Tribute

One of my friends emailed me the other day and asked “is this what old age is? People start getting sick and dying randomly? I don't care for it one bit.”

Let me go on record – I don’t either.

The first time I was hit with random, sudden death was October 12, 2000. That day is forever marked in my heart.

I started at the company I spent most of my career at in August, 1998. On that first day, I was greeted with “You’re so lucky. You get to support Rod. He’s so handsome, and so nice. Everybody wants a Rod-Doll”. Huh, I thought, I’d be the judge of that.

I didn’t meet him for another two months, but I saw a picture of him and his wife Lisa; and the other girls didn’t lie, he was handsome, and if my phone interactions were anything to go by, he was really nice. Every phone conversation ended with “Beth, you’re the best”. His requests were simple, and I always thought his praise was over-rated, but I could hear the sincerity in his voice.

Over the next 14 months, I got to work more closely with Rod, and to be honest I never saw the ego that frequently plagued people in his position. He treated everyone with the same level of respect, taking time to get to know the admin staff, the mail room clerks and the senior managers. When I spoke with him about my career, he took the time to listen, and make the offer to mentor and teach me more about the industry. I never got the chance to tell him what that meant to me.

On October 12, I came into work and picked up a waiting message. A woman identifying herself as Rod’s mother-in-law was leaving me a message informing me that he had a heart attack at the age of 38, and he didn’t make it. I listened to that message five times, each time the words made less and less sense. Rod? My Rod? I called his colleagues, and all had the same reaction.

My cube-mate came in, seeing me in floods of tears assumed something had happened to my father. When I blurted out the words, she too, with her tough exterior, broke down. I vaguely remember the rest of the day – the other girls in the office telling me I needed to go home, blindly driving down Germantown Pike, listening to KYW hearing about the bombing of the USS Cole and not giving a damn. More incomprehensible loss, that’s all I heard.

At the time the thought of a seemingly healthy 38 year old dying in his sleep didn’t make sense to me, and to this day, it still doesn’t.

So when I got a message on Facebook last week informing me that an old classmate passed away at the age of 33, I had to go onto the local newspaper’s website to see the obituary for myself. I hadn’t seen Lou since we graduated from grammar school in 1989, but I still remember what a nice, sweet “kid” he was. I didn’t realize our graduation from grammar school that would be the last time I saw him. He left behind a wife and three children.

Some things can’t be explained.

In September of this year, I got a phone call from my mother while at lunch, telling me that she ran into the mother of an old classmate. She told me that Joe had lung cancer, and that it was bad. I asked her several times – Joe? Joe Mak? People in their early 30’s don’t get cancer – they just don’t, I thought. Cancer didn’t get that memo. Cancer also doesn’t fight fair.

One of my heroes, Heather, ran the Rehoboth Beach Marathon to raise money to help Joe in his fight. I wish I had her balls. She fought through a stress facture and the cold to raise money and awareness. What an amazing friend.

One night I heard my mother tell my father about one of my friends, and I heard her say he was dying. I was indignant – there was no way Joe was going to lose this battle, not with everyone fighting for him. He’s 33 dammit, he’s too young to let this get the best of him.

I got word a week and a half ago that Joe was in the hospital with pneumonia. I read posts predicting his imminent demise. I prayed for his recovery and asked others to do the same. This couldn’t be the end of the fight.

I didn’t call Joe or his family, I didn’t want to intrude. I hadn’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1993 after all, and I didn’t want to impose. There would be plenty of time to see him.

I wish I had intruded.

I got word today that Joe lost his fight – despite the people praying for him and his family.

Death is a bitch. Death doesn’t care that you’re young and handsome, with children and loved. Death doesn’t care that you’re in your 30s with everything to live for.

To Rod, Lou and Joe – I miss you guys. You left the party too soon and are missed. I hope to meet up with you again someday – save me a seat at the bar. We’ll have some catching up to do.