What if Brad Was Still Alive?

I imagine Brad is still alive.

He is a state senator (or fuck it, the mayor). Maybe after the shit storm that was the last 5 years, he has pivoted away from politics in favor of the private sector. Now he’s running his own non-profit or is the founder of some magical world-saving company he started with his best friend, Jeremy. Either way, he is writing a book in his free time.

We are still living in our Detroit loft, throwing casual dinner parties with our friends at the same worn-in and wine-stained table we’ve eaten at for years. We spend the weekends exploring the riverwalk, the Dequindre Cut, and all the other arteries of the city that stem from our front door. Brad both loves and hates the way Detroit has changed over the last 5 years.

We show up at every important event for all of our nieces and nephews. We volunteer at Big Brothers, Big Sisters. We continue to spend our money on trips instead of things. 

But wait.

No. That’s not true. If Brad was still alive, this is probably not the life we would have had.

This is the life we would have had he never had cancer.

Because no doubt, that diagnosis would have changed us both. The fears, the surgeries, the emergency room visits, the bad news, bad news, bad news.

Had Brad survived, our entire trajectory would have shifted - a rocketship midflight, aiming for the moon instead of mars.

We would have been the rare statistic that made it to the other side. The miracle we believed was possible early on. When we were hope-filled and infallible.

He’d never go back to the job that medical leave forced him to “retire” from. Instead, we would have purchased the RV that we put a deposit on in the height of his illness. We would have driven around the country interviewing others on what it meant to live courageously. We’d share people’s stories - their vulnerabilities and roadblocks and successes. I’d like to think that some iteration of Forced Joy still exists. And the Book of Stories - for those who weren’t so lucky. For those who didn’t get the miracle like we did.

We would be bold and take big risks because we had stared death in the face and told it (politely) to fuck off. We would acknowledge the fragility of our own mortality and make inappropriate jokes about how close we had been to the end. He would be famous and eat up the spotlight and I would hide in the shadows of his success, teasing him that his notoriety was only because everyone loves a cancer survivor.

We would both write the book and take bets on who would make it first to the New York Times Bestseller list.

Would we have moved up north together? Would we have taken care of my dad together? Would we have bought the house together? 

Maybe in this version, I would relapse. Or maybe he would. But we would recognize - but not dwell on - this possibility, and would remind each other of that fact when either of us took life for granted.

In either scenario - or one of a million different possible outcomes where Brad is still alive, I know this: He would still squeeze my hand when I was nervous and say to me, “Breathe bear cub” when I was anxious. He would laugh loudly and easily. He would argue softly. I would be stubborn and he would be (mostly) patient. We would hug and say “I love you” often.

It’s been five years since Brad’s heart took its final beat. It’s hard to think about what life could have been. Who we would become - both as a couple and as individuals. I have no idea where life would have taken us - what obstacles we would have faced that would have, once again, shifted our path.

A lot can happen in 5 years. A lot has happened in 5 years.

But if there is one truth that’s been ingrained in me over this time, it’s this one: I am here and Brad is not. 

And it’s that one simple and true statement that I will remind myself of whenever I take life for granted.

I am here and Brad is not.

It is unfair and it is undeniable And it is for that reason, I will keep living. For me. And for Brad.