Goodbye Pal



December 23, 2015

Do you know that phrase, “You look like you lost your best friend”? Well, I found out what that meant today. Today I said goodbye to one of my best friends and it was by far the hardest thing that I’ve had to do up to this point in life. The only other thing that comes close was carrying my other friend to his final resting plot. It’s a tough thing seeing someone you love die, and over the past twenty-six months I watched that happen with grace and dignity. I think losing someone or something registers differently depending on how much you cared about them. It ain’t complicated and the math works out like this—the more you care the tougher the loss. It’s just that simple. I’ve lost a couple of dogs over the years and it’s always tough. I suppose I could distance myself with each new four-legged addition to the family, but that’s just not my style. When I do something I put everything I’ve got into it, sometimes to my detriment. But hey, I’m a guy from Jersey who has the Appalachian running though his veins. And when one of your own is in peril you run and you run fast.

Two years ago in October I got the call and it floored me. Melisa, Eric’s wife, called me. “They found a tumor, Eric is in the hospital, we don’t know anything at the moment, they are prepping him for surgery.” I got in my car and drove from LA to Napa in relative silence hoping that the news would be not so bad. When I arrived I saw my buddy from years gone by lying in a hospital bed. It wouldn’t be until today that I would see him in this position again. Only today it would be in his living room. I was there when the doctor gave him the news that it was in fact the big “C.” We were all there and we all heard the same thing. My buddy sat there, stern; he took the news and he didn’t flinch. It’s my opinion that he did that for us. This would be the attitude that he would uphold even in his final days. He always had a positive attitude, that’s who he was. He cared more about all of us than himself. I often equate it to my wrestling and cross country years—let me first say that I was not a state champion or star athlete, but I wrestled and ran next to those guys and I got it.

My wife and I started visiting Eric and his then-fiancé as often as we could. I’ve driven the 5 so many times that I can tell you where and when traffic will start and what time you need to hit the road to avoid LA and SF traffic. We’ve had so many great times over the past two years. One thing I should mention is that my friend is a chef and sommelier. His taste in food and wine is as good as it gets. Every trip would involve a restaurant, wineries, and a meal that he would prepare accompanied by his wine from his vineyard in his backyard. He really was a renaissance man who enjoyed getting his hands dirty and creating. He was a painter, a sculptor, and a writer. He wrote so many of his recipes down that I hope someday they will be published by someone. Trips to Napa were magical. It was an escape for all of us. We usually spent about fifteen minutes talking about his health and that was it. I always felt like my job was to make him laugh. I figured that if I could make him laugh then it would be impossible for him to think about the cancer. So, I tried to make him laugh a lot. Saying goodbye was always tough, especially the first couple times because you really don’t understand the cancer and the process. You think, “Shit, this could be it, this might be the last time I see him.” But then after a few of those goodbyes and new treatments you start to feel like, “Yeah, I’m going to see him again.” Then it happens.

To say that I didn’t see a decline in my friends health would be a lie. There are those moments with cancer when you see changes in the people you care about, physical and mental changes like a pie in the face. It’s almost like “Ha! Don’t forget.” Depending on the type of cancer and the person those changes can be gradual or very quick. With Eric I felt like it was a couple of pies in the face and then a triple-decker chocolate pie with ice cream and whipped cream and hot fudge. Oh, and then a guy runs up and gives you a Carvel Cookie Puss right in the kisser. Sure, there’s the hair loss and the scars from four brain surgeries and there’s the fatigue and the withdrawal accompanied with silence. But the big one, the one that hits you the hardest, the one that brings you into a new reality is the discussion. For me it was a phone call from his older brother letting me know that there were no more options and that there was a very short timeline on the table. That’s when it sets in. You see, I really thought he was gonna beat this. I believed it all the way up to that phone call. And you know what? I’m glad I did. I would rather have two years of hope than two years of preparation. I’m okay with that; I can deal with this. I know it’s different for everyone but this route worked for me. Now it’s about that preparation and acceptance. It’s tough.

Seeing Eric in a hospital bed in his living room almost took me off my feet. I had to step outside for air and get my myself together. One of Eric’s friends from Napa calmed me down, got me square, and helped me back into the house. I sat at his bedside and held his hand. He opened his eyes and gave me a couple of fist bumps and then made a joke. He settled back into his morphine dream; he was waiting for us to arrive. That night I slept next to his bed, slept in the guest room, sat next to him wide awake staring at him while he was sleeping. I scrolled through old texts and read exchanges dating back five years and then finally the sun came up. Eric slept a lot on Tuesday but we had a few great moments. I’d ask him, “Do you want to hear some Violent Femmes?” (we would skate and listen to them when we were kids), and he gave me a thumbs up. I turned it on and he air drummed. I brought him gelato (his favorite), “Do you want some Frati?” I got another thumbs up. He opened up wide and I shoved it in there. He was happy and it was beautiful. Friends would send me messages on Facebook asking me to give Eric their best and I would. “Give him a kiss for me,” they’d say. “Tell him so-and-so said they are thinking about him.” I would do this through the day. It was pretty cool. Later that day I put the word out on Facebook that I wanted a slice of pizza from our favorite joint back in New Jersey. It arrived a few days later. But after Tuesday was over, Wednesday morning came and it was time for us to leave and to say goodbye.

I’m a very lucky person, I’m just going to state that right now. I know that the opportunity to say goodbye isn’t granted to everyone. Life is complicated and movie endings are, well, movie endings. I had the opportunity to say goodbye to one of my oldest and dearest friends on earth and while it was one of the hardest things that I’ve had to do, I did it and I am forever grateful. The moment that Eric and I shared was beautiful and will be with me for the rest of my life. He was at peace, at acceptance, and looking forward to whatever comes next. As I sat there next to him, I leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Tell Carm I said hi.” He looked at me and nodded yes; Karena said he gave me a thumbs up.

Through this I’ve had friends reach out in many different ways—Facebook, texts, phone calls… Now more than ever a person can let someone know that they are in their thoughts. For all of the chaos that social media can bring, I’ll gladly take this side effect.

Eric would pass ten days later surrounded by love.