27 November 2007
Happy Birthday, Baby

Today Bram would’ve been 34. I was 33 when we got married and he would tell me I was as old as Christ was when he died. When he died, Bram was as old as Christ was when he died. I don’t know what that means; it just used to be something Bram loved to say.

Bram was 20 when I first met him. The first time we really spoke was in a theater class. The instructor told us to choose a partner. Bram was sitting behind me and he leaned forward and asked me to be his partner. I agreed. We sat down on the floor to begin some acting exercise and Bram said, “I’ll be right back.” And he walked out of the room. He never returned. I found out later that his roommates had introduced him to vodka the night before and he and vodka were still having an argument the next day. He found me later and apologized. We had several classes together that semester, and hung out in the black box between classes. We talked a lot. Bram was fascinating and funny. I started to think maybe Bram had a crush on me. My best friend agreed and told me I should ask him out. I couldn’t. Bram was much too young for me; I was 28 and he couldn’t even get into a bar legally! Wasn’t going to happen.

Bram came over to my house one day to return a prop borrowed for a show. He called to say he was coming and I was all aflutter, changing clothes, brushing my teeth, combing my hair. But I wasn’t interested in him, I told myself. He only came in long enough to drop the item off, but before he went out the door, he bent down and kissed me. Foolish me. I told him he was too young for me and it couldn’t work.

So Bram started calling me late at night, after the kids were in bed. We’d talk for hours, staying up far too late, just talking and talking. About nothing, about everything. Then he called one night and told me he was now 21 and wanted to take me out. I said yes—but only as friends. We started going out drinking and dancing and I would go home to my house and he would go home to his, and he would call me and we would talk for the rest of the night.

In January, our theatre club went to actf. I can’t remember what city it was in, but we stayed in a fancy hotel. Bram and I ended up alone in the elevator. He leaned down and kissed me. So I took him to my hotel room, sat him down on my bed, and patiently explained to him again that I was too old for him. When we got home, he stopped calling me. A few weeks later, I heard he was dating a girl from his church. It made me sad. Then I saw them sitting in the school hall together. She had her arm around his shoulder and was talking in his ear. My heart dropped. Right out of my body. I loved him! He was mine! And I realized how foolish I had been, but it was too late. He’d moved on. Then he looked up at me. His face was so sad, so lifeless. He was unhappy and it was my fault. But I couldn’t say anything. I’d told him to move on.

A week or so later, he took me into his dad’s office at the school and told me he had broken up with the girl. He never should have been with her. He was just overreacting to me telling him no. And I leaned over and kissed him. He kissed me back. And we decided to try us and see what happened.

The next time I saw him, he had shaved off all his hair.

We got married on Friday August 13, 1999. This summer we would have been married 9 years. They were the best years of my life.

thought by Bram Davidson around 12:02 AM
4 things said by the gallery

24 November 2007
Sometimes

...Bram made me crazy

I look over these entries and realize I am making Bram sound as if he was an angel walking the earth. I always felt he actually was an angel, sent here to heal me and make me strong and happy. He filled up every moment of my life and all I ever wanted to do was keep him happy and healthy. That’s not to say he didn’t make me crazy sometimes. He was a wonderful man, but not perfect. It is hard to recall any time I was truly angry at him. But he did do things that I complained to him about.

Bram stole all the blankets when we were sleeping. Then he would get too hot and push them all off his side of the bed. When I woke up freezing, I would have to crawl over him and hang off the bed to retrieve the blankets. I also had to remake the entire bed almost every day because he would twist the sheets all the wrong way and pull them off the mattress in his sleep. He said beds aren’t meant to be made anyway.

He made up words. No, what I really mean is, he made up his own definitions for words. One time he gave me a huge hug and kiss and asked, “How’s my wizened wife?” I pulled away, appalled. “What did you just call me?” He repeated the word and I asked if he knew what it meant. He said, “Wise, from a lifetime of experience.” I told him wizened means ‘old, wrinkled, shriveled.’ He said that’s not what it meant, because that’s not how he meant it. He was always using words ‘wrong,’ and when I called him on it, he’d tell me words meant what he meant them to. I think he just loved playing with words.

