Death

A friend of the family died last week. I'll never see him again. It's a weird situation, because while I never saw him that much and I wasn't particularly close to him, I respected him a great deal. He would have turned 60 next month, but he looked no older than 50. I think his secret was his passion for life. He had the uncanny ability to know his strengths and to do those things better than anyone else. He was a chef. He was a barber. He was a boxer. He was the best storyteller I've ever met. He knew unfathomable details about UFOs and other alien stuff. Anyone could have told me about him and I'd believe it.

"Did you know Raymond once climbed Mount Everest?"
"See that scar on his arm? That's from this one time when he got into a fistfight with a bear. He had stitches in a few different places, but he was out of the hospital within a week."
"Raymond has a collection of 2000 sonnets that he wrote when he was on a mission in South America."

I haven't really gone through the whole grieving process yet. I'm wondering if it will come at the memorial on Saturday. I think the reason I grieve is that--besides missing the person who's passed--I'm afraid. I'm afraid of dying before I get everything done. I don't think anyone gets to do everything they want before they die, but a lot of people have a goal in their life that they reach. I know Raymond has achieved a lot, but he seemed like the person who always had something else that he wanted to do. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll die with my dreams left miles away.

I want to have kids, I want to be a writer, I want to be in a band, I want to travel the world, I want to do so much, yet despite all the time I have before I die, I just keep hitting road blocks. I dream about all these things, but when I have to do some little assignment that will push me towards those goals just a small step, I have trouble doing it. I look at the big picture and resent all the little things I have to do that don't help me get to the end result. My resentment turns to neglect, and that's why I'm a 5th semester sophomore.

I want to write now. I want to be in a band now. I want to travel the world now. I'm not ready for kids yet, but there will come a time. I know I can write. If I were in a band, I'd put forth 100% effort--but until I think I have any semblance of a chance to be in a band, I'm not going to. My life is a constant Catch-22.

That's what makes someone like me so different from someone like Raymond. I have lots of different goals--I always think about myself as a person who's slightly above average at a lot of things, but not great at anything. Raymond was great at a lot of things, because he had the ability to keep everything in perspective. I lack perspective. Raymond could work hard at all the little things, having the wisdom to realize those little things would get him where he wanted to be.

There's one puzzling thing about Raymond, though. For all his wisdom, he made a big mistake. My dad said today that he was kind of mad at him for it. He hated going to the doctor. It's the reason he died. He died of colon cancer. The tumor was the size of a clenched fist, because when he turned 50 he never got a colonoscopy. Cancer tends to spread to other parts of the body when it gets that big, so when it did, Raymond was past help. He went through treatment and everything, until about a month ago they told him he had a couple weeks, maybe a couple months left.

Is it better to burn out or to fade away? Something tells me Raymond is the type of person who was never meant to live too long past his prime. I've always believed that was the best way to go--to not wear out your welcome on Earth. I think I might be singing a different tune, though, when I'm on my deathbed and I still have unfinished business to take care of.

A few years ago I went in for a physical and the doctor thought he felt a lump. I spent the next two hours terrified I had testicular cancer. I'm not sure I fully realized the gravity at that point, but I think now I'd likely be knee-deep in my own stool. Anybody who says "Don't fear the reaper" isn't dreaming enough.

As I usually do, I just turned a sensitive subject into a smug, rambling mess. To attempt to compensate for that, I'm just going to use my last paragraph to say my goodbye to Raymond.

Raymond, you were a great man, an even nicer guy, and you lived maybe the richest life of anyone I've ever met. I don't know if you accomplished everything you wanted to, but take some satisfaction in the fact that you accomplished more than anyone I'm ever likely to meet. Your life was a full one. I believed in you the whole time. You gave hope to everyone who knew you. Thank you.

On Thanksgiving Day, you were the one person I wish I had around to thank. I know this doesn't matter much now, but it's the best I can do. With you in mind, I'll do better from now on.