A missed miracle
The loft had felt small and empty for months, with an air of despondency that wouldn’t dissipate, so I finally made the reluctant decision to sell it. I knew it was necessary if I was going to move on with my life. I was only forty-three years old and I hoped I would have many more good years ahead of me — my mother was more optimistic than I; she had been pounding the fact that I was only forty-three in my mind every chance she had, and though her intentions were good, I still wanted to scream to mind her own business.
My mother had never fully supported our relationship, which abruptly ended nearly two years ago. She constantly voiced her opinion about our age difference, calling it a depravity. I remember when I had first introduced her to Tommy, she venomously inquired about his history with men, and his response was: “Well, Lovey! There was Geoff, not my first, but the one I believed I was going to marry. It didn’t work out, though. We’re still very good friends. Now, my first, the one who popped my gay-cherry … see, I lost my actual virginity to a girl, who I think is raising our bastard child … anyway, my first was Daniel, but that only lasted a couple of months … freshly out-of-the-closet homos are kind of slutty. The most recent was Billy; he slept with another friend of mine, Jesse, while I was out of town … I found them in my bed. Before Billy it was Montgomery, a proclaimed bisexual … I called him Mr. Fag Stag — Montgomery is just too gay of a name. And, oh yeah, there was Vance who had an unusual obsession with his cock.”
As Tommy would say, my mother was not amused. In fact, she was horrified and never forgave him.
Granted, our relationship had suffered through some trials and tribulations — a lot in fact. Tommy’s thirteen years my senior and that difference in maturity sometimes caused problems. Tommy picked a fight at least once a week, usually over something insane like hanging the bath towels with the Polo emblem facing out or how we were going to be late to a movie. He once told me, “We have to get the seventh and eighth seats of the ninth row or else I won’t enjoy the movie.” I usually chuckled at his many, many oddities, but it nearly always irritated him to no end.
I loved him with all my heart, and he loved me as much as he possibly could, I had come to realize over time. He was rarely completely open with me or completely comfortable around me. I attributed these things to his upbringing; his mother and father are overbearing and intimidating — something I witnessed only a handful of times, and I’m disappointed in them to this day.
Tommy wanted to see the world. We had traveled all the time, more than we could actually afford, but it’s what brought him the most happiness. I think he liked the escape, to be someplace else … to be someone else. Over the years, together we strolled endless beaches, toured historic landmarks, and ate exotic foods. On our travels, he always had this wide, child-like grin on his face and a gleam in his eyes, but I could still feel his ache inside — an ache he was keeping from me, most likely for my benefit. Why I was okay with it, I guess, now I’ll never know. If I had pried more, maybe he wouldn’t have hurt me like he had.
Tommy had cheated on me — only once — during our fourteen years together, an indiscretion he had kept from me all of three days. He told me that the guilt of what he had done was eating away at him. Of course, I was angry beyond belief; however, I forgave him, and almost immediately chose not to show it for several months.
Tommy Wylie had changed my life for fourteen years into an amazing adventure. Since the day we met in the grocery store — I noticed him waist-deep in a shelf, unburying the last bottle of soap-free, dye-free, fragrance-free, and hypoallergenic Aveeno body wash — he had made me laugh and think and cry … mostly laugh.
It was late October of 2024 when everything changed, when my life began to fall apart. Tommy and I were sitting in the doctor’s office — it was as sterile as the examining room — waiting for Tommy’s test results. I was holding his hand, cold and lifeless, as if he knew what was coming. After what felt like an eternity, the doctor walked in and sat across from us at his mahogany desk. When he gave us the diagnosis, with little empathy, I might add, Tommy’s first reaction was to spout a joke, “Well, at least it’s not menopause!”
Six months later, Tommy’s death, at the hands of pancreatic cancer, was the saddest moment of my life; yet, from that day on, I have thought about the miracle that he was, and I will be happy and proud and grateful for being a part of it.
— Charlie Carmichael