He didn’t finish things. He had great enthusiasm and wanted to try everything. But after starting projects, something else would capture his interest and he’d move on to that. Around my house, I have half-painted miniatures, half-sculpted figurines, a half-woven kitchen rug, a pirate ship with all the pieces ready to put together, half-written stories, half-knitted scarves, half-macrame’d wall hangings… the list goes on and on. I never resented his new projects, I just often wished he would finish them so they could be displayed, published, used…

When he got irritated, he had what Monica called his “snooty face.” His lips would purse and his brow would wrinkle. I understand no one can be happy all the time, but he’d deny he was irritated. I’d ask him what was wrong because he had his snooty face on, and he’d deny it. “I don’t scowl.” He’d scowl.

We rarely argued. When he’d do things that irritated me, I’d tell him, “You’re making me crazy.” “You’re making yourself crazy.” He’d tell me. And I couldn’t argue with that. Bram believed if you were bothered by someone else’s actions, that was ultimately your problem. You choose to be bothered, or you choose to ignore it. Bram chose to be happy.

Bram was such a calming influence on my life. He made me feel strong, and ‘wizened’ and beautiful and loved. He tried to make me see that the whole world wasn’t against me and I could choose to be happy and relaxed. He called it ‘finding your Zen.’ With him gone, I am having a hard time finding my Zen. I miss him so terribly and I don’t know how the world keeps turning when such a wonderful man is no longer with us.

thought by Bram Davidson around 11:15 PM
1 things said by the gallery

22 November 2007
Happy Thanksgiving, Baby

Monica talked me into cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I haven’t cooked much since Bram left. I never was a good cook until I started cooking to make sure Bram stayed healthy. I have set fire to my kitchen twice, and then there was the the burning oil on the arm incident of 2006… I Know that I am prone to accidents in the kitchen if I am not careful. My mind keeps wandering off lately and I’m afraid to cook. I mean I find myself in a room and wonder, “Why am I here now?” “How did I get here?” I’ll be lecturing in class and realize I have no idea what I’m talking about anymore. My students are probably starting to think I’m a little bit crazy. So we’ve gone back to our pre-Bram diet: frozen , boxed, and canned food. Nick usually cooks. But today Monica felt we needed to have Thanksgiving and she helped me cook. No turkey, though. I don’t know how to make a turkey. That was Bram’s job. Before he moved in with us, we always had ham for Thanksgiving. Bram couldn’t accept that. He said Thanksgiving means turkey; even if you don’t like turkey, you must eat it today. So he always cooked the turkey.

Bram was a great cook. When he first moved in with us and experienced our diet, he started cooking meals for us. He started teaching me to cook. I think it was the first time my kids realized food doesn’t come only from boxes and cans. Back then, Bram cooked most of our meals and insisted we all sit down at the table at the same time and eat together. He made such a difference in our lives.

Later when Bram got so sick, and ended up in the hospital, I took over cooking duties. I altered recipes to be more healthy for Bram. But there were still things Bram cooked for us—his specialties—because while I became pretty decent at cooking italian, indian, mexican, and American “home-cooked” food, I never could get the hang of Asian food. Or steak. Or chili.

Bram loved steak and he cooked the bests steaks I have ever tasted. I didn’t allow him beef very often (trying to keep his cholesterol down), but we had it once or twice a month. Steak day was his day to cook. He went at it like a scientist, looking for the optimal sauce, cooking time, and heat. He would try new methods and write down everything he did as he went, so he could compare notes and improve every time. He had a special steak pan and lots of odd little ingredients for sauces and toppings to cook the steak in. As we started making more money and could afford better cuts of beef, his steaks got more and more amazing. My mouth waters just thinking about it. We had steaks in the frige for him to cook the day he died.

