What do you say when you’re saying
goodbye to a buddy who’s dying? What do you tell him when you know – with all
due medical certainty – that this is the last time you’re ever going to see the
guy? What are the proper words, the right words?
Any other
time a farewell between friends might end with a simple handshake and a “Good
to see ya again. Take care,” or a “Keep in touch.” Something safe and customary
like that. But when your friend has been diagnosed with a class IV brain tumor and doctors have told him
he won’t last the year…seriously, what the fuck do you say then?
This was precisely
the situation I found myself in this past summer. It involved a reunion in
Chicago with a group of friends I used to hang out with when I lived there back
in the 80s. We got to know each other through mutual friends and more so
through our involvement in a fantasy baseball league that was organized and run
at a neighborhood watering hole called Quenchers. That was almost a quarter
century ago (where the hell did that
time go?) and in the intervening years we all pretty much went on our separate
paths. Then this past May I got the call from David who gave me the sad news
that our friend Steve was terminally ill.
A native Chicagoan, Steve had moved
down to Albuquerque, New Mexico with his wife and daughter, and now he wanted
to come back to Chicago for a few days and get the gang back together again for
what he bravely termed would be a “living wake.” His reasoning was, why wait
till I’m gone before everyone gets together?
So plans were set for everyone to
meet in Chicago in a few weeks.
It was a sunny Saturday in June when
I hit the road, looking forward to seeing old friends, some of whom I hadn’t
seen since the first George Bush was President – if that helps. In fact, I was
feeling pretty good about things, even when those nagging thoughts crossed my
mind about why we were getting together in the first place and, yes, what I was
going to say to Steve when it came time for our goodbye. Everything else about
the day was clear and open, it was only that last part that bothered me a
little.
We all met at the bar early in the
afternoon. Steve and his wife were already there, along with other familiar
faces, when I walked in. I hadn’t set foot inside Quenchers since I left
Chicago twenty-four years ago, but the place looked exactly the same, even if
we didn’t. There were warm hugs and handshakes all around, and right away it
was clear this was going to be a real reunion, a party, not some endless, unspoken
eulogy or half-assed group therapy arrangement that might actually end up hurting
more than helping.
Steve looked pretty good that day,
all things considered. He was sporting a baseball cap, as he often did, so
nothing was visible from the surgery. He could still work a crowded bar room,
if maybe just a bit slower. Within minutes he and I had exchanged greetings and
started in on swapping a few old stories. But it was soon apparent that he
wasn’t quite the same. Every so often he would have to stop mid-sentence and
ask for a name or detail in the story we were just talking about.
Turns out he described it best in his
own special blog that he had pointedly titled My Big Fat Greek Cancer. In a posting dated just days before his
arrival in Chicago he wrote (with the aid of a special voice dictation app):
“Imagine dealing in complex concepts like humor, irony, tension, and the
gamut of emotions that humans can experience. Now try it when you are unable to
complete a full sentence….Fortunately, I am able to converse in normal dialogue.
Well, close, but give me a nudge from time to time, and I will be off and
rolling again. I wish I could explain how this works, but unfortunately I find
myself at a loss.”
The tough part there is that the
Steve we had known for years was never before at a loss for words. Never. I first
met him through his old high school buddy Jim, a guy whose own life had more
impact on more people than he ever realized. Now to be clear, many others knew
Steve longer and better than I. But thankfully I was able to partake of enough
late night/early morning bar room bullshit sessions to earn entry into the
circle. Good times then but bittersweet memories now.
Well, the hours passed quickly that
afternoon and good stories were shared amongst all of us, the old connections
firing up once again. Then someone announced that it was time for everyone to
gather in the small outdoor patio at Quenchers and share a toast in honor of our
esteemed friend. David brought in a bottle of good Scotch and, once a bartender
always a bartender, he started filling tiny plastic cups for each of the thirty
or so men and women, family and friends, who had come together by this time.
I suspect we all were getting a
little nervous at this point, because this could have been the time for the tears
to pour out, but David wisely chose not to go that route. When everyone finally
had their cup in hand, he simply stood up, smiled, and said “To Steve.”
We all did the same, lifting our
glasses to Steve. That was it. No tears, no shaky speeches, just a pure and
simple tribute. I watched while Steve sat there stoically as all his friends
paid what I like to think of as the ultimate Chicago bartender’s salute, and wondered
what must have been going through his mind at that moment. Talk about strength
in the face of adversity.
Soon enough dusk was coming on and we
all had to start thinking about going home. Yes, at some point bar time always
comes around. Now the moment of truth was at hand, and still I didn’t know what
I was going to say to the guy. I had no quick remarks, no gems of wisdom. All I
could think of was that I didn’t want to say anything corny or embarrassing. Folks
were still mingling around as I walked up to Steve. We shook hands and that led
to a quick man-hug. He told me he appreciated me making the trip and I told him
I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. At that point we both seemed to be stuck
for a moment.
He
looked away for a second, then came back around and in a calm, slightly upbeat
voice said, “I’ll see you again.” To be honest, I don’t remember what - if
anything - I said after that. My only thought was that he was simply putting up
a brave front, because sooner rather than later…hell, we both knew this was our
final farewell. I didn’t dwell on it, though. I stepped away to start saying goodbye
to others. The way it worked out everyone else in the room was doing the same
thing, as though none of us wanted to be watching when Steve, with his wife by
his side, walked out the door of Quenchers for the last time.
Somewhere
on the drive home those words of his popped into my head and I couldn’t shake
them. I’ll see you again. Certainly I
had never before known Steve to say anything with a hint of religious or even existential
overtones attached to it. Yet one thing we all knew about him was that underneath
the gruff, outspoken exterior was a man with a kind, sensitive heart. So maybe
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe he had it figured out just right. Sometimes
the most complicated questions do have the simplest answers. You can think
about all this and decide for yourself, but when it comes to my peace of mind I
know what I would say now.
Thanks, Steve. And I’ll see ya later.
Steve
Bliss passed away on September 6, 2014.
