Yesterday, January 1, 2011, a dear friend of mine passed away. My ex-husband called me with the sad news within an hour of his passing. It wasn't unexpected. He'd been diagnosed with lung cancer in August. The cancer proved to be aggressive, resisting all the chemo and radiation, marching from his lungs to his brain and finally to his backbone, where it settled down for good and consumed him quickly. Just four days prior to his death he'd been sent home on hospice care, and as the worst of the pain and confusion arrived, he was spared much of the agonies and indignities by the speed with which the cancer consumed him.
I come here today not to bury Jack, but to praise him.
Jack was a part of my life for more than 30 years. He was truly one of the most handsome men I've ever known. Of medium height, wiry build and uncommon physical strength, he had the glowing tan and dazzlingly white-blonde hair of his Nordic roots. His bright blue eyes danced with good humor and mischief.
He was energetic, always on the move, always ready to partake in whatever activity was happening at any given time. He loved to play sports and games. He was still playing softball in a local league when he was given his death sentence. Always filled with the desire to do something, he couldn't sit still, not even at the end.
He was a prankster, always looking for a way to tease without causing offense. And his laugh was so distinctive. A slow chuckle that rumbled deep from his chest, as if he'd just told you a filthy joke and amused himself above all else in the telling. I've never known anyone who laughed like Jack. The low rumble of mischief and pure joy.
In our misspent youth Jack was known for his high tolerance to illicit substances. I recall a day when in his enthusiasm to get from point A to point B he'd run squarely into a low-slung door jamb, knocking himself unconscious and opening a cut that required many stitches in his scalp. Another friend had rushed him to the hospital where the nurse asked what substances he'd taken in the last 48 hours. Jack ran down the list and the quantities. The nurse blanched, left the room and brought in the doctor who asked again, and Jack repeated the list. The doctor shook his head and said, "Wow. Why aren't you dead?" Jack's reply was a classic. "I'm having too much fun, man. You can't die when you're having this much fun." When I asked Jack why he'd told them all the crap he'd taken he replied, "Well, they asked, didn't they?" That was just Jack, being honest as always.
Jack had the capacity to see not just the good in people, but always see their beauty. Long after the bloom had blown off of the rose that is me, Jack made me feel beautiful. In fact, he always called me Beautiful, as if it was my name, and he meant it. He hugged with enthusiasm, as if he'd been waiting all day for the pleasure of it. A hug always led to a brief moment of hair stroking and a firm kiss on the lips, then the cheek. He loved his friends and family deeply. I was touched and proud to be one of them.
When my first husband killed himself, it was the only time I ever saw the mischief and joy leave Jack's eyes, replaced by sadness and concern. He was there when we buried him, and he came to me and put his arm around me protectively. He was watchful of how people approached me that day. "Back off, man, she needs space," he'd say to people he didn't even know when he sensed it was all getting too much for me. He sat with me through that long, long day, he rocked my children and stroked their hair. He was just being Jack, tender and loving, the man at his best.
My last conversation with Jack was just after Thanksgiving. Always thin, the cancer had stripped him of everything but skin and bone. The chemo had taken his glorious curly locks. The spots spreading in his brain were robbing him of memory and recognition, but he still knew who I was, still chuckled when we spoke of days long gone by. I told him of my plans for the coming year, of coming back to Missouri and building a home on the old family farm for my sister and me, where she can retire in comfort and I can focus on the farming that brings me strength and the art that gives me release. "Let me know when you're home again, I want to come see it," he said. I knew, we all of knew, that Jack would not see that day. Everyone except Jack. He just didn't believe he was going to die. He wasn't done living, you see.
I don't yet know when we'll formally be saying goodbye to Jack. There is time for that in the days ahead. When it happens I'll be there to comfort his wife and children, just as he once comforted me and mine. The old gang will gather, and we'll cast aside those brief but painful days of his suffering and remember the love, the laughter, the essence of the man that was Jack.
Last night, as I laid in my bed in that state halfway between consciousness and sleep, I heard his laughter, that low, rumbling chuckle. My heart welled up with love and sadness. The tears came unbidden, but I smiled nonetheless. "You can go now, Jackie," I thought. "Shine on, man, fly high and free."