Spend Your Days Living

When I woke up yesterday morning, the very first thought that came to me was “I need to visit John today.” Several hours would pass before I would discover that my intuition-meter was off, and that I was three days too late…

John and I were schoolmates, going way back. We didn’t run in the same circles or share any activities, but we were friendly. John was interesting and quirky, and not an easy guy to get to know. After graduation, I didn’t see or correspond with John. He joined the military soon after graduation, and was off to different corners of the world, serving his country. But even if he had stayed in the same town, we would probably not have been in touch. In the decades since graduation, I barely see, or talk with, the people I was close to, even though we all cried buckets of tears at the thought that we were going our separate ways, and swore that we would never lose touch. But the years pass by quickly, and life keeps us busy.

A few years back, riding on a wave of nostalgia, I went through my yearbook, and sent friend requests to everyone I could find. The boys were easier, since their names were rarely changed. I made many new connections, many with people I had not known well in school. I follow them all, and most posts are the usual mix of memes, family pictures, travel bytes, and politics. Lots of sharing of funny animal or baby videos, recipes, and “interested in an event” posts, events to which they probably never actually attend. What I find a shortage of are posts that are truly personal, posts that reveal the nitty-gritty, as opposed to the white washed versions of carefully curated life events. So when posts began showing up from a boy/man who I knew only casually in school, announcing that he had cancer, and asking for financial assistance, I was surprised and a little taken aback. It seemed so forward to ask outright for money to pay his rent, because he could not work while he was being treated in the hospital. But, then again, why waste time hoping someone will take pity and start a Go Fund Me page for you, when you can just cut to the chase and ask yourself. Perhaps, I thought, he doesn’t have many friends, or maybe his friends are not the social media, Go Fund Me types. So I contributed, and was pleased to see others from our class do the same. I was a little put off by his negativity, but then, I had to remind myself that I was viewing his messages through my filter of health and good fortune, and who am I to judge his bitterness.

His posts grew increasingly bleak, and late one night, he posted that “Sitting around waiting to die was boring.” I had been responding to his occasional posts with messages of good wishes, hoping I was striking the right balance of friendly, but not overly familiar. This was, after all, a person with whom I only shared a passing familiarity for six fleeting years, and maybe a couple of classes during that time. This post, though, I struggled with. What can you possibly say in response to that, without sounding overly optimistic, preachy, too dark or too light? So I responded that it was hard to comment appropriately, when one has not been in that position, but that I wished him peace, hope, and meaning to his days. Then I went to bed. And I tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep, unable to put aside the thought that this man, who had been an awkward teenage boy when I was a self-absorbed teenage girl, was going to pass from this life, maybe alone, and that I was going to miss an opportunity to get to know him, and maybe be a friend to someone in their time of need. That maybe I could reach out to a person who was so obviously seeking connections, and maybe, at the risk of sounding self-important, help to give some meaning to his last days. So I sent him a message, asking if he was open to having visitors. I didn’t know if he would even remember who I was, or if he did, would he be at all interested in meeting. Or maybe I was misreading his attempts to connect, and to get attention. But if you can’t have some attention when you are dying, then when are you entitled to it? And if you are brave enough, or desperate enough, to ask for it in a public forum, then shouldn’t someone step up? And why shouldn’t that someone be me? If I want to connect with people, why not the most unlikely people?

It was late, and so I didn’t expect any immediate answers, and would not have been surprised if I never got an answer. But I tossed and turned some more, thinking about how the conversation would look, were he to respond, and were we to meet. What would I say to this dying man, who was just a boy with a fuzzy beard when I last saw him, almost forty years ago? As it turned out, he replied first thing the next morning, we set a time for me to come and see him at the VA hospital in Seattle, and I needn’t have worried about finding things to talk about.

Our first visit was long, and felt a little like an interview. He sat perched, on his knees at the end of his bed, as slight and fragile as a hollow-boned bird, leaning in so he could hear better and not have to project his voice. I always have an endless supply of questions, and John was eager to answer anything I asked. He seemed pleased that someone was taking in interest in him and his life. He was very forthright about his condition, and I was surprised by his candor about his life, his regrets, his failings. I was touched by his obvious pride in his military career, and the pride he took in the job he had been performing for years after he got out of the service, a job that most people would consider quite humble.

