6-0-4-2-1-9-0-0-9-9
The now-achingly familiar numbers that rolled off Daniel's lips every day.
He would always share his cell number verbally with people like this:
“6.0.4.2.1.9.0.0.9.9…six-zero-four, two-one-nine-double-zero, double-nine”
I would hear that riff of numbers ringing through the air all day long over our 11 years together. Often teasing my "commander of communication central" as his cell phone buzzed and rang 24/7.
The sequence of cherished digits forever etched into my memory. The precious coordinates by which I could always locate my sweetheart. Whether he was downstairs when i was upstairs (hee hee) or trotting on the other side of the globe. Those numbers were my open channel for us to connect. To share. To make plans. And to send him my love in the forms of stella-wordsmithing, invitations, images, video, and text bites.
Yes, it is irrational. But I kept his cell phone on, fully-charged, perched on the side of "the desk" for months as I sifted and sorted and wrapped up his life while I tried to make sense of mine.
I would giggle when every 2 weeks when he reminded me to "water plants now". And when I was feeling down I would often light up the lock screen to see his superman fist, and more times than not I also seemed to be met with 11:11, or 10:11 (the latter was his math for our couple. Daniel being born on the 10th and me on the 11th).
No, it isn't logical. But having his phone sitting beside me felt like I was keeping his line of communication open in case he could find a way to call home. Daniel was so connected to his phone, especially in his last year. It was a lifeline, really. And it felt like a betrayal when I pried it out of his hand as he was being wheeled away to the ICU while attempting to read the tidal wave of messages rolling in from friends and family.
But one day, many months after his death, I decided to call Telus to find out why the 'no service' symbol was on because I hadn’t noticed that before. The bottom line from customer service: "this phone number has now been recycled."
I wasn't ready for this. I was trying to get ready for it. But not today. It didn’t make sense to want to retrieve his phone number which had already, horrifyingly, been assigned to a complete stranger. To my surprise, I heard the words floating over the receiver that “I wanted the number back”.
Back for what exactly? I had to ask myself. I couldn't even explain why to the sweet and patient Telus rep who just listened until I admitted defeat. I didn’t know why it hurt so much to let go of this one. Nope, no logic here. Maybe because it made it impossible to escape absorbing that, 100%, '“Daniel 6042190099” won't be calling me ever again.
Embarrassingly, it felt like another death. I sobbed like a baby all day as the finality of his absence sunk in a little deeper.
As I sat with the Telus rep on the other end of the line in disbelief, staring helplessly at his disconnected iPhone, I reached over and hit the lock screen. Staring back at me was "our" number. 10:11. Daniel's number for “us”.
I am usually reassured by the synchronicities that continue to reaffirm my connection with Daniel. But it didn’t help me feel better that day. I had received yet another confirmation that Daniel Lane, my Honey Monkey Lover Boy, Rockstar to my Heart had indeed left the building. His sweet skin was gone. And now, his number was gone too.
xo
