Tag: grief

Death, cont.

If Greg Russell wasn’t the happiest man on earth, he was in the top two.

He died last night.

The news devastated our neighborhood. We all appreciated Greg’s smiling face on his daily walks with his wife Anne. Greg adored Anne. It was evident whenever you saw them together. Anne teaches piano, and one or the other of our girls (and usually both) were part of her studio for 14 years. They spent time with her every week, and we all love her for her sweetness and joy. We can imagine her grief.

We saw Greg a few times each year, reliably at the December and June recitals, and then occasionally as his walks with Anne around the neighborhood intersected with our lives. But you only needed to meet him once to know him. His face was open, a smile ever present, and his whole being exuded welcome. He was curious, and he had many interests, but his primary interest was whoever he was speaking with.

I will miss him, probably more than I realize. People like Greg are rare. They may not be recognized for great accomplishment, but they are the people who do the precious weaving of outwardly-focused busy people living in separate houses into a community of neighbors. Our neighborhood needs a new weaver.  I hope there is someone to step into that role.

I want to be more like Greg. I am happy (generally). But I am not welcoming (generally). I spend so much time between my own ears that I often ignore others. Not out of spite or boredom but out of obliviousness. So that dye is cast – I am what I am, and what I am is not what Greg was.

At times like this I wonder about my legacy.

When the life of a man I both liked and admired is over and I reflect on his impact, I suppose it’s natural to wonder how I compare. I suspect the famous quote about legacy – that no one remembers what you said or what you did, but they do remember how you made them feel – doesn’t work to my advantage. I am a man of the mind not of the heart (generally) so I’m afraid that I don’t touch people in the same way Greg Russell did.

Then again not many do. I can make peace with that.

As long as I have enough time.

Death, cont.

I lost my second friend from college freshman year last weekend.

Joe slipped on ice outside his home in Minnesota and cracked his head a couple months ago. He lingered, but succumbed on Sunday. He was 57.

Deaths bring remembrance. Reflection. Regret. That’s the order I felt them anyway, and it’s the wrong order.

Regret. I hadn’t spoken with Joe since we buried Tim seven years ago after a heart attack killed him while he sat in front of his computer at home. We were making plans to return to our college reunion in June. Instead we’ll be reuniting in Joe’s hometown to bury him. Why didn’t we see each other in the interim? We were close friends during a formative time in our lives, and that bond was strong and eternal, but the usual excuses apply: getting together wasn’t convenient, it was too expensive in time and money, and we had other priorities. And, I suppose, we thought we’d have plenty of time at future reunions. I regret those decisions now.

Reflection. If Joe – and Tim before him – can die suddenly, then I can too. Have I done everything I want? Heavens, no. Do the people I care about know how I feel? I hope so. Am I ready to meet my maker? Do my wife and daughters know what my wishes are? Do they know what to do in my permanent absence? Hell, no. I’m not ready in the least. And neither were Tim and Joe.

Remembrance. This is Joe’s time. I think we all want to be remembered. Joe never married, never had children. What is his legacy?

Joe might very well be the most loyal man this world has ever seen. And he cared about those people who were otherwise overlooked. He lived every minute of 57 years acutely aware of the people who didn’t speak up in class, who sat on the sidelines, who felt left out of central activities. Perhaps because he felt like one of them. He wasn’t handsome or smooth, funny or brilliant. He was, I suppose, an average Joe in things that mattered in youth, which largely involves attracting attention to oneself. No, the size and intensity of his heart made him singular: he cared – deeply – about people, especially the overlooked and underappreciated. Without regard to history, lineage, means, looks. He accepted everyone. Even those who did something cruel (but he let them know how he felt about their cruelty). It was no surprise that he ended up working with convicts. Who in our society is written off more?

I trusted Joe as much as I’ve trusted anyone. When I attempted suicide my sophomore year, it was in front of Joe. He was with me in my despair. He just knew when people were hurting, and he was always there. And I miss that. Knowing that Joe was in the world felt reassuring; he has been someone I could count on since we met as freshmen, no matter how much time elapsed between visits or e-mails or Facebook posts.

My day-to-day life will seem no different with Joe gone, but I’ll know he’s not there. I just hope he left enough kindness and love to help this world he’s left behind.

Joe McCoy