Sal is gone... How I'm doing...

As some of you may already know, Sal, my fiancé and partner of over a decade, has passed away.

FINDING OUT

I picked up the phone and immediately heard it—the anguished wailing that seemed to stretch on forever. It was Sal’s mother. She didn’t say a word, just cried in a way I’d only heard once before in my life—when my sister called to tell me she had found my brother. A part of me already knew what it meant.

After what felt like an eternity, Sal’s dad came on the line and told me, “Sal is dead.”

I repeated the words, hoping I had misheard. A part of me clung to the hope that he had just passed out, like he sometimes did after drinking too much. But no, it was true.

At the time, I had been in England. We’d been messaging, but I hadn’t heard from him in nearly 24 hours. Concerned, I messaged Sal’s parents to check on him for me.

It kills me that his dad had to be the one to find him, that his mother had to see him like that. It should have been me. I should have been there with him.

NO WORDS

I speak three languages, and there isn’t a single word in any of them that comes close to describing this pain I’m feeling. I keep trying to find the words for what this feels like, but they don’t seem to exist. “Devastated” isn’t strong enough. “Heartbroken” doesn’t even come close.

I’ve known heartbreak before—the kind that crushes your chest, makes it hard to breath, and leaves behind sharp little pieces you carry around for years. But that pain feels trivial now. Tis but a scratch compared to this.

Some kinds of pain go so deep that language just… can’t follow.

PATIENCE

I know many of you are concerned, and I truly appreciate each and every message. Please bear with me as I try to respond. Right now, I just don’t have the capacity to answer each message individually, but I want you to know that I see you and am so grateful for the support.

ARRANGEMENTS

As of this writing, we still don’t know the cause of death. We’re still waiting for the report.

Sal never talked much about his health. As far as I knew, there weren’t any serious conditions—but even if there had been, he wasn’t the kind of person to say anything. He always told me he didn’t want to burden me with problems, even though I reminded him that we were partners, and that whatever happened, we were supposed to handle it side by side.

Today, Sal’s parents and I will go to the funeral home and make arrangements, and will post on Facebook to let you know what they are.

WHAT’S NEXT

The hardest part will be reshaping the future I thought I had. The life we were building. The plans we made together, both big and small—vacations we were going to take, the way we split chores, the way we took care of each other. Every little detail of daily life that I assumed we’d share now has to be reconsidered. Rerouted. Reimagined.

The practical part of me can’t help but think about what comes next. We were a two-income household, and now I have to figure out how to manage finances on my own.

The “To Do” list has now become overwhelmingly long.

SUPPORT SYSTEM

I’m lucky. Even in the middle of everything—this heartbreak, this loss—I can still say that. I’m lucky because I have an incredibly strong support system. Not just one family, but many. I never thought for a second I had to go through this alone.

There’s my kin—my parents, siblings, and cousins. Then there’s the family I’ve built along the way: Sal's family, my Cypress Photo family, my RIS family, my Samy’s Camera family, and all the extended circles I’ve built over the years. I’m deeply grateful to have people to lean on. These are the people who show up with hugs, with food, with late-night check-ins, with quiet understanding when I don’t have the energy to explain anything. These are the people who remind me that I'm not alone.

I also have my therapist on call. That alone is something I don't take for granted. She helps me make sense of the mess in my head and heart, one session at a time.

Writing has also become a kind of lifeline for me, even when the words don’t come easily. It’s not always pretty or polished. Sometimes it’s just scribbled notes or half-thoughts typed out at 4 a.m. But putting my feelings into words has helped me put the chaos in my brain in order so I can address them one at a time.

NEEDING HELP

Right now, I need help in all kinds of ways. And I’m not afraid to ask for it.

I know I’ll need a few weeks of help as I get my footing. I’m hoping to create a new rhythm for myself, something that works for this new chapter I didn’t ask for—but still have to live through.

There are the practical things: getting the house back in order, managing funeral expenses, and figuring out how to take care of all the everyday responsibilities that Sal used to handle without fanfare. The lawn. The laundry. The grocery shopping. The car maintenance. The little things you don’t realize are being done until you’re left trying to do them all yourself.

And then there’s the emotional side, like the guilt that creeps in for leaving him to die alone. If I had stayed, would things have been different? Could I have done something to save him? Could I have at least held him my arms to comfort him as he passed? These questions linger, quietly but persistently.

Our lives were so deeply intertwined that almost everything reminds me of him. I find myself in tears at the thought that we’ll never cook side by side again, never fold laundry together, never plan another trip. We were a team in every sense of the word—partners in the everyday and the extraordinary. And now, even the quietest moments echo with memories of the life we built together.

I don’t expect any one person—or group—to carry all this for me. That’s too much to ask, and it’s not fair. But I do hope it’s okay if I call on different people for different things. Maybe I’ll need help running errands one day. Maybe I’ll need someone to sit with me while I cry. Maybe I’ll need a distraction—someone to go on a walk with or help me declutter the garage.

But I’ve learned that when people say, “Let me know if you need anything,” they often mean it.

In the coming weeks, I’ll be finding my way through this grief, and your patience and understanding will make all the difference. Thank you for being here with me during this impossibly hard time. Your kindness is not unnoticed, and it’s a lifeline.