Rachel Marie Meyer

1972-2008

In Loving Memory

Good bye, my Sweetie Pie.

Following is the letter I wrote to Rachel, read by Ian Strandberg, Laura Morrison, and Timothy Delaney, at Rachel’s memorial on Sunday, January 25th, 2009.

Dear Rachel,

The first things I noticed about you were you hair, smile, and eyes.  Your hair was the shortest it would be during our relationship and marriage.  It was just about chin length and looked so cute on you.  Your smile was bright and mischievous, almost as if you knew even then.  I remember I didn’t know what color your eyes were, but they were already playing, already saying, “Hey there, dorky boy.  Come hang out with me.  I’ll take good care of you.”

It’s all Laura’s fault, really.  You remember.  At the time I was in a very dark place.  I was lonely.  Feeling like a failure.  I’d been whining to Laura.  I know.  Big surprise.  I’d been telling her that I wasn’t meeting anybody.  She told me to go on Craig’s List.  I scoffed.  That’s for jobs and selling stuff.  She said that their personals were free.  I can still remember, Rachel.  So clearly.  As I was about to click over on my browser, Laura sent me your link.  Your ad was simple.  You had two tickets to see Cirque du Soleil, were recently single, and had no one to go with.

As you well recall, the first date was, well, awkward.  I complained of too much lactose.  You told me that great Wilde line about declining beef or Latin.  It’s so funny.  With that one tiny, erudite joke, I knew.  Not that I was going to ask you to marry me, but that you were amazing and I wanted to know you.  At the time, I assumed I wouldn’t be so privileged.  I’m so glad I was so wrong.

The first weeks were rocky.  I didn’t know what I was doing.  And, if we’re to be honest, I don’t think you really knew either.  I’ll never forget that, at some point after some nitpicky thing between us, you declared, “Look.  I boinging like you.  We have a connection.  And I’m not gonna let YOU boing it up!”  I was both shocked and impressed.  I’d never known anyone who, despite my many faults, was willing, even insisting, on figuring things out with me.  Even if you had to drag me kicking and screaming.

At around this time, I took a trip to New York to see my dad.   Several small things happened on that trip.  I sent many postcards which you kept for years and which I still have somewhere.  We talked a lot.  I think my dad even thought too much.  He at one point commented that we seemed to be or would be married.  I thought he was nuts.  As much as I liked you, I just didn’t see that happening.  I told you about my silly little dream of a restaurant that did gourmet soups.  To my surprise, you thought it was a good idea.  And you weren’t kidding.  You’d later come up with the name.  The Ladle.  Now that you’re gone, I’ve changed the name to Rachel’s Ladle.  Also, you told me that Patty, upon finding out where I was from, asked if you were moving to Oregon with me.  At the time, the notion seemed insane.  How ironic, right?  And yes, it’s proper irony, Rachel.  I looked it up.  And let’s not forget the story of our second date.  I told you, and you often said this is exactly what I said, “I’m moving back to Portland.  I don’t know when it’s happening, but I am.  If you don’t want to do something like that, then we’d best not do this because this is non-negotiable.”

I said a lot of dumb things, I know.  Not long after my trip to New York, we spent more time together and, as much as I was scared, I knew something was happening.  Something that had never happened to me.  I’d felt what I call love before, but the degree of our closeness and, I don’t know.  What do I call it?  I guess even in those early months, I knew that we were destined for greater things between us.  Even when I said that I was not falling for you, I knew that I couldn’t shake you off that easily.

Somewhere in here it came up.  I don’t remember exactly how you put it.  I don’t know if you used the “communes” euphemism or not.  You told me about being raised in a cult.  I had no context.  None at all.  I’m so sorry I didn’t.  I also had no idea what it meant to you to tell me.  Sorry about that too.

About this time, I did that stupid medical testing thing.  You came to visit.  The first time, the nurses told me “Your girlfriend is here.”  That blew me away.  We hadn’t even decided on what we were doing and you felt comfortable calling yourself my girlfriend.  In public no less!  It was maybe the second night I was there, we were having a rather intimate conversation about where things were going.  I volunteered to go first.  “I love you, Rachel Meyer.”  You said the same thing.  Names reversed of course.  And it wasn’t scary.  It felt right.

I moved in soon after.  More rocky stuff.  We took a trip to Portland.  I was so scared.  I wanted so badly for you to like it there.  I don’t know that I literally would’ve dumped you had you not liked it, but it definitely would’ve created a greater deal of tension than we already endured.  And we had endured a lot.  With a ton more to go.

I still remember that picture we took of you on the sidewalk next to the courthouse with your chin resting on the beaver?  Otter?  I haven’t seen the picture in a while so I don’t recall.  You were so cute and content.  I kept that picture in my/our office for quite a long time.  I remember we decided that September was the best time to visit Portland as it was not too hot and not yet too cold.

Things between you and my mom got off to a rocky start as well.  I don’t remember all of it now.  I think the gist was she saw how serious we were and saw some of our issues and was scared.  My handling of the situation wasn’t any better.  Little did we know then how close you two would become.  So much so that even now she refers to you as her daughter.  Not daughter-in-law, not even her cute expression daughter-in-love, just plain daughter.

