Before I started writing about equality, I noticed my last post before it was almost exactly a year old! Shit. What's up with me reconnecting with my blog perennially in June? Where does the time go?
Speaking of time, a friend of mine made this remark at a mountain cabin getaway last weekend: "We invented time so we can construct reality."
Yesterday I was driving through Seattle's Beacon Hill neighborhood. When I reached the top of the hill by the light rail station, I saw a large mural of Frida Kahlo with a quote: "I don't paint dreams or nightmares, I paint my own reality." I found these words profoundly inspiring.
My friend's comment and this quote caught my attention this week. On the heels of this I received a very emotionally moving email from another friend as he prepares to journey into his next life (I feel like "afterlife" is so void of life and possibility of a magical existence beyond this place).
There is such truth and beauty (in some instances obscure) in my friend's closest friend's words. So I will share some excerpts with attribution:
"Now, it’s time to be a bit more transparent. Although we had a great day, it was very taxing for him. He now has difficulty with the simplest things. Getting in and out of the car. Walking up stairs. Balance, dexterity – opening and closing things, handling utensils. It’s not easy just having a normal day. It takes a lot of energy for him to go out and about and just do normal things and it requires a lot of patience for those who are caring for him. His speech is slurred much of the time and confusion is a constant companion – which frustrates him to no end. There are other issues that make him very uncomfortable that I will not describe here, but have a big impact on his life. Fortunately, hospice care is providing relief for those issues, so his comfort is maximized and his pain is minimized.
Today, Erika, John and I met with his wonderful hospice nurse – Lisa – and came to a number of conclusions and decisions about his care and the time he has left. The focus now is on making him as comfortable as
possible so he can enjoy the time he has remaining. I can tell you that emotionally and spiritually, Johnny is in a good place – he has his difficult days – but he remains the wonderful, balanced human being we all love and draw strength from.
By mutual agreement with hospice, his family, myself, and John – we respectfully ask: That he receive no more visitors, phone calls, or requests for meetings. He is simply not physically able to accommodate this. It
really breaks his heart to do this, as we all know how social he is, but he physically cannot do it anymore and hospice has strongly recommended this course.
I will close this message with a thought about my best friend and my brother. When I think about what I would do for him and what he would do for me…a favorite scripture from the Bible comes to mind. It’s from
John 15:13…and it goes like this “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends”. If I could…I would. And he would too. I love you Johnny." - Kerry M.
John and I met through our local LGBT business chamber before I became contract staff there. He immediately did everything he could to support my copy writing craft. He was an established and successful ad man who came out late in life. Honest, hard working, passionate, very compassionate and generous. He was always upbeat and a pleasure to converse with. He's one of those spirits who's equal parts sagely wise and playful.
My last opportunity to see him was several weeks ago on April 21st (isn't that Earth day?). John's nearest and dearest threw him a grand celebratory party at a beautiful highrise apartment building in Downtown Seattle. I knew I had to go see him one last time.
What a turnout! No surprise, John is an extremely amiable guy. Of course he's loved by so many. His dream was to retire in Bali, which he had done for some time until he became very ill. His purpose for returning to Seattle was to receive the best possible cancer treatment and of course be surrounded by those who know and love him.
Unfortunately the treatment course was unsuccessful. John has subsequently accepted his fate, chose to allow the disease to run its course and live out the rest of his days with his family in Southern California. So this celebration was to be his final farewell to those of us he's leaving here in the Emerald City.
I waded through countless people in the great common gathering area on the second level of the Olivian lobby until I reached what appeared to be clearing. John was seated in the middle of this vast room, which felt cozy by all counts thanks to it being filled to near capacity with those like me who wanted to see John one last time.
He was bald, thin as a rail and dressed smart for a day in the tropics with a linen scarf draped losely about his neck. We caught eyes and suddenly he lit up, exclaiming, "Brad! You don't know how much it means to me that you made it!" He began to weep, and I found myself overcome with a mix of joy and heart-wrenching emotion.
It was clear he was comfortably seated, so I knelt down and we took one another's hands. I told him how wonderful it was to see him, and it was. His eyes sparkled like fine gems. We smiled at one another. He wanted to know how I was doing. Despite months of illness, I told him I was doing well and that life is good. While in some ways it felt as if we were able to connect for quite a while, I know it was in reality just a blink of an eye. He invited me to see him if I ever made it down to Southern California. I think this was a way of letting me know we may meet again on the other side or perhaps in another life. Or maybe he simply meant exactly what he said.
I could feel a presence at my back, so I turned to see what appeared to be a really long receiving line that stretched clear across the great room. I acknowledged how many other people who loved him were longing to see him, so I vowed I would look him up if I'm ever planning to head his way. He reiterated how much it meant to have me there, and I could feel his truth in his words inside my bones. Choked up, he brought his fist up to his chest, knocked gently a couple times and told me I would always be in his heart.
While I haven't known John terribly long, and I haven't known him well in the conventional sense, I feel I knew him profoundly.
A few days after the party, John sent me the following private message via Facebook:
"dear brad...i cannot tell you how much your visit meant to me on Sunday. your spirit and enthusiasm inspire me. always has and always will. if you are ever in the Newport Beach area, let me know. would love you to meet the rest of my wonderful and whacky family. give my best to Matt when you see him. tell him i understand that he will always remain a special person in my heart--just like you are. much love and many blessings, amigo..."
I was so touched and moved by his message, I wasn't sure whether I had a worthy enough response. I didn't reply.
The email I received updating me on his condition was my call to action. While I may have missed an opportunity to respond digitally, I sure as hell wasn't going to miss an opportunity to create a tangible, loving thought for him to enjoy as he transitions out of this life. I began pondering some thoughts last night. This morning I sat down and began to write, and this is what I expressed to him:
"The joy you filled me with at your Seattle celebration overwhelmed me, John. Much like an outstanding note in an enchanting melody, it is those gilded moments which contain life’s very meaning. The space in between is so we can clearly hear when those notes are struck, appreciate them for the light they bring into our realities and reflect upon them fondly. It is my sincerest wish you have been savoring much more than the world’s fair share of precious moments. May love always light your way as you have so warmly lit others’. With much love, Brad"
The cover of the card was blank, so I thought a simple quote on its cover would be ideal:
"Everything you can imagine is real." - Pablo Picasso
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