DEATH + FRIENDSHIP

The Last Goodbye or Something

Saying farewell to someone for the final time and my daughter’s comforting words

“Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.” — George Eliot

Leonard was my friend.

I met him in the residential community I was staying where my mom lives. It is a community of 80 x 85-year-olds. There is a lot of wisdom.

We talked about sports the first time we met last year when I visited the premises. He was legally blind so he sat close to his large TV screen. He loved football and golf.

The first time I sat with him over lunch, he told me stories of his life. I will remember him ultimately as the little boy in the stands cheering for his team in Cleveland with his cold hands cradling hot potatoes in his pockets. They kept him warm and provided him with an affordable meal at halftime.

He was a leading orthodontist, a family man, successful, kind. He was stillborn at birth and may never have made it if not for his grandma paying attention in the room.

We watched sports together in the last few weeks. During one game, we drank a glass of Pinot Noir and ate corn chips at 10 a.m. Neither of us had ever done that before. But it was right, we both agreed.

He was 88, thirty years older than me.

He had cancer.

He was a proud man and didn’t want to be a burden to his family.

“I don’t want them pushing me around in a wheelchair and getting me out of bed. That life isn’t for me. I don’t want my kids dealing with all of that,” he said.

I understood his sentiment. I don’t want to be a burden to my family. I try to plan for later years, making decisions now so I am not handing over my financial, health, and organizational issues to them.

We were having breakfast, and he casually said he would drink the purple juice. I thought he was talking about a fruit juice to have with his oatmeal.

But as I looked at his eyes, I saw there was something else. I didn’t press him but I realized what he was talking about.

He decided to legally end his life a week later on a Tuesday.

I sat with him and talked. We laughed and discussed the upcoming game.

“I leave back home tonight, Leonard. I won’t be able to watch the game with you tomorrow,” I said. “But I will see you next time.”

He smiled. We knew.

I said goodbye and put my hand out to shake his hand. He denied me.

“Come here, let’s have a hug,” he said. I hugged him, and I didn’t want to let go.

It struck me how quickly bonds can form in life. Here were two grown men trained in life not to hug or be overly emotional. We only knew each other for a few months. And we hugged like lifelong friends.

I said goodbye, looked back, and waved as I left. He sat in his chair with his daughter in the other room.

I stood in the hallway and cried.

I have been around death in my life.

I was with my brother for the last ten months of his life as he died from brain cancer at a young age. I’ve been to many funerals, have had many friends die. I can remember death as young as twelve when a friend of mine took his life.

Even the last time I saw my father and we said goodbye, I thought I would see him again a few months later. But it was an end without knowing it. He died a few days later from a stroke.

But I have never said goodbye to someone for the very last time. I’ve never looked someone in the eye knowing that I will never see them again.

I know we will all die. There is a finality to death. But when someone tells you they are going to die on a certain day, the finality has an added finality. It is a darkness beyond the darkness.

It is an abyss in the abyss.

I struggle when people say they don’t want to meet new people because they already have too many friends. I’ve never felt that. You never know when someone special will come into your life.

I had been staying in the residential community with my mom for two months. I met so many wonderful people. And while there, three people passed away. Death was omnipresent.

When I wrote to my family that my friend Leonard had passed, my sixteen-year-old daughter wrote back:

“That is sad he will be missed. But I am sure his soul is floating in the sky or something and he is living a nice, free existence now.”

Or something.

Funny how youth can offer such comforting words.

I am glad I met you, Leonard. I am appreciative of our talks and short time together. You showed me that friendships can form quickly, even at the end of our lives.

I only knew you for less than a year. And you were my friend.

I miss you. And I will see you again someday.

Or something.

You may enjoy some of my other stories reflecting on life, death, and something.