Bram could make a damn good stir-fry, too. I don’t think he ever had a recipe; he just made it up as he went along. His stir-fry never tasted the same way twice, but it always tasted wonderful. He taught Nick to stir-fry, too. I couldn’t learn—going in without a plan was too much for me. Bram also took regular old comfort foods like spaghetti, chili, stew, or meatloaf and put his own spin on them so they were better than before. He could take any of my recipes and make them taste better by using spices without fear. Sometimes I came up with inedible disasters in the kitchen, but Bram never did.

I still miss Bram terribly. I think I’m still waiting for him to come home. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe he left without me.

thought by Bram Davidson around 7:05 PM
2 things said by the gallery

17 November 2007
Bram loved

Last night I had to kill a spider all by myself. I know it would’ve made Bram sad. I have a stupid phobia about spiders. I know it’s irrational (kinda the definition of a phobia), but they terrify me. I will abandon a room if a spider walks in. They are pretty much the only things that can make me scream like a girl. Bram thought spiders were cool. He said they were good for the environment and helped balance the ecosystem, and they killed mosquitoes. Mostly, though, he just thought they were cool.

Bram’s mom often tells the story of his pet spider. I’ve said before that Bram disliked housework. Apparently he was born with that aversion. Karen says that Bram’s bedroom was always a mess. She says one time after they moved, she was helping Bram unpack and arrange his room. She opened a box they had hauled across the state and it was full of garbage. Bram had packed and moved a box of trash! Karen says once when Bram was in high school she was having a problem with bugs in the house. She tracked down the source of the infestation—you guessed it. Bram’s room. So she cleaned it. She cleaned the daylights out of that room. When she closed the door to clean behind it, she discovered a huge spider web. She said it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed for months and the web was big, strong, and tunnel like. When she looked inside the web, there sat a fat happy spider. She promptly vacuumed that spider to death. When Bram got home, he went to his room and then came running to her and asked, “Where’s Bill?” The fat happy spider had been Bram’s pet. Apparently Bram had been catching flies and other bugs and feeding bill. That spoiled spider didn’t even have to do his own hunting.

That story gives me the creeps, but I am absolutely sure it true and not the least exaggerated. Bram knew my immense fear of spiders, but he wouldn’t let me kill them. Not that there was much danger of that. My fear is so great that I can’t get close enough to them to step on them. They might see me coming and jump on me, and then where would we be? Bram would explain patiently that spiders don’t jump and they are more afraid of me than I am of them. Which, believe me: no chance. The only way I can kill them is to spray them very thoroughly with bug spray and run away. This horrified Bram, as it is a long and agonizing death (if you stick around to watch). A death they deserve for being a spider, if you ask me, but Bram said they were noble and just doing their jobs and they can’t help that they are ugly. So Bram took care of spiders for me. As soon as he heard me yelp, he would come find me. No hesitation, no “Be there in a second, baby.” He came right away—I’ve never really been sure if it was to save me or to save the spider. But the point is, I yelped and he was there. With something to scoop the spider up in and gently deposit the creature back outside. I’ll bet once they were outside, Bram probably had a discussion with the spider about the dangers of coming into the crazy lady’s house.

I’m thinking that Bram’s treatment of spiders somehow exemplifies how Bram lived his life. No one was below Bram’s notice. No one was undeserving of Bram’s love and attention. Not even ugly spiders that terrified his wife. Bram never held a grudge and he treated everyone with respect and love. He always tried to look beyond bad behavior and try to find the reasons for it. And if he couldn’t understand why someone was behaving badly, well Bram loved them anyway. He seemed to feel that every creature on earth deserved love and understanding, respect and compassion. And I am really starting to believe, after so many people have shared with me their memories of Bram, that everyone who met Bram loved him. How could we not?


