7 weeks in Grand Rapids

Heads up: If you know Brian O'Donnell, this might be tough to read.

In the past three years, I’ve answered a lot of questions from friends and family about my current living situation. I can give reasonable answers to these questions, but if I’m honest they’re not always fully truthful because I struggle to explain the emotions and feelings that make those questions not even make a ton of sense to me. 

By far the hardest feeling to communicate to people is that my nomadic lifestyle doesn’t feel unstable. To me, this feels like the most stability I’ve ever had. No matter what happens, or where I wake up, or what city I’m in, I have everything I need to face the day packed in a backpack or the side cases of my motorcycle. It is a smaller core to base my life around, but I think a much stronger one. 

The world has inherent instability, and establishing roots in withering soil feels more like being subsumed into the chaotic unpredictability of life than an expansion of solid foundations. 

There’s a lot to unpack there. I might need to talk to a professional about it. But I’m living authentically. At my core, I genuinely believe that wandering around isn’t about adventure or excitement. It’s how I can meet the world as I see it. Any cynicism or depressive thoughts that seem related to that are ancillary at best. 

The corollary to this is that I’m on vacation just as frequently as anyone else, which is to say not all that often. When I fly to the caribbean or ride off to the mountains for a few weeks, I’m still working the whole time, still waking up earlier than I want to, still trying to get a few workouts in each week. It’s just the same as being “at home,” except that my “home” moves around all the time. 

But there are pockets when I do feel like I’m on vacation and a few of my weeks in Michigan felt like that. 

The first few decidedly weren't. I got there for a flurry of festivities starting with my dad’s birthday and ending with the new year. They were fun, but a lot of partying and a lot of waking up for work slightly bloated and hungover. I skipped a few workouts. 

Then my cousin Brian died unexpectedly. It was really fucking hard on me. He was one of my closest friends and he left behind a hole in my gut that I don’t think I can fully describe because I haven't yet found the strength to fully reach into its depths. 

I sidetracked what was supposed to be a 6 week stint in Michigan with a week in Chicago. There was a memorial service. I got to help with a reading. There was a party to bring friends and family together in celebration of his life. I did shots of tequila--Brian loved taking unnecessary shots---with cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, and people I didn't even know. There were a lot of laughs remembering his quirks and jokes. A lot of sighs thinking about his passions and aspirations. I tried to write about Brian and I's relationship in my journal, but couldn't find the right words. I hugged a lot of people, cried on a few shoulders, ran some errands, grabbed a bite to eat when I could. It was all pretty fucking hard. 

Amidst the chaos, one thing was remarkably easy. Within a few hours of hearing the news, my bag was packed and I was in a car on my way to Brian with my cousin Mark. I didn't have to think about it. There was no question of what to do. As we were walking out the door, my aunt (in Grand Rapids for new years) told me to let her know if I needed her to bring anything with them when they came later. I told her I’ve got everything in my backpack and joked that in some ways I’ve been training for moments like this for the past three years. 

“There’s no point in having a bug out bag if you’re never gonna use it,” an uncle chimed in.  

And I’m so, so glad that I got to use it. We made it to Chicago fast enough to see Brian at his home one more time. He was lying in his bed much the same as he looked every morning I've ever seen him there. His eyes weren’t quite shut all the way. His mouth hung open and his head was rolled to the side. He might have just been sleeping, but the room was quiet and his skin was cold. I miss the way he snored. It was so ridiculous. 

That week I bounced around between friends and family, sleeping on a pull out couch, or a regular couch, or a futon depending on what was available and who I happened to be with in the late afternoon. Every morning I packed up my backpack and brought it with me, unsure of where I was sleeping that night. At the end of the week, I made my way back to Grand Rapids, and another week later my parents left for Florida. In some ways, just another week of living. 

I had the house in Grand Rapids to myself for a month and that time alone was the vacation. It's still hard to describe because it wasn't obviously different from spending two weeks alone in Puerto Rico, or a month alone in Chicago, or any other stay that lasts more than a few days, really. It just was. 

I was by myself, but spending the time with Brian. One last hurrah. We watched Book of Boba Fett and Peacemaker. He really liked how John Cena handled the character. We got sad in the evenings. We had a few beers and sat by the fireplace. It was too cold to go outside. 

We shoveled the driveway when we had to drive anywhere. As usual, he had lots of advice for how to do something he had never actually done himself. He was right a few times though, and that made it so much worse.

We walked all the way around Reed’s Lake. Getting up the hill was hard. The sidewalks weren’t all cleared and even the cutouts were too full of snow for Brian’s wheelchair. But we made it all the way. 

I cooked lunch for him everyday and dinner on the days we didn’t feel like going out. I think he liked the new pasta recipes I’m trying out. Lots of chili flakes. I made a pancake most mornings. We drank our coffee. I kept forgetting to get oat milk for him at the grocery store so he took it black. 

Mark drove up for a weekend. We went tubing in the snow with Teagan and Fionnula (our younger cousins). We spent some more time just sitting there with Mark, silently stewing in a pause. It was nice. 

But all vacations come to an end and I got up at 4:30am on a Friday to catch a bus to a train to Chicago with my pack on my back and Brian in tow. Back to every day life. Or something like it.