A Page in My Diary about Death & Friendship & How to Make it Last

 

So. My friend is dying. Probably soon. I’ve began writing a book about his life, and he messaged me the other night to tell me that I better get what I need within the next four months. The cancer is taking over. It’s aggressive and is showing no mercy. I can’t stop thinking about his family, and what a tragedy this is. I know he isn’t the first person to get a terminal diagnosis, but it makes me sad and frustrated. I wonder how people do it; how do they cope? How do they continue on with life when so much of what’s important and meaningful to them has been stripped away? Although- if he’s had any influence on them whatsoever, I think they will be brave and bring light, and humor when the final curtains are drawn on his life. Never the less his wife, kids, grandkids, and other family members will be changed for better and for worse. And in addition to that there is an entire community of people across the country who have been affected by his mentorship in one form or another, and will be equally changed for having known and lost him.

Today I was considering my new friendship with him. How quickly it blossomed. I thought about how he confided to me the other day that I’ve become a confidant of sorts for him. He said I reminded him a bit of an old friend of his. I was honored. Later, it struck me as odd that I’m latching on to a dying man. It’s not that I haven’t had the time to get to know him better until now, because I have. He’s been in my corner from a distance for the last 7 years or so. It kind of makes me wonder what my therapist would say. I suppose it’s in sync with my MO. It’s no secret that I’ve found myself in multiple entanglements with men that couldn’t offer me anything, nor deliver on promises made. It’s ironic though; I feel like this dying man can offer me the world, delivered kindly, and truthfully with an F-bomb (or two or three). And go figure, he’s totally available.

Last night he showed me some photos of him in his youth; twenty something's, long hair, handsome and all bad boy. The kind of guy I would’ve swooned for in my twenties and begged to pull my hair. The look in his eye as described by him was, “What the fuck are you looking at?” I’d agree. He talked to me about what a rebel he was, and how angry he was.  I could relate; the rage, the fear, the search for belonging. My teenage years were tough. Sometimes I’m surprised I made it through. I’ve realized though, that those “lost years” prepared me. They got me ready for the woman I was to become. The one who some think is warm and caring, and well- some think is a real bitch. In all fairness, both are accurate.

My boyfriend asked me, “Why do you think you’re latching onto him?”

I talked in my last post about how through another woman he helped set me free, but the other part of that is that I’m afraid I only have part of the recipe, and a few ingredients. I need the rest, and as his illnesses progresses I feel like I’m running out of time. How selfish is that? I told him I wish I’d grown closer to him sooner. He told me it probably happened just in time. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t help but feel regret for letting years of his friendship escape me.

I asked my friend if he was afraid of dying. I know that question might’ve sounded pointless, as the answer might be a bit obvious, but I had to ask. I needed to hear his answer. Like most of his answers, it was lovely, rare and insightful.

He told me he gets scared of the process. Dying of cancer is ugly; bed pans, soiled sheets, severe pain, and being a burden on his family. He said he has to remind himself though that he’s not there yet, and might not ever be. He also told me he gets scared of death itself, because there might be nothing after this. He said hell or purgatory don’t scare him, it’s just the ending and not being. He talked about how some of his own heroes have died of cancer. He thinks they “prepared him for it, led the way and are pulling for him.” He said that “comforts him and eases the fear.” Then he said something that really made me contemplate the way I live my life. He said, “The fear of not being is all about ego.”

I asked him to explain that. He said, “My ego can’t stand the thought of not being. The spirit understands humility and accepts it. The ego doesn’t, it wants to not only live forever, but rule. Our egos are our identity. It’s what we’re attached to.”

He told me about an exercise he was given that had to do with looking for unhealthy attachments in his life; things such as: money, people, position, image, etcetera. He said that he eventually saw that any attachment made change a struggle, and when he most recently did this exercise he told me he found, “A big one. The biggest one, and maybe the last one.”

Ready for this? He found he was attached to life.

Once my question was answered I regretted asking it. I felt like any response from me would be silly, and futile. Tears began to sting my eyes and roll down my face. As I sat in a Starbucks somewhere in Illinois I cursed his God for the unfairness of it all. I questioned life, and what it meant, and what it was all for.

It just feels like such a tease. I mean, it’s like here’s this life; have it, taste it, view its beauty, and experience the earth’s glory. And love; love hard, and deep, and true. And lose, and take a gamble. Do some deep belly laughing, and accomplish things, and fail. Inspire others, and give of yourself. Take a walk on the beach and feel sand between your toes, feel joy, and sadness. Go outside at dark to contemplate a starry night’s sky- but don’t get attached to it. Don’t get overly attached to this life. If you do- well you’re screwed because it’s going to make leaving that much more difficult.

He’s not even mad at God. He told me God didn’t give him cancer, and that his cells are just fu**** up! If he's not mad- well I sure the hell am. Everything feels frivolous.

He suggested I do the exercise as well. Ready for the irony? I’m attached to him, and I’m attached to what he brings to a community of hopeless people; hope, salvation, and freedom, and love.

I once heard that Eskimo’s (not entirely sure about this) have a tradition of giving away their most treasured item every year as a reminder not to get too attached to anything. I wondered for a bit what I’d give away. Could I get away with pretending to treasure my piled up dirty laundry most? Hmm. Now that’s a thought!

As the day wore on, and I considered more of my attachments I became less angry at his God. I started having this overwhelming sense, this deep inner knowing that I’m going to be a part of people’s journeys to death a lot. And so maybe like the men he respected prepared him; he’s preparing me. Plus, I get to be close to this man that I respect so much. I get to share some of his last time here on earth with him, and I feel lucky that he’s given me so much of his dwindling time. I’ve also come to see that everyone this man has touched will inherit a bit of his strength and courage. And if the people who he’s touched are anything like me- they’ll feel a duty to carry on with his legacy.  

I feel this renewed sense of obligation to share my own experience, strength and hope. With his guidance and mentorship I did something the other day that helped heal and soften my heart a little, and it restored something that I thought my carelessness had broken forever. I think at this point in my life, he’s the only one that could inspire that level of courage and unpretentiousness in me.

Through his own fears he told me he prays for us; his people- not himself nor his own healing. It really is a privilege and an honor that I get to record some of this man’s life and listen to him reminisce as he takes me down memory lane. A lane that’s filled with simplicity and magnificence and miracles. A lane that shines brightly enough so that we may all find our way to it, and continue to carry the message of God and healing and love and laughter. A lane that he’s paved with grit, and courage, and heart, and care, and kindness.

Through all of this, through all of his pain and hardship, he has made me deep belly laugh, every single day since we started this journey together. I still can’t explain why I found my way to him when I did, and why we connected so quickly, or why he was the one to extract the willingness for growth out of me. I think that some things can’t be said with words and they can only be felt with our hearts. I’m beginning to understand what “language of the heart” means. And I have a gut feeling I’m going to crave it a lot more often. I will always hold him responsible, and thank him deeply for sparking a desire in me that I thought died long ago.

Much love to you all.

Stephanie Ann.

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