P.S. Thank you to everyone who has called and written to me about Bram’s clothes. Many of you have suggested I make quilts or other crafts out of them and give them away. I think possibly in the long run, this is the very best idea. But right now, I need them and they will stay in the closet and his dresser. Many of you have said that I should leave them there until I’m ready to move them. Thank you for understanding how hard it is to let go of his belongings. I am an anal-retentive neat freak and the day before Bram died I cleaned and washed everything in the house—even our bed sheets. Nothing in the house smells specifically of Bram. I think I would have comfort if I could smell him, but I took care of that, so I need his things here to look at.

thought by Bram Davidson around 1:29 PM
2 things said by the gallery

13 November 2007
Bram had a fashion sense

...all his own.

Bram brightened the world when he was in it. Funny, though; his favorite kind of days were cloudy, threatening to rain ones. He said they were great days for taking long walks and contemplating. The endless sunshine of Reno made Bram sad. Definitely no flannel weather. Bram felt you could never have—or wear—too many flannel shirts.

The first time I ever saw Bram, he was wearing a flannel. He was really big back then—the not P.c. word is fat. If I put my arms around his waist, I couldn’t touch my fingers together. I’ll never forget my fist look at Bram. Let’s start at his feet. He was wearing brown wing tipped Doc Martins. He had on one melon-colored sock; the other was salmon. He was wearing rust shorts that ended just below his knees. He was a big guy, but he had found a T-shirt that swallowed him, like a kindergartner wearing his dad’s shirt. The t-shirt was a dark pink. Over this, he had a purple plaid vest. He had a flannel shirt tied around his waist, the tails flapping as he walked. He wore big, nerdy glasses, like Clark Kent. His hair was shoulder length and spiral permed, uncombed, messy, flapping as he walked. On top of this hair, he had on a winter hat. One of those crocheted or knitted things in the shape of a beret, with concentric circles of different colors, topped of with a big, fuzzy ball. Except the ball was unraveling and hung even with his chin, swinging back and forth. I was entranced. He was so wildly dressed and so obviously happy to be walking in the sunshine. He saw me seeing him and walked straight up to me. For the life of me, I can’t remember what he said. Bram always said odd things, things that were nonsensical, too make people smile. But he said something to me and walked away. And I thought, “I have to know this man.”
The next time I saw him, he buried his face in my hair and told me I smelled like a girl.
He had a fashion sense that was so different, so very Bram…
He loved vests. I made them for him all the time. He wanted to have enough vests to wear a different one every day of the year. One Christmas I made him a maroon jacquard vest. It was shot through with black and gold. Very fancy, very formal. That same Christmas, the kids bought him a bright lime green dress shirt to wear to work. He was a manager in a book store. He wore the maroon vest and the lime shirt together. Sounds horrible, I know. But it wasn’t. Bram made it look great. He could just pull off the wildest color schemes. Because he was Bram.
I made him a bright pink Chinese print vest. It had little light blue flowers on it and he wore it with a bright blue shirt—shirt untucked, of course. He wore this pink vest to work as often as he could because one of his coworkers told him that men shouldn’t wear pink. He did it to tease her. And because he could wear bright pink and look just fine.

I have a closet full of Bram’s clothes: flannels, vests, brightly colored dress shirts. His latest mania was hoodies. I can’t bear to pack them away in a box. I can’t bear the thought of someone else wearing them. Somebody else might try to make these clothes match. Bram’s clothes deserve better.

thought by Bram Davidson around 10:53 PM
3 things said by the gallery

09 November 2007
Sometimes, Bram did things…

sometimes

I can’t stop waiting for Bram to come home. I walk
into a room and he’s not there, and I think to myself,
“I wonder what’s keeping him? He should be home by
now.” When I walk out of my office at the end of the
day, I think, “Finally! I get to go home and be with
Bram!” And then I remember, and my heart feels like
it’s going to burst and fall out of my chest. I can’t
make myself believe it’s real. I look for him
everywhere I go. He was my world.

