Mark Bruce Stanley

July 25, 1957 -- March 9, 1995

My best friend, my soul mate, Mark, died 10 years ago today at the age of 37. He was a brilliant architect, just starting to be noticed. Because he worked for an engineering firm rather than an architectural firm, he completed four huge projects, any one of which my other architect friends would be honored to get. He did admirably on all of them and I now am the proud and careful keeper of his portfolio, one of his last gifts to me.

We knew each other for five short years, and in some senses we were married, at least some friends viewed us that way. We certainly had a til-death-do-us-part relationship, but who knew that the inevitable would intervene so quickly.

Mark was physically beautiful, and he literally turned heads as he walked down the street. He encouraged me in my work, and talked to me about his work. One of our first connections was over Edward Tufte. But our conversations ranged from Boston to childhoods to books to food to relationships and later to sickness and death. And of course we laughed a lot. He had fabulous friends and incredible experiences with them, and shared some of both with me.

To me, the most important thing about Mark was that he taught me that I am worthy of being loved. Perhaps it's surprising that after three decades, many relationships, and a marriage, I hadn't figured it out yet. But thank goodness someone was able to teach me that lesson; I will be grateful for that fundamental gift until my dying day. And perhaps all my friends should be grateful too...

And Mark was not a saint, either. He was opinionated and stubborn, and when depressed, he was a pill. He was not a "good" patient (certainly no one *said* that he was a "good" patient at his memorial service, though he was very brave) and he railed at his doctors and his caregivers and people who loved him. And yet there was a part of him that could love and that could send the message loudly enough that I could finally hear it. And there was a part of me, broken as I was, that could return the message and send it home.

While I knew him, he lived in Boston, Phoenix, LA, and finally moved back to Phoenix where his family lived. We saw more of each other than I see of some friends who live just a few miles away. I have strong memories of his healthy times, of his increasingly sicker times, and of his death.

But tonight, two stories from after his death stick out.

One of his former partners had painted an enormous portrait of him. Because it had always hung on spacious walls with tall ceilings, I never knew quite how big it was, and I asked for it after he died. After a consultation with the artist, it was decided that I should have it, and so it was professionally packed and shipped here. I came home one day and there was a huge box, almost as big as a garage door. I dragged it inside and then couldn't wait. So I opened it up and realized that inside the box were some plastic peanuts. At some point, the box, the peanuts and I ended up in the garage, and after pulling and tearing, I was up to my ankles in styrofoam. It was as if a volcano had gone off and the lava was rising. At that moment, and call me crazy but I swear to it, I heard Mark laughing loud and long. And I started laughing. And I knew he was OK and looking after me.

And a few years after that, Robert and I went to San Francisco and somehow stumbled on the brand new SF MOMA (museum of modern art). Oh my, was the building ever beautiful. I was so moved that I started to cry and I suddenly blurted out "It's like I'm feeling for two." Robert said "but you are." And it's true, and it will be true most likely forever.