My friend Mark died yesterday. He was still deeply in denial about the state of his cancer, and wouldn't let us (his small group of friends called his "Care Team") tell anyone else about it. We had to keep it secret. He was sure he was going to pull through, and didn't want other people to know about it.
His Care Team knew it wasn't going to be like that.
Yesterday, he woke up feeling very bad after a couple of days of feeling bad, and called himself an ambulance. His heart gave up, got restarted, and gave up again. It was just too fragile from working through all the things a body has to work through when cancer has its claws in you.
Mark was a tremendous friend, genuinely good guy, and outgoing and fun. But also pretty private at the same time.
He slipped and fell off a ladder last winter and spent a month in pretty intense pain, hoping his back would Just Get Better. He lead a pretty solitary life, but when a friend went to visit him at Christmas, Mark was thin and gaunt. He'd lost 50 pounds from the constant pain, not eating well, and generally being unwell.
He finally went to the doctor, and that's when they told him about the cancer. On his liver. In his spine. Throughout his colon. Stage 4.
If the doctor's hadn't prescribed him opiates that made him essentially non-functional, he probably would have kept the diagnosis to himself, and just "toughed it out." But he needed someone to drive him to appointments, make sure he was taking the right doses while he was out of his mind on opiates and unable to count or think straight.
So his Care Team formed up. Five or six of us in the core, and a four or five floaters who were able to help out now and then.
Chemo started. He got healthier. We got him off the opiates.
They couldn't operate until they raised his body weight and got certain blood counts back into the "good" range.
Tuesday he was due to go in for his CT scan to figure out how things were progressing.
He died two hours before his appointment.
I'm just numb.
The Care Team all knew this was the 99% most likely outcome. We were prepared for it, even if he wasn't.
But his death is just another in the ever-longer string of deaths you rack up as you get older. Deaths by violence. Deaths due to health issues. Deaths due to age. People die. You get up the next day, go to work, and update your manager on the status of the various projects you are working on. You walk the dog. You buy and consume food.
When a death has happened the days still happen and things still get done... you just feel like you are encased in some sort of thick styrofoam or clay shell... you go through the motions to meet your commitments, but without joy or dedication or without even really being present.
After all... someone died.
That should mean something, right?
But it doesn't really mean anything. It means Mark won't hire me to wordsmith his dating profile, like we'd planned. It means we won't barbecue on the roof of his houseboat this summer, like we'd planned. It means I won't see him at the festivals this summer, in his custom leather long-coat he is so proud of.
But... someone else stepped in yesterday and did his job. Ships were able to come and go out of Puget Sound without crashing into each other.
We are working on clearing out his houseboat. Figuring out who gets what, and waiting for his sisters to fly into town to choose the items they want to keep.
People just ... die.
And they usually die in a cold room, surrounded by frantic people and blinding white lights. And alone.
And that's just sad.
Phooey.
It sounds like Mark was a great friend indeed, and you were the same to him as well. Sorry for your loss, just commenting to say that I appreciate you talking about it- all we can do is move forward. Not move on or move past, but forward with the memories and friendships present and past alongside us.
Thank you. The times we spent together during his chemo the last few months, I generally kept the topic on everything but his cancer. He got enough people talking to him about that. It's one of the things he said he really appreciated when I came over... we talked about anything but cancer and his chemo. You do what you can for friends in life. But after that, what can you do for them? I posted this to draw people into that thought, and to spend some time with it. In America we don't spend much time thinking deeply about death. And we should. We spend years thinking about college, and that's only a few years of our life. But death? Maybe a couple of poignant laughs over beers followed by a long awkward silence...
As I've read, it reads as though your relationship went farther than just "friends". Despite living a solitary life, he'd cultivated meaningful friendship(s) with someone - no, a full-time team - who prioritized him, valued him and his presence for his time left here. If that's not special, then I don't know what is. I'm sorry for your loss.
