A rchive Date
[ 18-06-2000 ]
Category
[ Philosophy ]
sub-Categoy
[ Friendships ]
|
[Don't be so busy you stop seeing friends You never know when you might lose them
By Herman Gooden -- London Free Press
June 18, 2000
My friend Brian died two weeks ago at the heartbreaking age of 42. The cause of death was diabetes, which he didn't even know he had.
True, he'd been feeling decidedly punk for a while, but with that maddening stoicism/indifference so many men exhibit at such times, he kept putting off seeing a doctor. He figured he'd shake this bug soon enough if he just kept plugging away at his daily routines.
When he was finally ready to admit this standoff wasn't working, his wife rushed him to Woodstock General Hospital in a diabetic coma.
Brian slipped away while his mom was being driven to the hospital from London in the middle of the night. She was met by Brian's grief-stricken wife and the news her only child was gone.
I was in England when he died, felt pole-axed by the news when I got home, then steeled myself up to phone his mom.
The awful etiquette of bereavement is ruled by cruel paradoxes. You know you've got to say something to the living and, with equal certainty, you know nothing you say can assuage their pain. You know there is no fact in all the universe more devastating for the bereaved to dwell on than this one and no other fact they can bear to entertain for even a second.
They need the agony of talking about it (and talking about it and talking about it) and whatever eventual relief or acceptance they win only comes from heading straight into that deepest and coldest of all possible miseries and letting it soak through to their bones.
Considering Brian was six years younger than me and lived on the other side of town, it took a little divine (would you believe, maternal?) intervention to get us together in the first place. Brian's father had vamoosed when he was just a toddler and as Brian approached the threshold of puberty, his mother wisely surmised her son could benefit from a little more masculine influence in his life.
Brian's mom and my mom had been mates since public school days at Empress and because there was nothing but boys at our house -- I was the youngest of four brothers -- it was decided to deposit Brian at the Gooddens for a Saturday and see if anything came of it.
Were my brothers even around that day? The six-year spread between Brian and me would have been 10, 11, or 12 years with them, so the role of surrogate brother fell to me.
I took this 11-year-old kid to my overhauled rec room downstairs, wondering what I was in for as he informed me he'd had to transfer from the Trafalgar bus to get here.
Admittedly, I was a little out of touch with some of the younger editions of the boyish mind, but what if he wanted to talk about bus routes all day?
"Do you know what Trafalgar spelled backwards is?" he asked.
Unenthusiastically, I started to work it out.
"Raggle-Fart," he announced with such gusto and pride I couldn't help laughing, simultaneously musing there were probably people who'd been riding that bus a lot longer than Brian who'd never taken two seconds to scan its name in reverse.
Give him a chance, this kid might be all right. And thus we were off and running, seeing each other pretty steadily through the next six years or so.
I introduced Brian to loads of great music, movies and books and got him into a series of plays when I landed a job in summer theatre. He was so easy-going and confident, I was able to take him along on outings with my contemporaries, where he got along just fine.
For a couple of years he was an absolute wizard at candle-making, giving great waxen beauties to virtually everyone I knew at Christmas time.
The last time I saw Brian was at my parents' 50th wedding anniversary bash in September '91. He had married by then, meeting his wife when they signed up for the same mixology course. Though I never had the opportunity to know Michele very well, it was wonderfully obvious that Brian had found a soul mate who was solidly tuned into his same quirky frequency.
Brian thanked me for helping him find his way as a teenager and I assured him the gratitude was mutual. That, as the little brother I never really had, he frequently helped me get over some of my own early adult crises by reminding me of the great boyhood verities I occasionally was in danger of forgetting.
Foremost among these -- and how I wish I'd upheld it these last nine years -- is: "Don't let yourself get so busy you stop seeing your friends."
Today, I underline that verity with this hard-earned amendment: "Because you never know when you might lose them."
Herman Goodden is a London freelance writer. His column appears regularly in Sunday's A&E section. Letters to the editor should be sent to letters@lfpress.com
 World Fact Book (CIA)]
|