Our subsequent visits were more relaxed, and we talked about movies, books, mutual acquaintances, and life in general. His pain was mostly being managed, and when I offered to bring him some marijuana, (legal in Washington), he was tempted, but declined, saying that since he was “staying in Uncle Sam’s house”, he had to follow the rules. He was apparently not interested in biting the hand that inserted the tube that fed him. He was happy with his medical staff, seemed content with his accommodations, and gave me a tour of his area of the hospital, the Community Living Center, as the hospice unit is called. As he showed me his feeding port, his scars, and the various items of hardware helping to keep him alive and comfortable, he marveled that he had been provided with so much. If there is an opposite to having a sense of entitlement, that was John. It broke my heart a little that he was so surprised and pleased to be taken care of, medically, and so grateful and trusting about the institution providing him the care. When I asked if he thought there might be any connection between his cancer, and his having been injected with experimental drugs to ward off chemical agents before going to Desert Storm, he brushed it off as nonsense. His stories were made all the more poignant for me, because so much of his life reminded me of my brother, also a Veteran, who is now a shadow of the man he once was, and there are the same quiet echoes from a life in which they were once recognized and decorated, the same pride at having once been a part of something bigger.

He had received visits from family members, some of whom traveled across the country to see him, and a couple of friends. I got the impression that he was feeling comfortable and supported in a way that he had not been for a very long time, if ever. He was very pleased that he had a social worker who would come by and offer ideas for outings, and that all he had to do was ask if he came up with an idea on his own. He had gone to the Seattle Aquarium, just he and his chaperone, and it was something he had never done before. He said he could have stayed and watched the otters all day. He was looking forward to a group outing to a baseball game at Safeco Field, another first. I realized that the things I take for granted, and have done dozens of times with my kids, were new and fresh to someone who had never had the means. For someone who had said he was bored while waiting to die, he seemed surprisingly happy and engaged.

We enjoyed our every-other week visits, but toward the end of May, with end-of-school and sports commitments with my son, my business entering the busy season, an impending move, and a few out-of-town trips, I had to keep putting off our visits. We kept in touch by texting, with me promising to visit as soon as my schedule allowed. I was feeling bad about the widening gap since our last visit, and I knew that time was limited. This week, every day, I had thought about how I might be able to fit in the three hours needed for a round trip visit, and every day, other things stepped ahead. So when I woke up with a start on Thursday, and remembered that I was leaving for a camping trip for a week, I decided that I could not let any more time pass. As soon as I arrived at work, I sent him a message, saying I was going to be nearby at a meeting, and asking if it was a good day to visit. The “I have a meeting” part wasn’t exactly true, he was my meeting. He didn’t respond to my message, but in the past he was sometimes slow to do so, so I took an early lunch, and headed to the hospital, grabbing some magazines on the way out that I thought he might enjoy.

When I arrived at the hospital parking garage, I sat in my car for a few minutes, gathering my thoughts. After my morning text, I still had not received a response. I knew John’s condition would eventually steal his voice, but we had been texting just a few days prior. Even though he was in hospice with a terminal condition, and hadn’t been able to eat food in months, he had seemed unchanged from visit to visit. On our last visit, he was cheerful, we strolled the halls, we talked about his upcoming outing to the Mariners game. The growing pit in my stomach was telling me to prepare, that it had been too easy to forget that he had been marked with an expiration date.

In my previous visits to see John, it had always been an evening or a weekend, and the hospital halls always seemed empty, the reception desks unmanned. I would always proceed directly to his room, and though most visits were prearranged, sometimes I would just pop by. At lunch time on a weekday, the hospital was a very different place. Bustling, full of patients and visitors, wheelchairs and walkers. Just inside the lobby, I was greeted by Veteran volunteers. They looked at me expectantly, giving me the impression they expected me to check in, so I stopped and gave them John’s name. They couldn’t find his name on the patient list, but were quick to say that maybe their records weren’t updated, or maybe they had the spelling a bit off. I said I would check with the unit nurse, to see if he had been moved, and they cheerfully agreed that was a good plan. The pit in my stomach deepened just a bit more. I headed to his wing, and as I passed by his room, I glanced in. The curtain was pulled a bit around the bed, but I could see that people were gathered around. I knew that if it was John behind that curtain, things may have changed, and that if it wasn’t him, then things most certainly had changed.

I stopped at the nurse’s station, smiled, and announced that I was there for a visit, and that on this day, John had not been expecting me. The three attendants looked at me, and simultaneously, they all said “Uh oh…” I thought it was a strange response, but I knew before they spoke again what it meant. I was told that he had passed three days prior.

To say that I am a person whose emotions run just below the surface is an understatement. As I stood there absorbing the message that I had already known in my heart, I was overcome by the sadness of his passing, and the failure that I felt for not being more available to him at the end. As I stood there trying not to cry, but failing in that, too, I wasn’t able to get out my usual litany of questions, but I was able to scribble down my name and number, which the nurse said he would pass on to John’s social worker. My intention had been to support him to the end, and I had imagined that for some of our visits, it might be just me doing the talking, or me reading a few chapters to him from the history books he always had at hand, or at the end, maybe just holding his hand so he would know someone was there, a friend. What I had not imagined was that his deterioration would snowball at an accelerated rate, that my life would get too busy for me to fit in a visit, and that he would die without me seeing him again. That I would feel selfish for living my life.

