During the summer of 2015 dead people were everywhere. They could be found in the news, in my family and even in my dreams. It was just one of those summers where folks were starting their new lives in marriage, but others were taking their final breathes. The balance in the universe was on display and I was on a binge in hopes that the scales would tip in my direction and surprise, surprise, it didn’t help.

Our family knew it wasn’t looking good. Grandma was on her way out. Her bags were packed, and one foot was out the door. Since the summer of 2014 every passing week and month brought a new bombardment of sad news. During those months she had a series of transient ischemic attacks (also known as “Mini-Strokes”) that took her health bar (at the bottom of her screen) down a click or two each time. And when July came around her health bar was flashing red and we all knew game was just about over.

The day Grandma passed away my parents and I had plans to meet up for lunch. I knew something was wrong when I walked out of my apartment and I looked at my parents in their car. My Mom’s eyes were watery and my Dad’s face was solemn. When I hopped in my Mother informed me that Grandma was in her final moments and was in and out of consciousness.

My Mom said her goodbye into her phone with Grandma’s ear at the other end nearly a thousand miles away. She then handed me the phone. I was about to say my final thoughts to Grandma, whatever the may have been, but before I spoke, I realized I had my distraught and slightly confused Grandpa on the other end instead of Grandma.  He must have thought everyone said their piece. I handed the phone back to my Mother and my eyes filled to the brim.

We collected what control we had and headed off to lunch to keep our minds at bay. We sat on Steuben’s patio under a hot Colorado sun and talked of anything but death. It was crowded, as usual, with the young and old alike. I wallowed in the safety of anonymity. I stirred my Old Fashion and watched the ice melt away into the liquid it originally was. No one knew what the three us had on our minds. And we had no idea what was on theirs. We reminisced about her life as it pertained to ours and the cheer she brought to us all during her time on this planet.

The call came as we finished up lunch, and my Grandma was gone. Tears flowed down my Mothers face. A swell of loss rolled my ship over and I sank to the bottom of a numb, dark lake. I cried when I got home. It didn’t help. I sat on the floor of my apartment with only the flood lights from the parking lot illuminating the room.

A week later we buried her. It was good to see the family. It was nice to have them to hold and talk to and not feel alone with. But the hollow feelings that started a few months back still remained.

But like I said, dead people were everywhere last summer. And not a month later I saw a Facebook post that an old coworker and friend of mine had died in a car crash with two other kids in their early 20’s. I talked with other mutual friends and confirmed that the tragedy was true. The blackened bottom of my emotional lake was looking more like home.

Chelsey was a beautiful young woman with a bright soul and she was gone. I hadn’t seen her in a year or two, but we had talked not long before the accident about doing a photo shoot for my blog. Then she was gone. A 25 year old, talented dreamer, a daughter and friend began her journey back into the earth. My heart sank for Chelsey and her friends in that car and their families.

I didn’t go to her funeral, because 25 year olds aren’t supposed to die. A 25 year old life is pre-game show before tip-off. Not the encore before the show is over. And I didn’t want to know or understand, even though I knew and understood. I just wanted a goddamn drink and for all it to go away.

I don’t drink on week days. And that’s not true, but the ferocious drunken times have faded more in recent years and my big boy job takes precedent. It’s true to say that rowdy times still remain from time to time or weekend to weekend, but they aren’t every night.

After Chelsey died I slipped into some sort of 29-year-depression-fuel-alcohol-frenzy. I was trying to trick myself out of dealing with the reality of death. I touched on these dead folks in, Death and The Beginning of my 30’s, which was written during the dog days of the summer in question. Truthfully, I was dealing with my Grandmas impending release from life all year, but I hit the eye of the storm in the waning moments of a night out on a random weekend that I can’t remember the exact date of.

I had just stumbled home. This is not unusual. But during that night I was talking to anyone who would listen about all the decaying of flesh and the dark air that surrounded me. I drank Fireball shots to cleanse the soul, to lighten the mood. I was holding up glasses and cheering to no one in particular and thought I was holding it together well. Talking to strangers in a bar was good way to ease the pain. I convinced myself that I was only mildly depressed.

My neighbor stepped out of his apartment to have a smoke as I was opening my door. He is an eccentric old fella that talks with his hands and likes the neighborhood cats. He is a genuinely good soul with a lot to talk about. We have a good group of folks at my apartment complex. I consider them my friends and I had explained to him earlier in the week what happened with Chelsey and he knew about my Grandmother. As he smoked, I swayed in a boozy tower, we chatted about nothing in particular and then he asked me how I was doing. In the wake of such a simple question all of that false hope and plastic happiness evaporated and tears began to stream down my face and I said, “I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t what to do. I just want them back.” He looked at me momentarily as I spiraled out in the sadness.  “There isn’t anything for you to do. You just need to grieve and heal. And maybe cut back on the drinking.” The water works became worse. I gave him a hug for saying such kind words and I went into my apartment. I lay on my bed for some time and sent thoughts into the ether. As my memory faded so did my need to think that there was “something to do” and I woke up sideways on my bed, in the same position I last remember.

My heart was still solemn in the morning, but I knew I only had one action left to take… I needed make some coffee and gather up my overstretched soul and swim towards the light. I couldn’t stay at the bottom of a bottle or a figurative lake anymore. Nothing I could consume would stitch up the wound for me.

I opened my eyes to a half-drank bottle of St. Paulie Girl sitting on the floor. The girl on the label smiled at me like she knew my burden was gone and I smiled back.