Five Stages and Sixty

As I write this, it’s Monday, August 2. In the next room, an eternity away, a Grateful Dead CD plays. After all, yesterday was Jerry’s birthday, and just because. I’m wearing a white tube top over my big boobs and magenta shorts over my non curvy hips.

I’ve said, written, and will always maintain that if you hit someone over the head with a baseball bat enough times, they will eventually go down. It is a fact. Right now, my life is a baseball, and McGuire, Sosa, Canseco, and Bonds at their steroid-fueled peaks are teeing off on me for batting practice. My mother is dying, I’m working two jobs and am thoroughly exhausted, depression has all but immobilized me, and classes resume soon. But aside from that I’m fine.

Tomorrow is August 3^rd. It will be Lisa Empanada’s 60^th birthday: Or it would be if she lived past 52. Lisa is frozen in time at that age–she will never grow older. I can hear eyes rolling from here. “Here she goes again about Lisa.” “It’s been nearly eight years–let it go!” Well, before you go all Kübler-Ross on me, mourning is an extremely complicated thing. There’s more to it then the five stages you’re about to rattle off to me. I know–I’ve read a lot of research on it. (One benefit to this PhD thing is learning how to do research and having access to materials I find.)

I can’t imagine Lisa at 60. I’m sure she couldn’t either. By now I’m sure she’d be completely out as a woman. Maybe her black hair, no longer hidden by her ubiquitous blonde wigs, would be grown out to a length she’d enjoy, and maybe there would be a touch of grey to it as well. Or more. Maybe she would’ve gotten the boob job we always joked about, or maybe FFS. It’s all idle speculation now.

Tomorrow, I’ll drive down to Baltimore and visit “her” spot–the place where she left this world. I bought a couple of balloons for her, and a pink rose. One of the balloons is purple (Lisa’s favorite color) and the other is a butterfly. I’ll weigh down the strings at the base with some large-ish stones I found in the nature preserve across the street. The other flowers I bought I’ll leave at the house she and Sandy shared–for Sandy, as I know it’s a tough day for her as well. Far worse than for me. Nothing can assuage loss, but maybe the flowers will let her know I’m thinking of her.

It’s more than Lisa’s birthday though–it’s the anniversary of one of the best days of my life: Lisa’s Affirmation party, held on her 52^nd and last birthday. What a wonderful day, almost dream-like in my memory. Wonderful people, great food, fun music, and Lisa–beaming with happiness in her white floral dress. That dress now hangs in my closet, a gift from Sandy on the day of the funeral–unworn since that day. Lisa and I used to be the same size. Now I’m a fat mockery of who I was, and Lisa is ashes.

Almost eight years later, and there’s still a Lisa-shaped hole in my heart and soul. As we approach autumn, I think of her more–especially with September rolling around. She died in September.

Summer is on its home stretch, fueled by climate change so it’s sizzling hot, sweaty, and fiery. Eventually, autumn will come. Seasons drift by. But the memories and Pain still haven’t faded.

Happy 60^th birthday, Lisa. I will always love you and miss you.

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Category: Transgender Body & Soul