would remain steadfast and show up again, as he did.

I do and don’t take my friends for granted, depending on how you define that term. I do take them for granted in that I know—not with haughty self-assuredness but with humble astonishment—that even if I don’t see or speak to them with great frequency, the moment I do reach out I will be met with love and conversational immediacy, picking right up where we left off, even if the leaving off was years before. 

On the other hand, I don’t take my friends for granted in that I have a practice, less formal than my daily meditation but still a practice, in which I make time to actively appreciate my embarrassment of riches that is their companionship. Last month provided ample opportunities to ramp up this appreciation as more and more (and then still more) steamy hot shit hit the fan of my life, a series of annoying challenges and obstacles great and small raining down on me, bookended by the deaths of two beloved pets. Each crisis was greeted with the same response—friends stepped up to lend an assist. 

The older I get, the more I comprehend the intensity of the impact of having been raised in extreme, daily trauma. We kids were not allowed to want or need, to voice requests or, heaven forbid, lodge complaints. Children were to be seen, not heard. We were to be cut down on the regular, never built up. The two-sided coin known as self-sufficiency is one byproduct of this absurd and terrifying upbringing. Fear, and to a lesser extent foolish pride, found me fumbling through early and middle adulthood refusing assistance even when I needed it most. Like Anse, the idiot father in Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying, I wished never to be beholden to anyone else.

It took me a very long time to understand that my stubborn refusals were not thwarting my friends' efforts to help me, only making their work more difficult as they concocted clever ways to circumvent my resistance, to disabuse me of my warped notions, to demonstrate that to receive is not to be beholden, but rather to be unconditionally loved. Here I most especially think of my friend Jill, who always very gently and never obtrusively worked her slow magic on my soul, as if I were the most feral kitten and she the most patient rescuer of same. Unthwarted even as she witnessed me repeat so many mistakes—with men, with money—she just kept showing up, no judgment, only support.

Too, I think of my friend Angel, who began a letter writing campaign at least a dozen years ago. Though we live a half-hour apart, we continue to maintain a penpal-ship reminiscent of pre-Internet days. For more than a decade she has steadily filled my mailbox with cards, letters, postcards and gifts, each with a reminder that she loves me, that she will always love me, and nothing I can do can ever change that. It took me such a long time to truly believe her words because I was entirely unaccustomed to such wild open-heartedness. Like Jill, Angel gently waited me out.

Somewhere along the way, thanks to these and other patient efforts by my friends, I got better at receiving help. Eventually, I learned how to ask for help. Now, while I still have a long way to go in this department, I am working on requesting help in advance, prior to some personal molehill exploding into a mountain of distress. 

Cornell’s death felt like a final straw for me in May. Already on edge from Milo grief and summer heat, tenant crises and plumbing problems, I watched my own mind teetering, threatening to fall into the chasm of Depression. I started spinning out. Racing thoughts darted around, no rhyme or reason, ginormous existential angst up alongside petty bullshit seeping in from various fronts. Among these stressors was contemplating this coming weekend’s back-to-back events, how I felt way too overwhelmed to handle these on my own. 

The fog cleared briefly as it occurred to me that my friend Erin, a genius at event organization, is perpetually offering to assist me. I made a mental note to proactively ask for her help. I exhaled knowing I’d receive an enthusiastic yes. 

Then, before I could make that call, something wonderful happened. Yesterday I was taking my pre-work walk around downtown, getting in my steps before the relentless sun broke through the cloud cover. I was on autopilot, lost in an audiobook, when I happened to glance up and there, right in front of me, was Erin. This felt like a conjuring, a mirage, as it was not yet noon on a Sunday and Erin is a night owl. 

She joined me and we walked along Congress Avenue, catching up, shooting the shit. I told her I’d been thinking of asking her for help. She, of course, replied she’d be delighted. 

I spent my shift at work consciously reflecting on her kindness and, more broadly, the nurturing kindness of all of my friends, of how their reliability has slowly undone the damage of falsely believing for decades that it is wrong to receive. This brought on a literal shift at work, as interior sunshine blasted away my interior storm clouds. It is rarely so fast and easy, the lifting of the Gloom State. But there I was, if not fully buoyant, at least no longer at the risk of drowning. 

Last week when I wrote about how the arrival of this year’s heat was taxing me, many of you took the time to reply in the comments and privately, offering encouragement, hope and practical tips for coping. This gentleness and compassion also contributed greatly to alleviating my sorrows and helping me to shift gears. I am so grateful for this weekly connection of ours. Thank you so much for being here. 

I sure would like for you to leave a comment about some of your great friend experiences. 

NOTES:

Thank you all so much for reading. If you’re in a place to become a paid subscriber—$5 per week or $50 per year—please consider it. Your generous support helps me keep the ranch and the writing going. One time tips also gratefully accepted at Venmo: @spike-gillespie. It also helps if you pass this along to folks you think might dig it. 

Tomorrow, Tuesday June 4th, I have a FREE writing workshop at the Hampton Branch Library in South Austin. It helps us if you REGISTER. 

If you are in the Austin area and have stuff you want to donate to help Austin’s homeless population, I am happy to do a pickup. I volunteer for a great program at the Central Presbyterian Church. We always need men and women’s clothes and shoes. Toiletries, linens and gently used water bottles are also great. Oh, and reading glasses. I’m happy to help you lighten your load while providing much needed basics for the Unhoused. Thanks.