Bram did interesting things. It was an adventure living
with him. Everyday was a new experience. Everyday he
made us smile.

Bram wore a sheet as a skirt one day. I remember
sitting on the couches outside the black box theatre
at MSU, waiting for Bram to get to school. I heard
him before I saw him. He wasn’t a heavy walker, but
he had a slow, measured step, that even though I’m
going deaf, I could always identify. I stepped into
the hall to meet him and he was dressed in a sheet.
He had on a big T-shirt, and his ever-present flannel,
his boots of Armageddon, a hat on his head…and a black
sheet wrapped and pinned around his waist. I said,
“Bram, you’re wearing a sheet.” He said, in a ‘duh’
tone of voice, “I know.” I asked why and he said, “I
didn’t have any clean pants.” I made sure he had
something on under the sheet, and dropped the subject.
He wore the sheet all day. It seems like everyone in
Minot saw him that day. He went to rehearsal, he went
to his mother’s, he went to his church…it seems everyone
who knew him then has a story about that day. He never
did it again, but not because he was embarrassed.
I think he got tired of confirming that he was, indeed,
wearing a sheet.

Bram had a magic trick. Because of his diabetes, his
weight fluctuated quite a bit. I don’t think his pants
ever fit perfectly. When he had the pancreatic cyst
and was basically starving to death, he lost a hell of
a lot of weight very quickly. His waist went from like
48” to I think 32”. He wouldn’t buy new pants. He just
kept putting new holes in his belt and cinching those
pants up. You can’t imagine the bagging that was
happening—his crotch hung to his knees! Anyway, his
pants never fit right, the magic trick… He would walk
up to people and ask, “Do you wanna see a magic trick?”
Whether you said yes or no, he would make some kind of
magic motion or chant and then suck in his belly.
His pants slithered down to the floor. Ta-da!

Bram was a pirate. Sometime in the past year, Bram
decided he wanted to be a pirate. He started collecting
pirate flags and patches and other paraphernalia. He
bought pirate ship models to put together. We discussed
decorating our living room as a cabin on a pirate ship.
He read pirate books. We went to see the last “Pirates
of the Caribbean” movie five times in the theatre. He
was counting down the days until it came out on DVD.
Then he decided he needed a pirate outfit. He insisted
that I not call it a costume—it was clothing. So this
past summer, I made him a pirate outfit. I found a place
online that sells custom made pirate hats and we ordered
one. We ordered boots, too. It took me a week to make
the outfit, and he was beautiful in it. I wish I knew
how to post a picture—anyone help here? I sewed the
outfit, but Bram designed it: shirt, waistcoat,
frock coat, sash, bandana, rings, and pirate boots.
He chose all the fabric and trim. When it was done,
he wore it to work. In the middle of August. In Reno, nv.
He wore it to the grocery store, the gas station, the bank,
walked around downtown in it, and came and visited my
students in my costume shop. He looked great. He wore
the outfit again on “talk like a pirate day.” He intended
to wear it for Halloween and his birthday. Maybe for
New Years, too. He was never embarrassed. He was just fun.
He loved to live.

I wish I had the words to express what a huge personality
Bram was. His passing a left a vast hole in my life,
and I don’t believe it can ever be filled. I know
life is not fair, or just, but I don’t know how or why
to live in a world without Bram. He was my Big Baby,
the other half of my soul.