As I passed the reception desk on the way out, the kind volunteers asked if I had found my friend, and it was all I could do to shake my head no, and say that he had passed away. They said they were sorry, and as I walked on to my car, I wondered how many times a day they have to say that same thing.

I cried all the way back to my office. It is human nature to roll all of our experiences together when faced with deep emotion, and as I drove, I thought about my sister-in-law in Peru, who was part of our family for a very short time. My brother had met Vanessa when she was here attending the University of Washington. They fell in love, and got married in Peru. After the wedding, Ed returned home, and Vanessa was planning to follow as soon as the marriage visa was approved. They were never able to work out the visa issues, however, and the strain and distance took a swift toll on their relationship, which ended bitterly. Vanessa and I communicated via email sporadically over the years, but not much, as the dissension between her and my brother had continued, and I thought it best to keep some distance. Some time went by without me hearing from her, and then we found out that she had died. About a year later, in the early days of LinkedIn, which I barely used then, or now, I stumbled upon a message from her. In the message, she had written to me to tell me that she had cancer, and had been given six months to live. When I realized that she had reached out to me, and that I had never seen or responded to her message, I was horrified. The thought that she had died thinking I had intentionally ignored her message eats at me to this day. I never did tell her how sorry I was that things didn’t work out between her and my brother, that I had always thought of her fondly, and how sorry I was that she was sick. I will be sure tell her when I see her next.

I have spent the last two days thinking about John…his choices, his life, his passing. About his lessons, both learned and given. I realized that even though he appeared ambivalent, he was spending his last days on self-reflection, trying to make peace with those he had wronged, and trying to find purpose to his life. He had enjoyed the field trips and new experiences, he had felt supported by his family, his medical team, and his country, and he said he had “no complaints.” He had asked his brother to prepare a statement of eulogy for him, and clean out his apartment. He felt he had made progress in making amends with those he had hurt in his life, and that his affairs were as in order as they could be. A very complex man, who had led a simple life, and was content with a simple ending. The bitterness that I had thought I had detected in his Facebook posts was nowhere to be seen.

On our last visit, during our coverage of every war movie we had ever seen, we talked about “Lone Survivor”, and the part where the soldiers are faced with the decision of whether to shoot the little boy who has stumbled upon their hiding place, to keep him from divulging their whereabouts to the Taliban, or to let him go. In the movie, they let him go, and the result is catastrophic. John said that he agreed with their choice, and that “even if you are going to be in a firefight later, you never shoot the child.” That told me a great deal about his character and his conviction, that even if the outcome is going to potentially bring you harm, you should always try to do the right thing.

I may feel like I did not do enough for John, and I may feel bad that so much time passed after I last saw him, but I know that he enjoyed our correspondence, and our connection. I know he looked forward to our visits, because he would confirm and reconfirm, and thank me later for coming, and throw out suggested dates for the next time. I looked forward to them, too. It was so interesting to talk with someone who had nothing to hide, nothing to lose, and was eager to tell his story. I can either feel bad about not visiting often enough, or I can take comfort in the possibility that I provided him with a bit of companionship, that he felt special that someone from his past cared enough to make a connection, and that he had one more friend to add to his list, however long or short that list was.

When the social worker called, she told me that John had not been speaking much during the last week, and that he had died peacefully in his sleep, which was a blessing, and the most any of us can hope for. He may not have been able to talk, but he was able to text, and he sent me a little “wave” on Wednesday, and between work projects, I sent a little “wave” back. It was such a busy week, and every day, I thought about going to visit, but I let other things take priority. And as I was getting ready for work Monday morning, thinking about how much I had to do that day, my friend was taking his last breaths.

I had reached out to John because of his Facebook post, and I had thought that I was going to be the one helping him, he who was so “bored with waiting to die”. If I could have one more conversation with John, I would tell him that I was proud of how he was facing death bravely and calmly, grateful that he had served our country for so many years, and honored to call him my friend.

Our time together taught me many lessons… That every day that we are alive brings us one day closer to the day we die. We can spend our days dying, or we can spend our days living, even if we are dying. That it is never too late to face your regrets, to ask for forgiveness, to make your peace with how you have lived your life. That it takes great strength to dig deep and find the courage to face your death without bitterness and regret. That it is never too late to send a message out into the universe, and it is never too much to hope that someone will receive it, and respond. That when someone waves, we need to wave back. And if we can overcome our hesitation and reluctance to reach out, we will be amazed at the gifts that come back to us.

Blessings to you, John, thank you, and may you rest in peace.

John Gray (1961-2018)

Meadowdale Junior High School Yearbooks, 1976, 1977, 1978
Meadowdale Senior High School Yearbooks, “Mesika”, 1979, 1980, 1981
Tahoma National Cemetary website, https://www.cem.va.gov/cems/nchp/tahoma.asp