The Story of Roy and Learning To Love and Be
Loved
I wish I could have a reunion with
my best friend Roy Moyer. He died years ago, at the age of 29. We met at
freshman orientation at Florida State University in Tallahassee. I looked across
the room and saw this tall, handsome Nordic blonde guy smiling and I said to myself:
‘There is my life’s best friend.” We became like brother and sister, closer
even, we were twin souls.
For years, we did everything
together. We giggled and laughed and danced through our college years. We were
housemates along with our friend Lisa our senior year; we fixed hundreds of
awesome dinners together; we shopped and traveled together, and we shared our
innermost feelings and experiences. In fact, sharing something with Roy was
often the best part of a new event in my life and hearing something wonderful
that Roy experienced made me as happy as it made him.
Roy was warm and funny, goofy and
silly in a Dudley Doo Right kind of way. He was kind and loving and generous
and had a deep full laugh that was contagious. We accepted each other down to
the core. Someone loving you that much made you feel loved absolutely. Roy
taught me that people showed their love in different ways even saying “Patti when I fix your broken necklace, I am showing I love you.” “When I reach
something from a high shelf for you I am showing that I love you and I know
when you have my favorite big BLT fixed for me at lunch you are loving me and when
you let me sing off-key through a long car ride you’re showing that you love
me.”
We were tender and affectionate
with one another. Like, a brother and sister. I was not attracted to him, which
worked well as he was gay. Instead, we completed each other. We had both come from abusive households. He had big scars on his back from where his father had beaten him with a belt, my scars were less visible. Our friendship healed many of those scars.
And oh how we matched. We laughed at how often would dress in a similar way — same dark blue jeans, same leather jacket. Both of us even had red shoes, mine pumps, and his oxfords. We would sit in a similar way next to each other on the couch. When we got on the phone, we talked in a similar tone and rhythm. When we were sitting across the table from each other eating, we would both pick up and put down our knives at the same time. Our sameness made us feel comfortable around one
another. Being with each other was like being home. Years later I would have a housemate Pat who wrote her Master’s thesis novel loosely based her life during our year's housemates. Her professors said that my closeness and matching with Roy did not make sense. So in her novel, she made Roy and I twins!
After college, he moved to Atlanta and became a
social worker. I went to Auburn University to pursue a master’s degree, and
then returned to Tallahassee to begin a Ph.D. program. Roy and I were as close as ever. We talked
for hours on our weekly phone calls and visited each other every few months.I lived in a small town where I
couldn’t go shopping without running into someone I knew. Roy and I were so close that when my friends
in Tallahassee who hadn’t even met Roy knew he was my “Twin Soul” so when they
would see me they would always ask, “How are you?” “How is Roy?”
Years passed. I had a four-bedroom
house with a big fenced-in yard, a steady boyfriend, a group of friends that
were like a second family, wonderful housemates and a great dog. I took martial
arts classes, and. I’d eat grape nuts for breakfast and joked with my housemate
Pat about our crazy dream from the night before. I’d start my day singing in
the shower and then get in my car singing along with the songs on my radio on
my way to work.
I had my own consulting company and
taught communication at Florida
State; my class in
nonverbal communication had 150 students enrolled each semester. I was living a
happily-ever-after existence and Roy was always a part of me and I was always
a part of him.
When we were both 29 Roy and I went
to visit Roy and we went walking in Atlanta’s Piedmont Park. His big 6’2 frame
towered above my petite five feet two inches. It was a beautiful spring day and
as we circled the lake and I was blissfully breathing the fragrant flowered air
so happy to be Roy. As we rounded a curve, Roy stopped, brushed back his blonde hair, turned
toward me and said, “Patti, I’m dying.”
I heard a loud gut-wrenching scream
crying “No!” echo across the lake. It took me a moment to realize the scream
was mine.
At that moment, everything in my
life began to change. I knew with certainty I had to move to Atlanta
to be with Roy.
I didn’t ask him if he wanted me to come, I just decided. People thought I was
crazy. But it was really selfish – I just had to be with him.
Within a few days, my boyfriend had
broken up with me - he was afraid of being infected from my innocent friendship
with Roy - and I began getting rid of my belongings. I sold almost everything
in the house down to the bare walls. I took the cash and left my house, my
friends, and my speaking business. I
took a job as at temp receptionist in Atlanta to make ends meet, exchanging a $1,000-a-program
speaking life for a $7.50-an-hour wage. Instead of being treated with respect
and admiration, I was treated like a servant.
I took a small apartment and
fitfully slept on a borrowed mattress on the floor of my closet. I was alone in
a city filled with strangers. I would
visit Roy every day he was in the hospital and sit on the edge of his bed, holding
his hand. And though Roy and I would laugh as we always did, our jokes were
about the glove-wearing hospital staff that tried to avoid touching him, his
new free hospital gown wardrobe with built-in” ties in back” air-conditioning and
about his new easy diet plan, we called “Wendy’s drive-through” a drip from a stand
above his bed when he could no longer eat.
Over the year I watched him
decline, he went from a being a strapping six-foot 2-inch man to an emaciated
90-pounds that I could carry in my arms. I would return home each night, take a
shower and weep uncontrollably. My sleep was filled with concentration camp
filled nightmares. I saw Roy lose his ability to first walk, then to eat, then
to remember, to speak and finally his ability to breathe.
Roy died in July before his 30th
birthday. I could not believe that
the world would keep spinning without that sweet “Roy boy.” I could not believe
that I didn’t die too. I was so surprised that I could actually go on breathing
without him. His family insisted I have his ashes. He told me before he died,
he wanted me to have his ashes so someday he could come to my wedding.
I envision a reunion with him. It would
start out with just for the two of us. We would walk around his beloved Piedmont Park
in Atlanta. As
we walked, we’d catch up on each other’s news. We’d laugh about him never
getting older than 29 and the fact that I am much older but still a tiny
blonde.
We would cry over having missed so
many dinners and trips with each other. I’d tell him about the speaking
practice I rebuilt after he died. I’d express regret that I haven’t yet
married, so don’t yet have a son I can name Roy. I’d tell him how sorry I am that his sickness
prevented him from marrying the man he loved, who later also died of AIDS.
Then we’d go for dinner at one of
his favorite restaurants. He loved great food, and we would share a dessert. We’d
meet up with friends afterward and go dancing together until the wee hours.
And I’d thank him for being the
best friend in the world to me, for making my life so much richer through the
gift of his unconditional love, truly teaching me what is to love and be loved.
--Patti Wood, Atlanta,
GA, motivational speaker, and consultant on nonverbal communication and body language.
Patti Wood, MA - The Body Language Expert. For more body language insights go to her website at www.PattiWood.net. Check out Patti's website for her new book "SNAP, Making the Most of First Impressions, Body Language and Charisma" at www.snapfirstimpressions.com.
