not dying. I wish you were...: not dying.

By semillama on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 08:58 am:

    How come none of the complete assholes who pushed me around growing up get cancer? How come none of them dropped dead from meningitis? Why is it always the coolest people I know?

    Back a while, a young man I knew named Orrin died from meningitis. He kicked ass in every single way.

    Last night, I was talking to Mavis and she told me our friend Marvin, an ex-philosophy student, inheritor of a small fortune, sharer of expensive wines with friends, maker of fantastic chili, buddhist, Sierra Club director of the great lakes region, has inoperable cancer and has less than a year to live. He's only 40. Fucking 40 years old. It's not right. I don't know whether to hit something or cry.

By Spiral on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 10:32 am:

    You'll probably do both before its over. But have some hope. My grandmother was given 6 months to live when she was 40. She died at 89 years old. More recently, my father was told a while ago that he would never see the other side of forty... which he is well past now.

By Czarina on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 10:34 am:

    I'm sorry,Sem.

By Hal on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 12:52 pm:

    Dude that sucks.

By semillama on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 01:31 pm:

    No shit. no shit.

By Ophelia on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 01:37 pm:

    I'm so sorry. Cry if you need to.

By semillama on Wednesday, October 3, 2001 - 03:38 pm:

    I don't cry. I haven't cried since the last time my heart broke. Years ago.

    Now more than ever I need to play my guitar.

By JusMiceElf on Monday, October 8, 2001 - 06:51 pm:

    Sem, I'm really sorry to hear about your friend. I know exactly how you feel. Last march, my dad was diagnosed with colon cancer, and had surgery, followed by chemo and radiation. The long and the short of it is, this July, he was on the court playing tennis, working, and spending time with my mom. The beginning of August, he went into the hospital with some pain and blockage in his bowel, and died at home, in his bed, six weeks later.

    I sat with him for those last hours. I woke up at three thirty in the morning, and knew I couldn't go back to sleep without checking on him. Shortly after that, the hospice nurse said that she thought he was going soon, so we all sat by his bedside, holding his hands and talking to him until six in the morning, when he breathed his last. One of the saddest pictures from that morning was watching my parents terrier hop up onto the bed, and sniff my father's body just after he died.

    Since then, I've cried a few times, and resisted the urge to throw things. Tomorrow after lunch, I'm planning to take my dog into the woods, so I can lift heavy rocks, and build on a cairn that I started this spring when I lost my last dog.

    Last night I cried at a diner with M, because we'd spent the weekend in New York, and I so wished I could have told my dad about the trip, and heard some of his own stories about the city.

    My dad touched many lives. He was an attorney, working as an advocate for children in the local juvenile court. He served on three non-profit boards in the last several years. He was a great cook. He was slightly eccentric. The linings of his suits are all wilder than his ties. He used to carry a sterling silver peppermill in his pocket, so he'd have fresh ground pepper whereever he went.

    I feel at a loss a lot of the time. I've been on leave from work for over a month, with little desire to go back. I've been planning to move to Cambridge or Somerville in the spring, and it looks like we're going to speed that up, but that means cleaning out my house and selling it quickly, to the inconvenience of my current housemates.

    M and I are getting married next summer, and my dad won't be there. Nor will he see our kids, and read them stories and sing to them. That falls to me, and I only hope I can do half as well as he would have.

    Sem, I've hijacked your thread. I'm sorry. I feel for you, and will say a misheberach for your friend Marvin. I'll lift a glass of wine in his honor this week. Dammit, it's not fair, not one bit.

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