Of Freckles and Time and Saying Good-Bye

See that freckle on Emil’s left knee? It was one of the first things I noticed when he was born. An intimate detail I immediately fell in love with. I kiss it at least once a day.

You know when you look at someone’s neck when he is sleeping and you can see his pulse? This freaks me out and scares me in an irrational way. Not in a that-is-gross-looking sort of way. More like an oh-my-God-life-is-so-fragile sort of way. Same thing with hearing someone’s heartbeat. Witnessing it makes me feel too vulnerable, too alive, too susceptible to mortality. Like everything is depending on the beating of that heart. Hearing it makes me think about how many times it has beat, and how many more it has to go. The intimacy of it makes me crazy with worry.

Just recently, I found out that an old friend with whom I had lost touch over the past couple of years passed away. I knew he was sick, but I had no idea how sick. I knew he had gone through some rough patches, but I always figured things would work out and he would persevere. Because he always had. Through really, really rough times, he was positive, jovial even. When I knew him, problems rolled off his back like water off a duck. Big problems. And that was a mistake of mine- that I just figured everything would be okay, that I would catch up with him when my own life slowed down a bit. The news of his death steamrolled me. I don’t remember how we lost touch. One of us called the other, and left a message, then the other called back, and we missed each other again. And so on, until three years went by and we just Facebook-messaged and Christmas-carded each other with semi-impersonal messages like, “Hey there! Been thinking about our weekly Friday lunches. Miss those days. Hope you are well!” and “Congratulations on another baby!” and “Congratulations on becoming a grandfather! How wonderful!” and “How you feeling, buddy? Have heard you’ve been in and out of the hospital”- that one, interestingly enough, happened when we were both having some health issues at the same time. Only, I got better, and he did not.

And then, that was it. I failed to follow up, and he failed to divulge just how sick he was (it was cancer). I wish I had known, and I wish I had been better. I have too many of these people in my life, who I feel the need to reach out to, but I somehow just get lost in the thick of it and let one more day go by without calling, or writing, or reaching out in a more personal way. I wish I had known, so I could have said good-bye and let him know the immense impact he had on my life during the three years we worked together and went to lunch together (he made wise-cracks every Friday about my belly growing more and more pregnant with Milo; I ate too slowly and made us late for every single inservice but he never complained) and shared ideas and problems and health food advice and social work advice and on and on. I wish I could have said good-bye. On the phone. In person. Somehow. Regret is a bitter pill. And I know he would not have wanted me to feel that feeling. He would have had something incredibly inspirational to say about that feeling, and how wasteful it is to allow it in my life… something I can’t think of right now, but probably will later.

And I guess now is the part when I remind everyone that he is at peace now, and no longer in pain, and there is joy in that, somehow. And there is certainly joy in the impact he had on so many people, including the troubled teens he counseled in his tough-love kind of way that worked so well for this teddy bear of a man. A big guy with a big personality, and an even bigger heart.

These are pictures of my youngest son. David never met him, and they have nothing in common yet but a close passing of worlds. One entering in, the other passing on to the other side. And I am reminded, as he sleeps here beside me, pulse visible on the side of his soft baby neck, of the fragility and vulnerability of life. To never take it for granted. To reach out to those I love, and not wait another day.

David, we will miss you.