Last week Sunday and Monday, I cried, episodically. Altogether, for an hour or more, probably more than I’ve cried in the past ten years, combined.
The Friday before, we got Chloe comfortable in the backseat and drove south five-hundred miles to attend a celebration of life. One nice thing about having relocated from Alaska to the lower 48, is that we’re back on the road system, no need to fly to most places we want to go to now. We over-nighted somewhere about halfway to our destination, got up early the next day, exercised Chloe at a nearby dog park in the rain, then we all piled back into the car and drove the rest of the way. It had stopped raining by the time we arrived at our destination and checked in to the hotel. I didn’t sleep well that night (no fault of the hotel).
The next day HW was up early to feed Chloe. After that they were out the door, descending three flights of antique wooden stairs together into the lobby, where Chloe, I’m sure, paused to revel in the fawning remarks of many hotel guests (she gets that a lot), and from there the two of ’em ventured outside into the sub-freezing morning. Chilly yes, but sunny at least. Chloe preferred the urban oasis of green grass by the Wells Fargo bank to do her business. A couple hours later it was probably pushing fifty degrees. By then Chloe and HW had set out again for a long walk to explore the town. I finished a second Americano, put on a coat, slid my phone into my rear pants pocket, left the room and closed the door behind me. I avoided the elevator and took the stairs to the lobby. Outside the hotel, I phone-navigated to the venue. Turned out it was only a few blocks away.
It was there where we would gather the next day, with others, for the celebration of life. For the wife, soulmate really, of perhaps the only real mentor I’d had coming up as a young (and very green) professional in big oil, almost forty years ago. He had e-mailed me a month earlier to say she died suddenly after a short illness, and to invite us to a celebration of her life, which he’d arranged to be held at her favorite brewery in town. Beer and pizza will be provided, and please come prepared to share whatever memories of her life you care to. Reading that the first time, I cried, so I should probably add that to the tears total. I didn’t think twice; I was going. When I shared the news with HW, she said she wanted to be there with me. In the ensuing days I began to consider what story I might like to share. More tears flowed.
I’ve stayed in touch with these two all the years since we last worked together (his very talented wife also worked at the company), mostly via e-mail and holiday cards, though we hadn’t seen each other in over two decades now. As I shared with HW, it feels strange to me in a way that I could still feel so close to both of them, as you do with friends you frequently spend time with, even as we were separated by thousands of miles all the time I’d lived in Alaska, then in Cleveland, and then back in Alaska. Pretty clearly the connection I feel with these two was undiminished by time and distance. It’s because they were more than just friends and colleagues all those years ago; whether they knew it or not at the time, I looked up to them, because character matters to me, and as I said to my friend just yesterday in a follow-up email after our trip there, you two had it in spades.
After I confirmed the location of the venue, I continued walking about town, checking things out. I’d never been there before. I stopped at a bar and had a martini. The place had your ordinary local bar vibe. I imagined how many times my friends might have sat there on those very bar stools. Planning their next camping trip, or maybe pondering a meandering drive down the west coast (they enjoyed their road trips and munching sunflower seeds), or whatever else two irrepressibly-in-love retirees talk about when the sky’s the limit. And my god she could laugh. A thunderous laugh. And swim; she’d been a tireless, and at times, competitive swimmer much of her life. Loved her Coors Light, too. Also smart as a whip, a widely acknowledged good geophysicist. And in a flash, long before her light was out, this cold and uncaring world took her from us. My friend’s soulmate.
HW and I split a Ribeye dinner and a bottle of Cabernet that night at a really good steakhouse in town. I think I drank most of the bottle. I knew it later when I tried to get to sleep but couldn’t. A bad headache kept me up most of the night. I’m not a frequent sufferer of headaches anymore, and HW asked me more than once in the middle of the night if this one was the worst I’d ever experienced (a common symptom of someone with a brain tumor), to which I answered, No. Then I thought back to that martini, plus the wine, and the high elevation of the town, and knew it must be one of those low-pressure, dehydration headaches I’d suffered in the past. HW made me drink a ton of water. I finally drifted off. The next day I was better.
We attended the celebration in the late afternoon. I didn’t know if I’d recognize my friend after twenty plus years. But there he was, looking no worse for his years, standing among a small gathering of folks who’d come to celebrate his wife’s life. He was unmistakable. And, evidently, I to him. We instantly locked eyes and walked toward each other. I threw my arms around him and started to cry. He did too. Imagine: two “mathy, techy” guys all their lives, in a bear hug, bawling their eyes out. When the time came, I stood up, went to the front of the room, and shared a little story about the first time I met his wife, at the company. I nearly made it to the end of the story when I turned to look at him sitting at the table with HW, tears streaming down his face. And then it was my turn, again. All the while hundreds of photos of her, living her vibrant life of sixty-seven years, cycled across an overhead screen.
The next morning before heading back home we had breakfast together, at a local diner my friend had said had great biscuits and gravy. More sharing and crying at the table, but with a side of hope and an offering of good will. We hugged again outside the restaurant, and yes, cried some more. Finally, with Chloe settled in the back seat, we were off. I cannot get the memory of the look of grief and despair on his face out of my mind. And maybe I shouldn’t even try.
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Her Highness, showing off at a rest stop between here and there.
