See You in the Next One

For all the hard work and good intentions that I wrote about in my last post, I've suffered a temporary setback. My mind is all but utterly preoccupied. Here's why:

A friend of mine died on Tuesday. I learned of it sometime late Wednesday morning, about 45 minutes before I left for class. He had been battling cancer, and I was aware that death was somewhat imminent for him. Still, it hit me.

He and I were not what I'd call close, but we shared a rapport that was very special to me. I first met him when I was thirteen and we were in a play together. He was something like twenty at the time, and yet I perceived him to be older -- some indefinite age within the spectrum of adulthood.

After we'd lost contact for a while, he kept popping back into my life for various and completely unrelated reasons. Then he began working for the choir in which I had gotten much of my musical training, and his place in my life became permanent. I'd see him at choir gigs, which I still attended with regularity. I'd go to see his band play at various local bars and restaurants, listen intently, and people began to assume that I was groupie when I was, in fact, merely a fan. We had talked about forming our own band, but were too sluggish to move forward before he got sick.

The last time I saw him was at a local theatre and burlesque event last year, shortly before I moved to Finland. He looked good -- tall and rosy-cheeked. He'd recovered from his first bout with cancer, and I believe we were both unaware of the fact that he would soon begin another one. He told me about cancer support groups and how they tried to spin all of the pain and misery of illness into something golden and blessed; he did not agree with their philosophy. We joked, quite crassly, that if he were to die, he'd at least be absolved of all the debt he accrued during treatment. I said, "Ah, yes, be glad you don't have MS like me. I'll still be alive to see the collection agency come calling." He laughed, hugged me, and thanked me for my ability to joke about crude and wretched things.

I can't tell you how much I regret those jokes. Not because I think it's wrong to laugh about death, or because I feel as though I helped to bring about his. No, what I regret is that I equated my disease with cancer. I may someday lose my ability to walk, to see, to hear, to think, but he lost his life. He lost his life at 33, and it was a life that he and everyone around him loved very much. Though he laughed, it feels now as if it was a morally remiss thing to say.

Aside from my own regrets, the world is decidedly poorer without him in it. It is poorer, too, for the pain and anxiety he likely experienced.

So this week might be a wasted opportunity to advance my Finnish. But the reason for my distraction is genuine.