A Gift from a Friend

I’ve debated how, or if, to write this post. In the end, I hope it is about what I learned in experiencing the passing of a friend. My intent is to explore my own feelings on the matter and not to make public something that was, for a friend, very private. I will describe a few things about my couple of visits but only those things that relate to my feelings and to what was learned. So, let’s hope I achieve that goal and that this post is not about my friend’s experience in death, but about how, through his difficulty, he gave me a gift.

In November last year, a friend and actor in town, Allen, was diagnosed with stage-four esophageal cancer. As a community of theatre artists, we raised money for him, let him know we loved him and tried to support those who were doing the hard work of caring for Allen in his terrific battle.

This past month I got the call that he was in hospice care. On, Sunday, March 14th, after hearing of his deteriorating state, I went to see my friend. That Sunday, my friend was certainly very sick, but he was there. I held his hand, felt warmth and stroked his arm. There, I had the chance to put my arms around someone who was very dear to Allen. One look in her eyes told me everything I needed to know about the battle she had fought since November. By the time I returned on the 18th, his decline was profound. This time his family was in the room. It was the first chance I’ve had to meet them. It was nice to sit with them and do my best to just help in some very small way. Allen was not responsive. Medication was taking away most of the pain, but it was hard looking at my friend. His body shutting down, cell by cell, organ by organ. We turn off computers so much in our modern day. It was like the brain was doing the same for Allen: terminating processes, eliminating data, disengaging and allowing for the final movement to silence. Allen was five years older than I am. I sat there talking with his mother as she told me how hard it was to watch her boy, her child, suffer. How hard it was when the moment came that two-way communication was no longer possible. It wasn’t as hard to take when she could do things for him. I could not help but think of my own mother in that position. It was a crushing thought.

I left my friend, eyes closed, with little weight left on his frame, breathing in odd strains. I knew when I left that day that he would pass when the moment was ready for his family in their process of grief. Then he would go. There is more to life that what we see. I feel that other space and time, or timelessness, just a short, quick, idle step away from what we call life. I know that. So, I did not worry for my friend in death. I cried for him in his suffering. The lesson, “We are quiet visitors in this life – nothing more.” No need to pretend otherwise.

The following morning, March 19th, my friend passed away. When someone leaves this world through illness, for the longest time it is about the person. But over that it span, the person with the illness begins to give back to us and the subject becomes those around him or her. Then we are taught and comforted. We fear death when it is rightfully a full passage out of this world and into the hearts of many. The self is given, dies, and dissipates. Then there are only the ones remaining - “we” “us” “together” - that share a common love and a common grief.

On, Tuesday, March 23rd, I went to a memorial service. A service in a beautiful place, on what turned out to be a beautiful day, with a lot of people who would have loved nothing more than to hug Allen. His body did not exist anymore. That sole point drove the heartache home like no other aspect of his death. This person who I came to care for, love, and who had an impact on my life was now physically no longer a part of this world. I really struggled to fully embrace the idea. That day, his ashes were buried in a beautiful garden on the grounds of the church. He was certainly alive in spirit, and I know I’ve felt his spirit on a few occasions since his passing. Whatever void is crossed, he made it to the other side. I feel that strongly but, obviously, it is not a point that can be proved. It is something I take on faith and in my feelings and perceptions about life.

I have identified with Allen’ passing in a way I have never done before. I’m usually pretty good at maintaining a certain distance when it comes to illness and death. Not that I pretend I was there helping him through the brutal days - I wasn’t. I did a few things to help along the way, let him know I loved him and in the end went to see him a couple of times before his passing. But he had great, loving people doing so much for him. But I could have done more for him, I know that. But for me, in my own cautious way, I reached out and let him know that he was my friend and that I loved him.

His death has had a profound impact on my thinking. It has stirred me and has me asking questions and seeking answers. And not the question of why bad things happen to good people or the issue of fairness or any other issue that is of this world. It gets back to that moment when I learned that Allen was no longer available to me in physical form. It brings me back to the central issue of my faith – Christ’s death and resurrection. To be honest, I’ve learned to accept it as a metaphor for my faith. A journey we undertake in seeking God. But, now, I wonder. I still can’t imagine any physical body just up and disappearing. There is not any evidence in life to even suggest such a thing is possible. So, on that sole issue, I have not changed. But in terms of the physical body of someone being available one day and then gone; only to be felt as spirit – that experience seems entirely real. Maybe I just need to feel that way. Maybe I talk myself into feeling my friend’s spirit to ease the grief. Maybe. But there are little things that happen, small reminders that speak . . . they say “I’m here. Maybe out of reach. But I’m here.”

I’ve been acting in a play through this process, and I’ve enjoyed talking to Allen and asking for his input on the challenges in playing the role. It’s been a fun and instructive conversation to have while I prepare to step on stage. I have a great imagination so it is an easy conversation to have with my friend. And in my prayers before I take to the stage, I welcome him to play out under the lights. Crazy, to be sure. Fun, absolutely.

In the days since his passing I’ve begun to wonder about my attachment to Allen’s death. The way it impacted on me in relation to how well I really knew Allen does not seem to be in proportion. Allen had a family and many loving friends. It was not necessary for me to do or feel anymore than any friend might feel at such a time. So, that tells me there was more at work. In addition to my true concern and love for Allen and those around him, I know I was grappling with my own issues about death and in some way dealing with feelings about the absence of my brother in my life. It is a choice my brother and his wife made and only time and circumstance will heal that rift. And I’m okay with that. My life is a lot simpler without having my brother in my life. I pray from him and love him from where I sit in life. One day, that will change again. But, I think, in Allen, I have been able to work through some of my grief on the subject. Of course, I was not aware of this aspect in feeling all that emotion regarding Allen, but I think there may be something to the idea. Somehow, in Allen’s suffering, he was giving me a gift. And amazing idea if you stop to think about it. God’s grace and mercy knows no limits. Even in pain and suffering, something deep and rich can be at work. I don’t claim to understand any of it. But I want to thank my dear friend Allen for his gift. He was my friend. We laughed a lot together, battled though some tough moments on creative projects and shared some terrific times together. I am a lucky and blessed man. Despite the day job I work, the crappy apartment I live in, being alone, living paycheck to paycheck, and living with a feeling of being broken and flawed in so many ways, I can’t help but feel blessed. I’m still here, my dreams still alive and granted the chance to have a terrific friend like Allen and others in my life. The opportunity is mine. A gift given. Thanks, Allen. Thanks, my friend. Big love.