thought by Bram Davidson around 9:03 PM
3 things said by the gallery

04 November 2007
Things I did...

For Bram

When Bram and I decided to get married, we didn’t waste any time. If I remember correctly, it was about 2 weeks from the time he asked me to marry him and the day we actually did it. We had to scrounge for change in our car and couch and anywhere else we could find it to buy the license and two wedding rings. My ring was from Walmart and cost us $5. During that time, some of Bram’s friends tried to talk him out of marrying me. I’m not sure what their reasons were, but I can understand that from the outside, we seemed an odd match. I was 8-1/2 years older than Bram, twice divorced with two almost-teenaged kids. Bram was gregarious, optimistic, loud, loved everyone he met and had a boisterous sense of humor. I am shy, pessimistic, quiet, distrust most people and my sense of humor is quite dry and often wicked. Bram was usually the center of attention and loved it. I shrank into the background and watched him amuse the world. What might have been hard to see was how well we meshed with one another. My weaknesses were his strengths, and vice versa. We always understood one another, often finishing each other’s sentences, or only having to say a few words for the other to understand what we were saying. I sometimes was amused when I saw other people trying to follow a conversation between Bram and me—it was almost like a secret language we had between us. When we were together, every day was magic. It felt like we had always been together and always would be. We took care of each other, and trusted each other. We only ever had one fight during our marriage and we rarely disagreed with each other. We were two sides of one very happy, shiny coin. Bram did many things for me, and I for him.

I learned to cook, and made him healthy food. Before Bram moved in with the kids and me, most of our food came out of boxes and cans. I was not a very good cook and I was not motivated to improve. But Bram was diabetic and after his first hospital scare, I determined that the food we had been eating was just plain bad. So I did research and I experimented, and I learned to cook for Bram. I made sure everything served in our house was healthy, low in cholesterol, and acceptable for a diabetic. I kept trying to convince him how good onions and other vegetables were for you, but he claimed he was allergic. He loved the meals I made for him and was beginning to appreciate even the veggies.

I scratched his back. Bram could act like a big 4-year-old sometimes, and at other times he acted like a cat. He loved to touch other people and he loved to be stroked, petted, caressed, and best of all, scratched. I used to scratch his back for as long as I could until my arms and fingers got tired. In bed, in the car, in the stores, wherever we were. Like a cat, Bram would lean into my scratching hand and twist and turn his back so I wouldn’t miss a spot.

I washed him in the shower. Bram was one of those guys who theorized that if he washed his hair with shampoo and let the shampoo run all down his body while he was rinsing, he was clean. And I admit he never seemed to smell bad. But diabetics are prone to infections and sores, and I was determined to keep him healthy. So I let him wash his hair—I couldn’t reach his head, anyway—and then I lathered up the soap and gave him a good cleanin’. Like he did with the back scratching, Bram would lean into it and milk it for all it was worth. I even washed between his toes, which made him squirm because he was ticklish.

I rubbed lotion on his feet. The diabetes. The diabetes worried me so much. Because of the diabetes, Bram had poor circulation in his feet. His skin on his feet would get rough and hard and we worried about the skin cracking and getting infected and him losing a foot—his left one, always—because of the damn diabetes. Also, because of the poor circulation, his feet hurt often. So I would rub lotion into his poor, dry feet. He would squirm and laugh—ticklish feet, remember? But I would rub lotion into his feet until they were soft and moist and safe. We laughed a lot while it was being done.

I kept his house clean and his clothes washed. Bram hated housework; he hated cleaning. When we first started dating in college, he took me into his room in the apartment he shared with Joe for some “private time,” and I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or amused. He slept on a single mattress laid directly on the floor. There was so much garbage and junk on the floor, that it was all even with the mattress! I remember a lot of old papers, pop bottles, clothes…6 inches of garbage covering the floor in his room. He said it preserved the carpet. I thought it was a recipe for illness. After we moved in together, I did all the housecleaning and I washed, folded, and put away our clothes. I don’t consider myself to be a very ‘domestic’ kind of woman, but I enjoyed taking care of Bram, and keeping him and his surroundings clean was one of the ways I did it.

I rubbed his head when he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes Bram had nights when he couldn’t get to sleep. I used to tease him that he was over stimulated. He was so full of energy all the time, and sometimes he couldn’t calm down and go to sleep. So I would rub his head. I would rub his whole head: his forehead, behind his ears, down his neck…I would gently pull his hair and rub it in all directions and I would scratch his scalp. We didn’t talk much while I did this—the point was to relax him and get him to sleep. He would hold my free hand and kiss it every once in a while, and we would tell each other we loved us. Remember I said he was like a cat sometimes? Rub his head long enough, and he would fall asleep.

