“Help her? I hardly even know her!”
This was a joke you would’ve easily heard from my beloved Ben Adelo a million times over when he was alive. Although, to be fair, Ben was always the first to help. Whether it was a friend, a stranger, a rich man, a beggar—almost anyone who met Ben could attest to his magnanimity. If someone needed him, Ben was already on his way. If ever there were a real, tangible Superman or Hanuman, it was Ben. Anyone who knew him would likely say he was practically a saint whose only sins included an addiction to work, the gym and coffee.
The day Ben died was the most wretched, painful day of my life. And I still don’t believe I survived it. Yet, through my own personal hell, I learned (or should I say, relearned?) how turning to community might be the only way to survive such a horrendous experience.
But let me go back a bit.
Over a decade ago, I endured a terrible accident that left me an invalid. Suffice it to say it was catastrophic, and I should not be mobile—or alive. At the time, those I considered members of my community changed dramatically. People I had depended on and with whom I’d spent so much time disappeared, while people who had been tertiary to my existence filled that void. It happened all over again when my beloved died.
We don’t think when we get up that our partner is going to go to the gym, head to work and then die. When we’re texting with someone we love, we don’t think they’re never going to text back. The suddenness and the unknowing are palpable—Ben died at work, and I still don’t know precisely how it happened. That makes it hard to get along with my own existence. I still carry a lot of anger. I saw faces at the funeral of people we hadn’t seen or heard from in years. It broke my heart that they had missed so much time with my Ben.
There were people, however, who stepped into my circle and gave me the most solid support. I am so grateful to each and every person who held me as I cried and reached out to me through my life’s most intense loss. They took turns trying to feed me, listening to me, helping me handle things I hadn’t done on my own in decades. My baby sister came out to help me get my house in order. I’d retreated into workaholic mode and felt like a zombie. I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t living, but I wasn’t dead; in my mind, if I just got my house order, I could give up. At that point I was borderline suicidal, but she convinced me to invest in myself—in my days and my business and the things I enjoyed about life.
Shelby Criswell
Still, living without Ben continues to be intense, and I’m certain I’ll forever feel our connection. That connection was so instant and deep, right from the moment we met. I somehow always just knew we would grow old together. Anyone who spent time with us seemed to know we were meant for each other.
Ben ultimately said very little, but when he did speak, he almost always said it twice. And he spoke to me every day for more than 20 years—about life; love; music; mantras; death; coffee; and really bad jokes (but, really, good-bad). There are thousands of stories I could tell about Ben, from his heroic nature and his Benergy—a term I coined for the magnetic pull he had on people. I swear, that pull came through his voice, which is funny since he spoke so little. He was shy and lived a fairly quiet life, yet to those who knew him, Ben shone as brightly and as reliably as the moon. And while it’s so difficult to stay consistent in the way that the grief, anger and the sorrow are consistent, at a certain point, everybody has a life to live.
No good comes from resenting people who cannot hold your hand. This only makes you feel more lonely. Instead, we must turn to those who better understand what we’re experiencing. Mutual aid and strong communities seem to be the answer or, when you’re at your lowest, helping others can help raise the tide. Professional help is also imperative. Otherwise, be like Ben and try to help everyone you can, how you can—but reserve a bit of life for yourself. Ben’s introversion and constant work left time for little else, and I like to think if he had something to say today, it would be to remind us to work hard, but to make room for play. I’m trying to remember that myself. I’m trying to hold onto our connection. I can practically see it in my mind’s eye—like the sun and the moon, connected by red thread.
Brandy Angelique is a sapio/pan coyote and third-generation stylist building community through the ups and downs of life and business ownership.
