What Happens in Ten Years?

Some notes on loss and remembrance.

Ten years ago, my boyfriend, Adam, died suddenly of an undetected heart condition.

The passage of ten years is almost as shocking as his death. I keep rolling it around in my head, what happens in ten years, how much life fits inside that span.

But the worst part about Adam dying young—he was just twenty-seven—is the tendency to remember him only for that: dying young. As if the ending is the thing that defines him.

And he was so much more than a person with a tragic ending.

He was dynamic.

Full of life.

Let me resurrect him for you.

Adam was the first grown-up in my extended group of friends. He had a big, serious job as a management consultant. He read and actually finished Atlantic articles. He was thoughtful and really listened to what other people had to say.

He had excellent taste and prided himself on it. He liked Japanese whiskey and wore more expensive jeans than I did. He was incredibly supportive of other people’s ventures, ideas, and personal lives. Sometimes he was so supportive that I got jealous.

He loved sweets. Once, he gained five pounds supporting a coworker through the beginning of her pregnancy by enthusiastically joining her in a daily chocolate chip cookie.

In life, Adam was the most popular person I knew. Walking around any city with him was like parading a brand-new puppy; everyone wanted to stop and pet him. It was infuriating. And I loved it.

He was a romantic. He liked specific times of day, like 1:45 pm on a weekend afternoon, and certain kinds of weather like spring days that were both warm and cold, and golden evening light. He was deeply nostalgic.

The hard part—minus the obvious fact that he is gone—is that most people who weren’t with him day in and day out have probably forgotten the small things by now.

That when he stood, he locked out his knees.

That when he laughed really hard, he threw his head back, and you could see into his nostrils and the roof of his mouth.

That while everyone else thought of him polished, his bedroom was a mess and, as his friends knew, he never did the dishes.

Those details, the web a person weaves so intricately while they’re alive, disintegrate over the years. The memories fray and it’s hard work to keep them alive.

Every year around the anniversary of Adam’s passing and his birthday, which are close together, I feel a gravitational pull to visit him. Suddenly, on a random winter morning, I wake up and know it’s time.

I go with my coffee in hand, past O’Hare Airport, to the neighborhoods behind it, to the surprisingly beautiful cemetery where Adam is buried. It’s full of large oak trees and a small brook, with a bridge near his grave.

Two weeks ago, among the oak trees and the little brook, I learned that in death, Adam is still very popular.

In Jewish tradition, people place a stone on a grave to show that someone has been visited. Adam has, by far, the most stones in his section. And I know you’re not supposed to count who gets the most stones, but sometimes I do.

Ten years later, I owe my life to Adam. He brought me my friends. Even my husband.

For the rest of my days, I’m committed to keeping his memory alive. Not as the memory of an early exit, but as a full, textured life. To remember and re-cultivate the fabric of his being.

Adam always wanted to be a dad. It saddens me beyond belief that he never got to be one, because he would have been so good at it.

He used to tell me that on Saturday mornings, he wanted to bring his kids fresh donuts in white cardboard boxes, mostly so he could eat them himself.

Almost every weekend, my kids eat something sweet out of a white cardboard box.

Every box is for Adam.

Drop a heart or share if this resonated. I’ll be back with more standard fare next week.