One Final Touch

I got some news today that made me think. It made me think hard…

One day, a few years ago, we were riding around looking for yard sales. We didn’t have a whole lot of money, but that’s not the whole point of yard sales. Part of it is to be together doing something fun. We had gone miles away and found some things, nothing of real importance, and we were headed home. On the road we lived on, we saw one more yard sale, and we pulled in. No one was outside, so we started looking around. My daughter was probably about five years old and my son was just an infant. They had what most yard sales have; candles, glass jars, unwanted gifts from well-meaning aunts, and knick-knacks galore. This yard sale was no different. As we were looking around, an older lady came out and hung around just in case we were the ones to buy her out. We did small talk for a while, and in the conversation, discovered that her husband was into the VW scene. Of course, that got my interest and when he came out, we ended up talking for what seemed like hours. He took me to his barn to show me his project Beetle and all the “barn find” parts hidden away on shelves. I considered him a new acquaintance and a future friend.

Children have this habit of saying whatever is on their mind. It doesn’t matter what it is, even if others would think what was said would be otherwise seen as being rude. My daughter is no different. When the lady’s husband was talking to me, my daughter looked at him and said rather bluntly, “You’re old. You’re going to die”. I was almost shocked, but this honest statement from a small child tickled him. He started laughing, which then made us all laugh. Words from a small child brought us closer together at that moment. Every time we saw him after that, he would reminisce about that day and laugh about it all over again. We didn’t become close friends, but we would stop in every now and then to visit, and he when he got his Beetle on the road, he would stop in by my house and talk about what he had been doing to it and what still needed to be done. His wife even allowed us to dig up flowers and plants that had gotten out of control at her house and transplant them in our yard. Those plants and flowers still grow today and are a constant reminder of who gave them to us.

The news I heard today was not good. I knew that the old guy (Clyde was his name, by the way) had been having some health issues. I thought about him from time to time, but rarely took the time to stop in anymore. I always meant to, but other things seemed more important at the time. I heard today that he had died. When I heard that, I just about cried. Not because I was necessarily sad…I am, but what made me think was this: I should have stopped at least one of those times that I had thought about it. I should have taken the time to check in, even if it was just for a second. Now it is too late. The only thing I can do now is offer condolences. I can’t tell him how nice his Beetle looks. I can’t sit with him and have coffee and just talk. I can’t walk in his creek with my daughter and have him tell her to “turn over that rock and see if there are some crawdads under it”. I can’t do any of these things because he is gone.

Death is a part of life, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it. I have been thinking about a phone call I received from a dear friend a few months ago. This is a man whom I would really dare to call one of my closest friends in the world. I don't have very many of those. This man is a big man, tall and thick. His attitude is what I would call domineering. He wouldn't hesitate to back his friends up in any kind of disturbance, and he has my back. That's a good thing, because he is not the kind of person that I would want to get on his bad side.

Anyway, he has had some health issues arise in the past few months. Actually, these issues arose from other issues he has had for many years. He suffers from an extreme case of psoriasis. Without medication, his skin gets all scaly and itchy, red and irritated. He had been taking medication in pill form, but they changed it to taking weekly injections of whatever it is they had him on. He went into this regimen fully aware of the side effects and consequences that could arise in some cases. But the alternative would be to live with dry, itchy irritated skin.

Now, this big hulk of a man told me about his predicament and I just about wanted to cry. The medicine that he has been taking to help one problem has created another problem. One of the side effects that have been reported is liver damage. He told me that he is looking at a liver transplant operation. I was in shock, as you would guess. He then sent me a link to a website where he posts pictures. What I saw when I opened up the page was heartbreaking. There was this man, this dear friend of mine, looking thinner than I had ever seen him. His face looks sallow and sickly. His eyes are sunken in. I thought I was looking at an overweight skeleton. I about cried. He has lost over 50 lbs., which in any other case would be a reason for celebration. His skin has a yellowish tint to it (he said that he even doctored the photos to make himself look less yellow).

How am I supposed to feel? He is one of my dearest friends, yet I am almost afraid to let him know how sad I am for him. Manly men don't cry or show weakness. Which brings me to another thing...I don't think I cried when my sister died. I can't remember doing it, at least.

I can't recall many memories of her and me from when we were kids. Some I can...riding our bikes on the hilly streets near our house, going to birthday parties of a now unknown friend, visiting our grandparents, and other bits and pieces of memories. I can't even say we were close as we grew up. Why can't I remember many of the times we had together? I don't know. The story of her last year is a tearjerker...that I do remember. It was 1993-1994. She had been working as a secretary in an X-ray department of a hospital. She met someone, fell in love, and got married in January of '94. But in September of '93, she had been diagnosed with uterine cancer. The doctors did what they had to in order to try and stop the cancer...they took out her uterus. Put her on radiation therapy. Injected medicines into her to fight the cancer. Nothing seemed to help. She quickly spiraled downward into the ravages of what cancer does to a body. Toward the end, she lost so much weight she looked like a skeleton with skin.

Months before she died, my ex and I were married. That would have been in July of '94. My sister was too sick to make it up here for the wedding, so she sent a video message for us wishing us luck and a bright future. She did this for me when she knew she was dying!! Even though we hadn't been close for quite a while, I felt so close to her at that moment, when she didn't think of her situation and thought only of me. On our honeymoon, we stopped in and saw her. It was the most painful thing I have ever witnessed. Her crying out in pain and then falling silent when the morphine took effect. I cried then.

She died in September of '94, only a year after being diagnosed. Only 8 months after getting married to her soul mate. Only 2 months after I saw her last.

Makes me think about my own mortality. Especially when I am faced with the prospect of a man, much bigger than me, much stronger than me, and a hell of a better man than me, facing a medical operation, that if things don't go right, could lead to his own death. Makes me want to quickly do all the things that I have wanted to do. Makes me want to be with the people I want to be with. Makes me want to touch base with those almost forgotten about. Makes me want to tell those I love that I do love them. And it makes me think about my future with friends, family and lovers.

I need to give my friend a call. I really do. I don’t want another person I know to go away without some sort of contact, a small touch, even if it is online, over the phone, or by text message. I can’t let that happen.

(Some of this post comes from a letter I wrote to someone special a while back. You know who you are and I do think about you.)