Thanks goobster for posting. Your piece is sad - but beautifully written. Your lines here That should mean something, right? struck me. It does mean something, but not what we'd like it to mean, what we need it to mean. When my step-father was dying, I remember thinking over and over again: Why doesn't the world just stop?? I could not believe that everything was just going on business as usual while I was so close, every day, to death. Your feelings sound similar: "someone else stepped in and did his job." A friend of mine died in Montreal on Sunday. Her funeral was today. From recognizing a problem, to diagnosis, to death was three months - just enough time for her to plan her funeral, her loving partner of many years cast adrift.After all... someone died.
Thanks for engaging with the deeper thought, lil. This was really my intent with this post. We don't talk a lot about death in American culture, and we should. It's something that is going to happen to all of us in many different ways - Orlando, loved ones, ourselves - but we always abstract it, and deflect, and anonymize it. It should mean something when someone dies. Shouldn't it? That may be the ultimate rhetorical question. And maybe the most important one we ask ourselves, our family, our friends, and our loved ones. Thanks for engaging in the thought with me.
I couldn't help but notice in a transition of your piece from Mark's death to your experience with loss as you've aged that you shifted from first person to second. I've found in my time with counseling it serves only to distance ourselves from experiencing our own story on a deeper level by deflecting it onto "you" or someone else. Usually, the next line is "What happens if the 'you's are replaced with 'I's." to see how it feels when 'owning' the words. I guess that's my input of making small shifts in talking about death in America, because I think you're right. Talking about death and loss isn't something we delve on here. But we should, for exactly this: And they usually die in a cold room, surrounded by frantic people and blinding white lights. And alone. And that's just sad. Phooey. And this: EDIT: As an odd aside/duality - This is how we are usually born, the difference being surrounded with people, then placed in the arms of our parents. And now the stark reality of the two is making me tear up. :/It's something that is going to happen to all of us in many different ways - Orlando, loved ones, ourselves - but we always abstract it, and deflect, and anonymize it.
People just ... die.
It should mean something when someone dies.
And they usually die in a cold room, surrounded by frantic people and blinding white lights. And alone.
What an interesting observation! You are right... My intent was to write about the numbness I feel at friends dying, now. It has happened so much in the last 10+ years or so, it doesn't have as shattering of an effect on me as it once did. I wonder if my atheist/humanist belief system has something to do with it. I see death as purely mechanical... there is no afterlife, nothing that is identifiable as "us" survives death, in my worldview. So once their switch turns off... it is up to me how to process it. There is no worrying about them, or their afterlife, or anything like that, because I don't believe it exists. I wonder if that makes me process the experience of death differently... I couldn't help but notice ... that you shifted from first person to second.
In truth, I'd be interested in that as well. I don't know enough, though it's something I'd like to speculate, re: the finality of death in relation to the grieving process of atheism having a different impact... Although, I'd like to plug as an agnostic, it's a small bit of comfort making myself believe my whole ancestral line is looking upon me. I'd like be going on a complete tangent here, but I think it'd best be reserved for one of those hot n' spicy rd/FanFic discussions.I wonder if that makes me process the experience of death differently...
I find being an atheist makes the world 1000% times more interesting and fascinating, and it makes me want to experience all of it, even more. I am only going to exist once. This is it. Everything around me is the most amazing experience, because there isn't "something better waiting for me after I die." All of this exists because of unfathomable complexity developing over unfathomable timeframes, and all because of a few rather simple rules about this universe we live in. That makes every single thing - the smallest bug, pencil nub, or grain of sand - inconceivable full of amazingness, if you take a moment and really appreciate it. That's what atheism does for me. And since death is final and absolute, to me, it makes me incredibly present and connected to the world around me. I'm not gonna be here again. So let's enjoy all of it!
My sympathies. My mother is losing her best friend to cancer, and has lost multiple close friends in the last few years. I'm currently living with a family where they are dealing with another family member in the late stages of brain cancer. Take the experience in whatever positive way you can, that's all I've been able to do through my challenges. As I wake up every morning for the sake of helping others, I can only give that advice for conditions beyond our immediate control. Condolences..
Thanks. It was good to spend time talking with him about everything except cancer. To avoid the topic we had all kinds of conversations about things we never would have talked about otherwise! It's odd that when the light at the end is visible and coming rapidly up on us... that we only choose that time to have these other conversations...