It was earlier than this when it happened, but you took me to visit your dad.  Oh, the nitpicking over who was your dad and who was your father.  Until I’d met you, I’d always thought of the terms and mutually intelligible.  How wrong I was.  You gave me a bunch of warnings about how to act, what to say, what NOT to say.  I was scared.  I mean, I’d met The Dad before, but had never met a Chabad practitioner, nor met anyone who was quite so close to her dad as you were to yours.  Much to my surprise and relief, the experience was not only painless, but also quite enjoyable.  I didn’t screw up once.  Or so I’ve been told.  But the most significant thing out of all of this was that soon after the dinner, your dad indirectly gave me one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received.  You told me that he told you that, “finally, you’re dating someone who’s your intellectual equal.”  I knew when I heard that that even though we hadn’t yet discussed marriage, it’d be a realistic thing.  I also then had to question your previous taste in men.  Not because I think I’m a dope (which I often am), but because I was so surprised and so touched to learn that I was probably going to end up being the love of your life.

And then there were Chana and Yossi.  Ever since our first date I’d been trepidatious about meeting them.  Mainly this was because I’ve never been brilliant around kids.  Especially toddlers.  And when I met them I saw that they worshipped you.  Rightfully so, but I was so blown back by their love for you and yours for them.  Especially given my odd relationship with my own brother.

You’d be happy to know that I’m carrying the Chana/Yossi torch for you.  I’m no Jedi Master, though.  In fact, to some degree, I think ultimately my presence in their lives will turn into a painful reminder of the lack of yours.  But you should’ve seen me at Chanukah.  I rawked!

It was one fateful evening, after a discussion with your dad on the relative lack of merit the institution of marriage carries that I decided to ask you to marry me.  It was actually more of a debate and it was actually the next morning that I made the decision.  The funny thing about the discussion, as you’d recall, is that you and I were on the con side, your dad on the pro.  The next morning, as I was taking a shower in the garage apartment, I concluded that I loved you, you loved me, neither of us wished to look further, and so, why not make it official in front of friends and family?

We were taking a trip to Portland.  We’d bought a New Year’s Eve package at the Kennedy School.  We’d bought it solely to celebrate the New Year, but I’d decided in the shower that maybe that would be the perfect time.  You screwed it up so badly.  I had the rings with me in a big, fat ring box.  I was gonna propose at dinner, but couldn’t fit the ring box in my pants without a giant bulge in my pocket.  After dinner, I thought I’d do it at the show of some band we’d never heard of.  I thought I’d get in front of everyone and make it all nice and official and embarrassing for me.  You said no to the show.  I then thought I’d do it at the midnight champagne toast.  At the last minute, though, you decided you didn’t want to go to the champagne toast either.  So, finally, I had to do it there.  In the room.  I got down on one knee, in front of you and your laptop (you were checking e-mail), and asked you to open the box.  You did.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“An engagement ring,” I answered.  “Will you marry me?”

“Are you boinging serious??” you said all flabbergasted.

“Absolutely.”

I had never seen you smile so wide.

“I never would’ve said yes to anyone else,” you confided.

The next morning, we told everyone.  My grandmother said, “I like her!  The old lady approves!”  I figured that was a good sign.

The cliché is that weddings are the happiest days of people’s lives.  Especially of brides’.  I think in our case, this was easily true.  It was at the Kennedy School (my suggestion).  It was only six minutes long (also my suggestion).  The party lasted about six hours.  And when Bruce asked me if I’d take you as my wife, I repeated what I’d told you when I’d proposed.

“Absolutely.”

You’ll be happy to know that everyone we know who went still calls it the coolest wedding they’ve ever been to.

The first year had its ups and downs.  I clearly remember it was a little odd for me to say you were my “wife.”  Not bad at all, I just had never imagined that I’d take such a step with anyone.  I remember you took a great amount of pride in calling me your “husband.”  That always made me so happy.  It made me happy to see you happy.

We moved across three states in less than two years.  I won’t wallow on the low points of that except to say that in all the travails, as much as you couldn’t trust life and that we’d be okay, I always did what I thought would support you.

I distinctly remember how much you couldn’t believe first that we moved to Portland, then that we got an apartment, then that we got jobs.  I like to think that that last year and so of your life was the best.  No, our relationship difficulties didn’t magically disappear, neither did your cult issues, nor did your health issues.  But with my counseling, your counseling, our jobs, our friends, our families, and, I think you’ll agree, our home, I know that we were soon to turn a corner, to see everything work out.

There’s so much more to say, but I think we both knew most of it.  Thus, I’ll leave you to rest with this:

Through all the times that I threatened to leave, all the times I threatened divorce, all the times I removed my ring, all the raised voices and name-calling, I never stopped loving you.  Not once.  Not for an instant.  And I never will stop for the rest of my life.  Not ever.

And now to butcher Mr. Thomas, you did not go quietly into that good night.  You raged, you raged against the dying of the light.  It’s true, you did lose the fight.  It’s true, you went into the night, but you were so brave and you fought so hard.

I do now and always will love you so very much, Rachel Marie Meyer.

Forever your loving husband,

Anton Augustine Hill

(Your sweet, dorky baby)