Page 30 of All the Way to the River

O f course, I should also probably mention that we were high as hell at the time.

If you ever want to see two people go on a wild bender, have them fall desperately in love with each other, make them suppress that love for about eight years, and then suddenly allow them to release their true feelings for each other—and do it against a compelling backdrop of imminent death, where there are literally no more consequences.

If at least one of those people (but probably both of them, to be honest) is a sex and love addict, then the ride will become even more outrageous.

That was the trip we were on, man, and we were flying .

We were drinking a lot around that time, too.

And there was a lot of weed involved as well, because Rayya’s cancer diagnosis gave her access to the best prescription marijuana available in New York at the time, and we kept ourselves busy sampling all of it.

We were both using a lot of Xanax and Ambien to settle our hyperactivated nerves.

What’s more, a concerned friend had given us a bunch of psychedelic mushrooms and MDMA to help us process the reality of Rayya’s impending death.

So that was also going on, and often we were literally out of our minds.

But the truth is this: I had far more powerful substances coursing through my bloodstream than mere alcohol, weed, Xanax, psilocybin, sedatives, sleeping pills, and ecstasy could ever produce—and so, I suspect, did Rayya.

We were sky-high on love drugs from the internal pharmacy: endorphins, oxytocin, adrenaline.

And as we got higher on those drugs, we got wilder with each other.

We couldn’t take our eyes off each other; we couldn’t take our hands off each other.

The tenderness and intimacy of our first night in bed together had escalated into a nearly violent (sometimes literally violent) rapture as we pushed each other to ever-wilder expressions of eroticism.

We were ecstatic, phosphorescent, dangerous, brilliant, and full of wild courage.

We were writing poems about each other, staying awake just to watch ourselves breathing, and pouring words of devotion back and forth.

We were laughing and crying and rolling around the bed in fits of blinding passion.

Who needs food? Who needs sleep? Who needs money, plans, clothes, a home—anything but love?

Who gives a shit about cancer? We were divine angels, wrapped together in a single cloak of stars.

We had waited a thousand lifetimes to be together, and we would never be separated again—not even by death.

We would love each other so hard that loss and pain would no longer have any power over us—and then our love would build a bridge across the cosmos, far beyond the reach of suffering, where we could meet each other in the eternal realm as beings made of light.

We were formless, ageless, fearless, and gorgeous .

We were lit .

Just to be clear: Rayya was the one who officially had no future, but I was now acting as if I didn’t have one, either.

In the same way that Rayya had once discarded her entire existence for cocaine and heroin, I now discarded my entire existence for Rayya.

I dropped everything I was working on and completely forgot about anything I had ever cared about before her cancer diagnosis.

Blew off working on the novel I’d been researching for two years.

Canceled most of my publicity appearances for the paperback publication of my book Big Magic .

Canceled all my upcoming speaking events, interviews, and workshops.

Canceled production of my podcast. Stopped calling my friends.

Told my family to leave me alone, that I’d catch up with them later.

Started divorce proceedings. Stopped being interested in healthy food and either didn’t eat at all or ate the way Rayya was eating—and Rayya was eating like someone who was awaiting execution (hamburgers, spaghetti, BLTs, steaks, french fries, fried chicken, foie gras, sushi, peanut M&Ms, popcorn, Oreos, icy sugary drinks, and lots of pork products—or as Rayya called it, “vitamin P”).

I put on weight, stopped exercising, stopped going outdoors entirely for a few weeks—and could not have cared less.

And then I began to really pour myself into Rayya—showering her not only with love but also with money and resources.

I completely took over her life from a financial standpoint, paying for her medical expenses and her rent and her bucket-list experiences—the recording studios, the flights, all her “last meals”—and also buying her things.

So many things! Anything that Rayya had ever wanted I insisted she must now have.

Because anything that made her happy made me happy.

Watch me now as I fall backward into an ocean of Rayya’s material longings.

Do you want a Range Rover? Here is your Range Rover.

Do you want a brand-new piano? Here is your brand-new piano.

Do you want a Rolex and Prada boots? Here are your Rolex and your Prada boots.

Do you want me to rent you a penthouse apartment on your favorite street in the East Village, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a terrace and sweeping views of your old favorite neighborhood, so we can live here together until you die?

Here you go, my love—it is yours, it is yours, it is all yours!

Does it make sense to buy a piano and a luxury watch and a high-end car for someone who is supposed to be dying in a few months?

I don’t know. It certainly made sense to me at the time.

Had Rayya specifically asked me for these things?

I cannot now remember. But I knew her well, so I knew exactly what high-status luxury items she had always desired.

And I desired her . So I gave it all to her, and fuck the expense: I didn’t care if it bankrupted me.

I’ve always been bananas extravagant like this when I’m in love (hell, I would throw money into the open window of a passing car if the strangers inside the car promised to love me in return), but these were extreme circumstances, and so my overgiving pathology was more activated than ever.

I didn’t care about anything but Rayya, and now that she would be leaving the earth soon, there was no reason for me to hold back on transferring all that I was, all that I had , into her dying form.

This was my grand act of romantic annihilation, and I did it to myself.

Was she looking for someone who would “blaze out” with her?

Did she desire a partner who could really go “balls to the wall”?

Did she want someone who had always wanted to live as though there were no tomorrows?

Heaven help us—she had come to the right place.