I hate writing about death. I really do. I hate it.
I hate missing the gone people and I hate thinking about their families missing them more, and having to live the rest of their lives without them. It’s heartbreaking to me. The past couple of weeks have been hard ones for some good people I know and care about. And I hate this, too.
Independent of how I feel about it, I’ll write about death again today.
On Wednesday, I lost a buddy. He battled a bad disease and fought hard, but it caught him. And it doesn’t seem fair, but I don’t really know what this means anymore. I do know that he carried a special light. He was a force of nature. He showed the rest of us how to be all the way alive. He was fearless and kind and funny and generous with his talents and his laugh. He was a mad scientist with the energy of a curious child. He was infectious, if not outright contagious. He was a good man whose legacy will last and whose light will be carried by those he touched with it, and there were plenty of these folks. He left an indelible mark on the minds and hearts of friends and strangers alike. He was that guy. He did it right, even when it was wrong. He did wrong well, too. He kept going and moved the needle with no loss of enthusiasm.
Damn.
He was a special one. He was a rare human being possessing all the flaws and beauty and courage and grace and love that a kind god can bestow upon us.
Again, damn.
He was that guy. And he’ll be missed much by many. I suppose this is about as fine a story any of us can hope for when the bell tolls for us. I sure wish I didn’t hear its hollow ring for my friend today, though.
*Bonus track:
Several years ago in a sweltering dive bar in our little water town, I looked to my right and saw my buddy on his hands and knees almost under the bar. I thought it was peculiar, but, hey, I knew the guy and his capacity to surprise me may have expired.
Nonetheless, I watched him, thinking he’d lost something and was looking for it. He didn’t lose anything.
He turned his head in my direction and stared at me with wide eyes, and clutched his throat in the universal signal of choking.
I set my beer down and performed a perfectly executed heimlich maneuver on him. He caught some air and thanked me, profusely. For two hours. He also told me not to mention this event as he was a daredevil, record-holding, death-defying racing man and the thought of him being taken out by a jello shot was not something he was comfortable with. He pleaded and thanked me as he coughed up chunks of lime jello.
We laughed in the summer heat, recognizing the absurdity of the whole thing. I told him his secret was safe. But, maybe it wasn’t.
In any case, he was beautiful in more ways than a page can hold.
Photo credit: Robin Malmanger
Dave Markwell is a life-long Des Moines liver and lover. Former owner of Waterland CrossFit and the Waterland Arcade, Dave uses his unique story-telling voice to help small businesses tell a better story, and his love for people to help folks live bigger and better lives. For more info, check out his website: wordsbydave.net