I let him be quiet and still with me. Bram was so rambunctious and talkative and amusing most of the time. But sometimes he just needed quiet. When he would get still and quiet, I would ask him if everything was ok and he would tell me he loved us and he wanted to just be. So we would. We would just be. Sometimes this involved cuddling on the couch or in our bed. Sometimes it meant going out for coffee and reading books or writing poetry or stories. Sometimes we would just take a walk and not say anything at all. I’m glad he felt safe and comfortable with me, enough to just be.

Bram was my world. He was the sweetest, most amazing man I ever knew. I will always love him. He will always be in my heart.

thought by Bram Davidson around 6:44 PM
4 things said by the gallery

31 October 2007
things Bram did

...for me

Today as I left work, I got a tight, excited feeling in my stomach and I thought, “I’m so excited to go home and spend time with Bram!”

Bram drove me everywhere. I haven’t driven a car for any real distance really since we got married. I have anxiety attacks when I drive in heavy traffic, so Bram did all the driving. He told me he loved to drive and it was ok that I don’t. One night I drove the mile down the road to the convenience store all by myself, and Monica told me Bram was all nervous and fidgety until I got back.
Bram squished my feet. I have a chronic pain syndrome and my feet always hurt. Always. Some days worse than others. When the pain got really bad, Bram would take my feet in his hands and squeeze them really hard, but somehow gently. We called it ‘squishing my feet.’ It made my feet feel better for a while. He often did it without even asking if my feet, hurt, like it was a nervous habit or something.
Bram woke me up from nightmares before they even got started. I have recurring nightmares that some faceless dude is chasing me and there is no escape. I usually wake up screaming. The first time Bram experienced this, it freaked him out pretty good. But he quickly figured out the sounds of a bad dream and always woke me up before they really got started. He would wake up to wake me up!
Bram made sure all the conditioner was out of my hair and off my back. My hair is really long (all the way down to my butt—I’m about 2 inches away from sitting on it), and it can be hard to get all the conditioner out—especially on days when my pain is bad. Bram rinsed my hair for me and then lifted it and made sure the conditioner was off my back, too, so I wouldn’t itch all day.
Bram rubbed lotion on my feet. We’ve already discussed my stupid feet. On days my feet were only moderately painful, Bram would massage them with lotion, hoping to reward them and keep them happy longer.
Bram taught me how to deal with angry people. He always said you can’t solve anything when everyone is excited and yelling. He said if someone starts yelling at you, you should not respond. You should look them in the eye so they know you are listening and let them yell it out. He said they would eventually wind down and when that happened, you could (hopefully) have a sensible conversation and solve the problem.
Bram taught our kids how to drive—both at the same time! Imagine my anxiety at being in the car with a newbie driver! But Bram stayed calm and sweet and my kids are great drivers now—no accidents and few speeding tickets (they are young and in a hurry!)
Bram taught me how to control my own temper. Whenever I would lose my temper and start ranting, Bram would ask me, “What are you really angry about?” At first, this would just piss me off, but he really wanted an answer, so I would have to calm down and figure out what the problem really was. He taught me most things aren’t worth freaking out about, and if you remain calm and rational, you can solve the problem better and faster—or perhaps find there is no solution, so you’d best move on.
Bram made my computer behave. My computer hates me and Bram knew that was the truth, so he ‘computer whispered’ whenever my computer acted up—which is often. And he never suggested perhaps the computer wasn’t sentient and maybe I was doing something wrong.
Bram took care of me and I let him. He was the only person I felt safe enough with that I could let myself relax and let someone else be tough for a change.
Bram took my pain with him when he left. Since he’s been gone, I haven’t been in physical pain. My heart hurts dreadfully all the time, though. I love you, baby.

thought by Bram Davidson around 9:07 PM
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