A friend of mine just died. If you had asked me, I'd have said it wasn't his time. I have a few friends I worry about, and he wasn't one of them. He had just participated in our reunion of Peace Corps volunteers who served in Niger, Africa many years ago. We spent three days celebrating old friendships rooted in a common, life-changing experience; reveling in years of building and sustaining lives, families, and careers; and re-establishing bonds that had survived years of separation. John brought along his subdued smile and hearty laugh, and danced to the music. He had recently come to terms with the loss of his wife to cancer, a more than two-year process to which he had devoted an abundance of compassion, and through which he had gracefully traveled from anticipated grief to acceptance. He was now moving on -- enjoying group hikes, trips to the museum, baseball games, gatherings with old friends and, unbeknownst to most of us, a new girlfriend.
Then Monday he came down with the flu. By Thursday, he felt better and dragged a few friends to the Money Market. Friday, he had a heart attack. Over the weekend, doctors tried a manifold approach to saving his heart and all the other organs under siege by the mysterious, pervasive infection. He was heavily sedated, and when he died Monday night, slightly over a week after the reunion, no one, including his daughter and two sons, had been able to adequately convey encouragement, love, and comfort to him, or to say goodbye.
On Tuesday, a shocked group of friends and family gathered at his home in Berkeley, seeking solace. The dominant mood was anger, but it was clear there was no one to blame. It was, plain and simple, unfair. I found myself wishing I were a believer so I could be mad at God. John's children, who had so recently played admirable parts in their mother's perfectly orchestrated transition out of this life, were now socked with the sudden responsibility of dealing with their father's unexpected death.
But they aren't alone, and neither are the friends who gather to grieve and remember, and rail against the arbitrary nature of life and death. After the reunion, I experienced a strong sense of family. The list of brothers and sisters we've lost has just gotten longer. As we watch each other check out, and anticipate our own expiration, we have some reassurance thanks to the mutual support and shared memories that will keep John, and each of us in turn, virtually alive.
In memory of John Lewis
Kala han fo.
Sai an jima.
