The Princess and the Loner
After we passed the shiny tall glass buildings and over priced restaurants, the blocks filled with tattoo parlors and pawn shops. A homeless man laid in a doorway, with a cardboard sign and no plan to leave anytime soon. My husband, Mark and I, were on our way to my brother-in-law, Ward’s, one room apartment, where he had died.
Being in Los Angeles again without Ward in it, felt so odd to me. The city wasn’t as I knew it. He was missing. Two years before, I’d met Mark in LA at a work conference. Ward and I spent a good deal of time together over those short few days. We explored Venice beach, sat for long lunches, and he showed me some of his favorite buildings. Not surprising. He was a retired architect.
Ward held doors for me, despite his cane and partial blindness. He was generous with his compliments and his big bear hugs with every greeting and every goodbye. The attention he gave me felt like a warm and bright spotlight. I never asked for it or expected it, which made me feel even more special. Thanks to Ward, I walked around LA with an invisible tiara, because I felt like a 44-year-old Princess.
During that trip, Ward was great at asking questions and giving me the time to answer them. As I shared with him some of my challenges, later in the day or even the next morning, he had answers for me. As great as Ward was at asking, he was even better at telling. And surprisingly, for someone like me that doesn’t like to be told what to do, I welcomed his advice. I was grateful to have someone, sitting on the perimeter of my day to day life, to open up to. Behind every answer Ward had for me, I heard his message. Reach for more and keep following my heart.
Three weeks before, Mark called the LA Police Department. Mark’s siblings hadn’t spoken to Ward in over a week and couldn’t get through to him on his landline. This was unusual. That’s when we heard the news. Ward’s body was in the state morgue. It had been there for several days. He had been called a John Doe.
Learning that my brother in law died of a heart attack, alone, made me feel sick. He had left this earth and his loved ones didn’t know. I’m not sure who found his body.
Ward had moved on the other side of the country from his brothers and sister over a decade before. As far as I knew, he lived alone without many or even any friends around him. Interestingly, I witnessed his life for myself on that work trip and reminded myself that this was his choice and something he wanted. But now, I understood the consequences of his life choice. He was living alone and he died alone.
This made me sad and feeling guilty. Should I have done more to stay connected with him? Did he feel alone, as I feared? Was he drinking away his sadness and anger, like I knew he had in the past?
As Mark and I stood outside of his apartment door on that Friday morning, we pulled out the plastic gloves and surgical masks. We had been warned. Ward’s date of death was unknown. When he was found, he had been dead for days. As we walked into the space where Ward had taken his last breath, I was overtaken by an indescribable smell. One that I hope to never smell again.
Mark and I were there to honor my big brother, the man with the generous heart that was overshadowed so often with his own pain and struggles. A man that religiously sent me, Mark and my children, a birthday card each year, always with a personal and thoughtful message. He may have been living alone, but he was sure to let us know that he was thinking of us.
I didn’t know Ward very well and wasn’t sure how to honor this man. But I did know how he made me feel. I felt his heart. And it was his love that he offered me that I wanted to respect and acknowledge.
I glanced around the very modest room. Dirty dishes were piled in his tiny aluminum sink. The walls were filled with artwork, mostly his own. His drawing table was immaculate and well organized. The windows were open and I could feel the soft Californian breeze.
I could only pray. “Ward, show me. What would you like for us to have? How can we honor you and your life?”
We found pictures, the portfolio of his artwork, and his sculptures. We also found a color wheel with musical notes written on them. He’d been creating a way to convey color to the blind through music. He couldn’t contain his generosity even if he tried.
The Tarot cards were carefully placed on his drawing table, front and center. Each of them had beautiful handwritten notes on them. His way of sharing what each of the cards meant. What a gift. There he was again, offering what he could. No matter how he lived or how he died, my big brother left me feeling loved and special.
