Today is a bad day. Not because the stock market is down or because something bad has happened to me but because in the space of just two hours I received word that two long time friends had died. One from injuries sustained in a ski accident out west and one who collapsed on his morning exercise walk from a heart attack. In two hours, two guys I had known for well over thirty years and with whom I had some indelible memories were gone, just like that.
We live each day scarcely facing our mortality and while you might think older folk like me surely think about death more often, we don’t. Why would we, its not a fun subject. It is dark and cold and full of grief. And sudden death, unexpected death, violent death is always a shock. Even as senior adults we expect death to be the logical conclusion of a series of events. Cancer, then chemo and radiation, then remission, then reoccurrence, then a slow downhill slide to the end. Or Parkinson’s or a series of heart stints and bypasses followed by gradual congestive heart failure. Or dementia where the personality dies then the body eventually follows.
But that’s not what happened. My ski buddy was robust, not quite 60, wealthy and happily married with everything to live for. He was a great skier and he skied a lot. He had a house on the gulf coast and another in ski resort country. He had done well, so well they named the engineering college we graduated from after him. And yet in the blink of an eye he went from flying down a snow covered hill to literally a dead stop. A tiny mistake in planting the downhill ski, or a moment of looking across the hill instead of looking out in front of his line, I’ll never know. But he’s gone.
My other friend worked with me, for me actually, for a very long time. He was hilarious, always kidding and usually happy. He was a small guy with a big personality. And a big heart, until this morning when it stopped, and he was gone too. He was maybe 70, so you can’t say it’s a big anomaly when someone that age passes. But he was slim, and he walked several miles every morning. My and my running buddies would pass him often since we ran a similar route in the mornings. Like me he was retired but unlike me he was always subject to more stress and drama from various sources. But still, the times I had seen him recently he was the same old guy, funny, happy, friendly. And now he’s gone, too.
This is where your writer should say something profound, something that pulls meaning from the meaningless. And I can’t. I’m empty. I can only think of two hurting families who were blind sided by life today. Those who never saw it coming and can never say those things they wish they could say to their father, husband or friend. Because they are gone.