On the First Anniversary of my Best Friend’s Death

By Rockwell @ 2023-03-06T04:59 (+220)

This is a linkpost to https://www.rockwellschwartz.com/blog/on-the-first-anniversary-of-my-best-friends-death

Thanks to encouragement from several people in the EA community, I've just started a blog. This is the first post: www.rockwellschwartz.com/blog/on-the-first-anniversary-of-my-best-friends-death

The title likely makes this clear, but this post discusses death, suffering, and grief. You may not want to read it as a result, or you may want to utilize mental health resources.

Some weeks back, I had the opportunity to give a presentation for Yale’s undergraduate course, “A Life Worth Living”. As I assembled my PowerPoint—explaining the Importance, Tractability, Neglectedness framework; Against Malaria Foundation; and global catastrophic threats—I felt the strong desire to pivot and include this photo:

It was taken sometime in 2019 in my Brooklyn basement and depicts two baby roosters perched upon two of my human best friends, Maddie (left) and Alexa (right). One year ago today, Alexa died at age 25. This is my attempt to honor a tragic anniversary and, more so, a life that was very worth living.

I’m sure you’re curious, so I’ll get it out of the way: The circumstances surrounding their death remain unclear, even as their family continues to seek the truth. I made a long list of open questions a year ago and, to my knowledge, most remain unanswered today. What I do know is that Alexa suffered greatly throughout their short-lived 25 years. And I also know that Alexa still did far more good than many who live far less arduous lives for thrice as long.

That’s what I want to talk about here: Alexa, the altruist.

Alexa, my best friend, roommate, codefendant, and rescue and caregiving partner.

Alexa, cooing in the kitchen, milk-dipped paintbrush in hand, feeding an orphaned baby rat rescued from the city streets.

Alexa, in a dark parking lot somewhere in Idaho, warming a bag of fluids against the car heater before carefully injecting them into an ill chicken.

Alexa, pouring over medical reference books on the kitchen floor, searching for a treatment for sick guppies.

Alexa, stopping when no one else stopped–calling for help when no one else called–as countless subway riders walked over the unconscious man on the cement floor.

Alexa, hopping fences, climbing trees, walking through blood-soaked streets, bleary-eyed and exhausted but still going, going… Alexa, saving lives.

Alexa, saving so many lives. Thousands. From childhood, through their last weeks. In dog shelters, slaughterhouses, and the wild. Everywhere they went.

Alexa, walking the streets of Philadelphia, gently collecting invasive spotted lantern flies before bringing them home to a lush butterfly enclosure, carefully monitoring their energy levels and food. Alexa, caring for 322 spotted lantern flies until they passed naturally come winter.

Alexa, the caregiver. Alexa, the life-giver.

Alexa directly aided so many individuals over the years, I don’t think any one person is aware of even half those they helped. Their efforts were relentless but shockingly low-profile. They were far more likely to share a success to spotlight the wonders of the individual they aided than their heroic efforts to bring them to safety. And, painfully, they were also much more likely to dwell on the errors, accidents, or unavoidable heartbreaking outcomes inherent to the act of staving off suffering and dodging death. Alexa’s deep compassion caused them equally deep pain. And when Alexa and I ultimately distanced, it was to evade the deep void of grief too great to bear that lay between us. I know the pain Alexa carried because I do too. 

Sometimes, the pain that binds you to another becomes the pain you run from, and you never get the chance to go back and shoulder their pain in turn.

Alexa had a bias: Do. And do fearlessly. Or do despite the fear.

Where others might pause and deliberate, Alexa dove right in.

Give the injection to the maybe-possibly-rabid raccoon? You guys help hold him, but pass me the needle.

Wait for animal control to catch the stray Rottweiler wandering the streets of the Bronx? Find me a rope so I can knot a makeshift harness once I’ve got him cornered. And then watch as I help him transform into my loving life companion.

Alexa was… completely and utterly reckless. Alexa was unpredictable, unbounded, and unrelentingly good. Alexa embodied “chaotic good” wholly and completely. And, for a time, some of us were graced with that good.

I want to write here about the more mundane good of Alexa. The way that despite their hardship, they would always ask “what do you need right now?” and mean it.

I want to write about the larger good they worked toward: researching contraceptive interventions to replace lethal measures of wild animal population control.

But really, I want to write about ramen, and the time I had to scoop endless noodles out of my toilet after Alexa decided flushing leftovers was somehow preferable to the garbage bin. I want to tell you about Alexa, wrapped in a snuggie, bird in hand, nicknaming her “Zoloft” because of her antidepressant effects. Alexa, making me laugh so hard I’d cry. Alexa, letting me cry. Alexa, saying it’s okay not to cry. Alexa, saying it’s okay not to feel if you’re not ready to feel, it’s okay not to grieve if you’re not ready to grieve. Alexa, the person I grieved with. Alexa, the person I don’t know how to grieve for.

It has been a year, but I still haven’t figured out how to grieve Alexa.

Sitting at my laptop last month, I was debating what lessons and ideals I should attempt to convey to a classroom of undergrads in a 20-minute presentation. And I was staring at a photo of Alexa. I turned to a timeless adage, paraphrased from the Talmud: “Save one life, save the entire world.”

The challenges that the world faces are vast, and, frequently, overwhelming. The number of lives on the line is hard to count. Sometimes, it all feels like a blur - abstract, and so very far away. And because of that vastness, we can easily lose track of the magic and power of one life, one person’s world.

Alexa walked into that vastness, arms outstretched, and said, “I can help you. And you. And you. I can’t help you all. But I will try.”

Sometimes, when you lose one person, one life, it can feel like you’ve lost the entire world. One year later, the world is still here, but all the darker without Alexa in it.

You can read more about Alexa, their life, and their accomplishments at RememberingAlexa.com.

Tyler, my dear friend and Alexa’s partner until their passing, shared this update on The Alexa Stone Fund, which you can support here: