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I met Richard when I was in elementary school. I was going into the sixth grade in 1972. They closed the elementary school he and his neighbors attended and sent them all to mine. We called them "Hoxie Punks" at the time. By the end of the school year, the Hoxie kids had more or less assimilated and there was a core group of about 10 of us who were fast friends. We did everything together, from looking for lizards after school to playing Little League to slumber parties. Oddly enough, that social circle still exists. My best friends are people I've known most of my life, Richard included.
Over the years, Richard has been, at different times, my Best Friend, my Second Best Friend, my golfing buddy, my weed connection, my co-worker, my business partner, and he stood with my groomsmen at my first wedding. He was my sister's boyfriend in high school, and for the last year and a half, he's been her boyfriend once more. He took my unruly nephew and turned him in the right direction with love, praise, and attention.
In high school, he was the "Golden Boy". Shoulder length blonde hair, deep tan, blue eyes, and he could carve a wave at Huntington Beach with the best of them. We'd get there early in the morning and stay until oh dark thirty. Everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, and everywhere we went (concerts, Dodger games, you name it) girls seemed to find their way to him. Everything was easy. I envied him then as much as I love him now. It's always been funny to think that he never got married and never had kids. He's been the life of the party since I can remember, and the first person to volunteer his time if you're moving, have car trouble, or just need a hand doing whatever.
About three years ago, Richard was diagnosed with colon cancer. In his usual way, he laughed it off. He absolutely knew he'd beat it. When they removed something like four inches of his colon, he came out of the recovery room in MAX pain, but with a smile for all of us who were waiting for him in his hospital room. I told him that he didn't look like as much of an ass as he used to, and while I was getting beaten by the wives and girlfriends for saying that, he was laughing so hard the nurse scolded us and threatened to make us leave. I guess he'd never heard that one before. Needless to say, he beat the colon cancer.
A little less than a year and a half ago, his oncologist told him that his cancer had moved to his liver. I guess that's a normal progression for colon cancer. Again, he laughed it off, knowing in his heart that he'd beat it. This time though, there was a fear in his eyes that wasn't there before. He did all the things you'd expect a cancer patient to do. This has been a much harder struggle though than his colon cancer. He put up such a good front for our sake. Last Saturday we had a birthday party for him. I hadn't seen him in about two months because he and my sister live in Oceanside and I live in Big Bear. Everyone else still lives in L.A. County, and they hadn't seen him in about as long. He looked terrible, but he was Richard. All day and night, he was ever the trooper, and even though he wasn't drinking, he poured our tequila shots each time we decided to have another round. His choice. He always joked that he was "good to the last drop", and true to form, he was up and about until the last of us either went to bed at their house, or went home. When I left their house on Sunday I had to say goodbye to him in their bedroom because he was too exhausted to get out of bed. He assured me that it was only because he had been so happy the night before and had so much fun that it just took a lot out of him. I kissed him on the cheek and his hug was as strong or stronger than I've ever known it to be (we don't shake hands in my social circle, we hug, and no one would dare laugh at us if they knew how much we care about each other).
My sister called me this morning in tears and told me that yesterday his doctor told him it was time to check into a hospice because he only has days to live, maybe a week. I've been trying to put up a good front all day, but it's getting a little difficult. I can't imagine a life without him in it. I am at a total loss for words to say to him. I know I have to call, but fuck me, whatever will I say? How do you approach a situation like this? I told my sister I'd be down the mountain this evening to see him, but she says he doesn't want to see anyone. He's pretty much given in to the fact that his time here is at an end, and he doesn't want to be remembered as being so sick he couldn't get out of bed.
So here I am, drinking my third Jack and Coke, wondering what comes next. It's either going to be a very long night, or a very short one. I've been thinking about what it means to grieve over the loss of a lifelong friend and the only conclusion I can reach is that my grief is a selfish emotion on my part. I'm not grieving for him so much as I'm grieving for my own loss of him in my life. I hate that.
The only thing that's made me feel slightly better all day is my imagined conversation with him where I tell him that when he gets to the other side, he needs to make a tee time for those of us who witnessed his Eagle and his Hole in One. I was there for both. I lost more money to him on the golf course than I care to admit, but now I think I'll wear it as a badge of honor. He had a single-digit handicap but nonetheless I always felt that "today is my day" so I never refused his bets. He always tried to refuse my money, but a bet is a bet.
My daughter has his cell number on her speed dial. When she came out to me before Christmas she asked me to tell him. She hasn't known a single day of life without him somewhere in it, and when I did he called her right off the bat and promised her that he'd love her unconditionally no matter what. He didn't need to, but that's just the kind of person he is.
This morning I was sad, then I was angry, now I'm sad again. He marked his 46th birthday Wednesday, and the day after that his doctor tells him it's time to sign off. How fucking bad is that?
He's not the first friend I've lost, and I'm coming to the realization that nearing fifty years old, it's something I'm going to have to get used to experiencing. He's by far the closest friend I'll ever have to say goodbye to though, and the only one who didn't disappear from my life in an instant, either by car accident, murder, or heart attack.
So do me a favor and think a good thought for my friend Richard. I know he'd do the same for you. As for me, the sun won't shine so brightly after he's gone. Even butterflies won't seem so colorful. Strawberries won't smell so sweet and laughter will be a little less satisfying. I'll BET though, that even without being asked, he'll make sure to get that tee time on the Great Golf Course in the Sky for his friends.
God Bless You Richard and Thank You for everything you've brought to my life.
Thanks for listening.
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