My best friend from my glorious college days is leaving us.
He had a major heart attack a week ago Saturday and has never come back. He is in a deep coma, with minimal brain function. The hard conversations have happened, continue to happen with his family.
It’s been a week of mourning. It continues.
I’m working through boxes, trying to find my photos. Finding bits and pieces here and there. Missing him. Mourning him. Laughing my ass off with him.
There are moments of clarity and function. I feel as if I’ve done nothing but mourn this year. I’m trying to embrace the sunshine, and think of the positive.
I’m writing, words coming, more than a timeline, and then I must pause. And cry. And laugh. And begin again. So goes the cycle.
I said my goodbye a few days ago. I’m mostly okay with that part of it.
I ache for his family, for his children, for his friends.
This loss is profound.
This loss is great.
And he would have us do none of this. Don’t waste time on that crying bullshit, he would say. Laugh, and tell stories of the good times, fart loudly. That’s what he would do.
I can hear him now.
“Mourning gives me gas,” he’d say.
“John, everything gives you gas,” we would reply.
And so it goes.