My Entire World
I was 13 when I met David. He was the choir director at the high school I would eventually attend. He was at the junior high school facilitating auditions for the 8th graders, determining which choir(s) all of us would land in come the fall. He was an intimidating presence: he was a genius, and he was a legend throughout the state due to the renowned success of his choirs and individual students. He had these crystal blue eyes that made you feel that no one in the world mattered but you when he was looking at and talking with you. He fiercely cared about his students, and some of us were luckier than others to be in his “inner circle”.
Throughout our time together as his student, I became his shadow. I dressed like him, emulated his conducting, and was constantly in his office trying to soak up as much of him as I could. There came a point in my junior and senior years that it was just understood that I was his right hand; if he was late for school (he always was) or rehearsals, I would get everyone warmed up, get into the music, and then he’d take over when he got there. No one ever thought it was weird or ever questioned it. I was his stand-in and I fucking loved it.
When I left for college, leaving him was harder than leaving my family or any of my friends. The long summers during the school years were hard enough to not see or talk to him, and now I was moving 3 hours away? I couldn’t fathom my life without him; I really only ever felt normal when I was around him. He gave me his phone number and told me that I could always call him for any reason. He told me that he knew that I was going to need someone since I was moving away and that he would always be there. It was a very intense sentence, and I was puzzled by his comment… little did I know that he already figured out that I was gay. I left for college in August 1994.
October 1, 1994: the first time I kissed a woman. The reason I remember that date is because- not only was that a magical experience and cleared up a lot for me- it was also the day my paternal grandmother died. I went back to my hometown overwhelmed with my feelings for that woman and what to do with the state of overwhelm I found myself in. I had no one to talk to… but wait! OMG, is this what David meant? Surely not. I can’t tell him this! I knew he was gay, but could I really talk to him? The more I thought about it the more his comment really started to become clear to me. A few weeks passed and I finally got up the nerve to call him. We were on the phone for 3 hours that night. He laughed and told me when he met me when I was 13, he knew I was gay (what?!). He knew that he was going to get this phone call, but he didn’t think he was going to get it so soon after I moved away.
From that moment on, he became my rock; I sort of became his kid. Quite frankly, it is because of him that I am still alive. Not that coming out and coming to terms with queerness is any easier in one place over another, but I was in the south. I had no one to talk to (mid-90s… no one is really open and out). I don’t know what I would have done without him. We talked all the time; he kept me up to date about what was going on with the choirs and such, we talked about music and conventions, I confided in him about anything and everything.
After a few years and despite our 19 year age difference, we just became odd best friends. When I moved back to my hometown, he would bring me to parties and introduce me to all of his friends (they all knew who I was because I was his “kid”), we would go out to dinner & bars & clubs & shows & concerts together. He hired me to teach voice lessons, choreography, and the like at the high school with him. The David-and-Val-Show was back together again and I was over the moon.
Prior to me moving back to my hometown, I found out that he was HIV+. I was living with a university professor for a short while in between moves and he told me, accidentally; since everyone knew how close David and I were, he thought I already knew. A few weeks after that, David was at the university for the annual choral summer camp and he took me out to talk about it. He was so upset that I heard about his status from someone other than him. He had been positive for a few years, but he was relatively healthy, had good doctors, took care of himself, etc. He let me cry and tried to convince me that he was fine.
I was absolutely destroyed; I knew our time was limited now.
Years came and went. In and out of hospitals. Medicine changes. Doctor changes. He’d be healthy for a while and then would just drop like a ton of bricks. Rinse, repeat. I’d go to his house and keep him company; I’d spend time at the hospital with him. I met his whole family and grew close to them. I had a whole other family and they were just wonderful and so appreciative of my presence with him; I was grateful to be included in his family.
He ended up in the hospital for a little over a week, and he asked me not to come; he said he just needed to rest. I didn’t buy it. He finally reached out to me to tell me he was going to a home to recuperate and that he wanted me to come by. When I got to the home, he looked great; he was sitting in the chair next to the bed and greeted me with his usual smile and giant hug. He had me sit down with him. He looked at me and said “my doctor fired me yesterday. There’s nothing else he can do for me. This is a hospice home. This is it.” While I had figured this out (he had never not wanted me to come around) and knew it was coming, I felt like my world ended in that moment sitting on the bed with him. I held it together while I was with him, but as soon as I left the room- and for the rest of the night- I cried a fucking ocean of tears. The next several days were torturous. I stayed at the home to help his family with whatever they needed and just to remain in his presence as long as I was going to be physically allowed at this point.
I stayed at the home as long as I was allowed to on June 14. He was barely breathing and had stopped talking two days earlier. I can still see him in that room and the details of every inch of that room that night. I went to bed knowing he was gone. Around 1:45am on June 15, I shot up in bed, gasping for air like someone had knocked the wind out of me. It was obviously a kind of violent movement as I woke my partner (at the time) up with my actions. She asked “omg, are you okay- what the hell happened?” and I told her just didn’t know. I settled down and went back to sleep.
David’s dad called me at 7:45am to tell me that David had died at 1:45am.
His parents asked me to speak at his funeral: a day in the life of being a student of his. It was extraordinarily difficult for me to do, but I somehow made it through it. There were so many former students, choir directors, etc there and it was such a celebration of a remarkable human. I went by the funeral home the day of the funeral and when I said I was there to see him and check in with his family, I was asked “are you family?” I heard his mom say from another room “Yes, she’s family- let her in here.” I’ve not heard from or spoken to any of his family since. I reached out to them shortly after a move to the same state they lived in, and the letter I sent them- addressed correctly- was returned for some reason. I kind of felt that was a good thing; I don’t know that I could have handled getting closer to them and then losing them- it would have felt like reliving David’s loss. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s my mistake, but at the time I felt like I had to protect my heart.
When my wife and I met in 2005, I was still pretty raw from losing him. I remember her telling me that she wasn’t at all nervous about meeting my parents, but OMG if she had to meet David she would have been terrified; he was obviously my world, so how in the world was she going to impress my “world”? She finally said “I hope he would like me.” I remember telling her he sent her to me. There is no question in my mind that he orchestrated getting me the fuck away from my abusive partner and into my wife’s life so that I would finally realize happiness and that I was worth more than the life that I had resigned myself to living. Trust me, babe- I know he adores you.
In my mind and in my heart, being in love with someone isn’t just defined by a romantic relationship. I can't think of a time in my life where I wasn't completely, ridiculously in love with David. I blame him for my obsession with perfection, despite knowing that it is just inherently part of who I am- but he really always pushed me to be the best Me and I'm grateful for that (albeit exhausting at times). I achingly miss him, but he is very much alive in me. I hope I honor him in my life somehow. The people we fall in love with never leave us, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.