Late Tuesday night I got a voicemail from a friend of mine. Our mutual friend, one I blogged about flipping out on me at The Store more than five years ago, died. He had a stroke some time ago, he's been in a care home since, he had surgery on Tuesday, and there were complications, and he passed away Sunday.
Upon hearing my friend's VM, I thought about him for a bit, then went back on the Internet. Jerked off, too. Today, I thought about him from time to time, but there were periods where I was working or listening to the World Cup game or just dinkin' around the Internet, then I realized I wasn't thinking about him, and feeling bad that I didn't think about him.
Just checked my e-mail records. The last time he wrote to me was less than two weeks ago, updating me and others about the latest changed date of his surgery. He was hoping that he could be back living independently next month. The last time I wrote to him was the day after April Fools' Day, in response to an earlier update. He wanted to go the racetrack once his health improved. And the last time I saw him was last year, when we went to a Twins game. He was toddling around, but he seemed to be OK, and he was in good spirits.
I had been meaning to go see him at the facility he was in, but I never did. The usual excuses -- too busy, work, this vacation with my family, visiting him slipped my mind -- obviously are bullshit when it comes to death. And now it's too late.
And yet, as guilty as I feel for not seeing him, I feel even shittier for giving a shit. Not that I don't care about my friend -- I do. But if I were a true friend, I would have seen him. I'm beating myself up for not taking one afternoon, one measly fucking afternoon to see one of the few people in my life with whom I shared a passion for sports and ask how he's doing. I wonder if anyone saw him. And I wonder if he was angry with me, or sad that I never dropped by, like true friends are supposed to.
But even as I hate myself for not seeing him before he went, I'm also judging myself. This woulda-coulda-shoulda is the self-indulgent mental anguish people give themselves when they realize they were too lazy to do the right thing when it counted, and now need to make themselves feel better. Look, if you'll give me some latitude in making myself feel better -- it's not as if he was on death's door, or at least he didn't make it seem like he was. Unlike my uncle, there was no warning that his health was taking a turn for the worse. If there was advance news -- and if someone closer to him than I was in communication with other friends who weren't as tight with him, like me -- of course we would drop everything and run to see him. But he had surgery that anyone would reasonably assume he would survive ... and he didn't.
But, again, thinking that is useless. He was not deathly ill, but he was definitely not 100% healthy. That alone is reason enough to see him. Friends see friends, right? End of story. But I didn't do that. And so I now am persecuting myself -- rightly so -- both ways on a two-way street. I'm right in the median of guilt and indecision. I either should have just seen him while he was alive just in case, or, to be ruthlessly honest with how my actions reflect my beliefs, I should just admit that I didn't consider him as close enough of a friend to spend a day with him and ... forget about him. I didn't do the former, and I don't want to be the latter, or at least I don't want to admit that the latter is how I actually feel.
So his death reminds me of the usual cliches. Tell the people you love that you love them before they're gone. Tomorrow isn't promised to any of us. One minute we're here, the next minute we could be gone. And live life to the fullest. All true, and all impractical to living life. I regret I'll probably not live by these mottoes as soon as I have to resume my life.
But right now, with his death haunting me, and while I await any news on his funeral -- that I'm visiting him now that he's gone is so morbidly ironic and unfair to him that I shouldn't even have the dignity of mourning him, I'm such a selfish asshole -- I feel I must abide by these cliches. I have a friend out in Los Angeles who told me that he got engaged. I owe him a phone call, but I've been putting it off. But I left him a message tonight, and he texted me back, whew. This guy I met downtown wanted to show me a presentation related to work. I think he's trying to sell me something, but I promised him a reply, and I should do that soon. Hell, I might even do what my parents say and get up early in the morning to water their plants.
What I really want to do, of course, is visit my old friend, at least once. But he's dead, and I didn't take the time to do so while he was alive, so now I can't. And right now I don't think I can ever forgive myself for that mistake.
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In the meantime I am going to go through my own surgery, which will be in the morning. Finally I'm going to get this anal seton removed, after half a year. I'm in good health, but with my friend's death I can't help but think that there might be complications -- the surgeon screws up, or I don't wake up from the anesthesia. It'd be sort of ironic if I died shortly after he did. But, since I didn't honor my friend by seeing him, maybe an unforeseen passing would be ... deserved.
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