We've all suffered loss (or will). I dare say I've been lucky enough to either have dodged the worst or been mostly unaffected by it. When I was fifteen, my grandpa George died. It didn't hit me until later, as I was bored and tooling around on the moped he'd given me, that he was really gone. I turned down a side street headed for his house at the end of the lane. I stopped when I saw his empty house. And the feeling hit me - he was gone, really gone. It was a vaguely empty ache in my chest. Only his memory remained with me.
Less than a year ago, our black lab Sherman died, tragically. If you've befriended a dog or cat, you understand the depth of grief that sweeps in at their loss. Sherman was a gentle animal, and was a solid and loving companion to Jen, me, and our boys.
An old friend found me on a social network site a while back, and we corresponded occasionally. She'd been battling advanced ovarian cancer for quite a few years. I remembered her as young, vibrant, full of life. She'd broadened my musical horizons in those days we used to hang out. We had so much time on our hands... Certain songs bring back those memories of her smiles in such vivid details. She also kept a blog where she detailed her ongoing struggle for life. She wanted children fiercely, but was unable to and what went unspoken between us was that she and her husband chose not to adopt knowing where her battle would take her. Immersed in my own life, I realized one day I'd not heard from her for too long. Hesitant, I checked her Facebook page in April to find an online memorial from several of her friends. That same ache struck deeply again, despite my separation from her by time and distance.
And now this... I feel as though I should have been prepared for this. One of my longest and dearest friends finally revealed that his life-long battle with his genetic disease is drawing to a close. He'd always been very private, and with rare exception flatly refused to discuss his health with anyone. All I knew was that whatever was going on, he wasn't letting it stop him from anything he wanted to do. And he's done just that. Beyond doubt, his life is something to be celebrated. It became so easy to believe that he'd beaten the odds, he'd cheated Death. I joked that we'd be toothless old men holding wheelchair races in some old-age home somewhere. He laughed along, and sometimes I wondered at the way he chuckled.
I see now, with painful clarity, that all along he lived with a deep understanding of his own mortality. I thought I understood mine too. I couldn't have been more wrong. At this moment, I feel overwhelmed with a dread of that returning ache. Only this time it won't be vague. He's shared too many of the important points of my life for me to be able to believe I could be whole without him.
He asked me for space, for continued privacy. At first, I rejected the notion entirely. It still cuts across the very fiber of my being. But I am trying to honor what he wants. I find that time alone hurts, as my thoughts return to what he's going through. This is the first time I've written here about something that's impacted me so deeply. This pain has to go somewhere else, rather than circulate through my system repeatedly.
Though I'd consider myself among the ranks of the heathen unbelievers, I desperately want to believe in God simply so that I can bellow my rage at him for his poor judgment. Sound and fury... there's no-one to hear. The stars do not move for man.
Strangely, sometimes when my son Nick smiles at me I see my grandpa in his features. The crook in his smile, the beam in his eyes. It hurts and is heartening at the same time. As if the universe is reminding me that all things are cyclic. I want to believe, I really do.
If this ordeal is teaching me anything, it is the value of time well-spent. Something else I thought I knew only to begin re-learning it again. I can't imagine how I'd cope without my family and friends. You've got the love I need to see me through.
