Raise a Parting Glass
Mar. 25th, 2018 03:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Oh all the money that e’er I spent,
I spent in good company.
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas, it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit,
To memory now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with us all.
Oh all the comrades the e’er I had,
Are sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts that e’er I’ve had,
Would wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call:
Good night and joy be with you all
Good night and joy be with you all
(The Parting Glass: Irish Song – 1700’s)
The first time I faced the idea of one of my sisters dating a good friend of mine was probably early in the year of 1973. I had been living at home since my early discharge from the Air Force after the death of my father in November of 1971, and working as a history teacher at my alma mater, St. Bernard High School. A group of my high school friends, John and Jim Riley, and Greg Ryan, had moved into an apartment near the school in Playa del Rey. I would hang out there as often as I could, along with another good friend of Greg named Danny Holiday. Danny and Greg had met years before, after graduating from high school and discovering that they were dating girls who were best friends. When their relationships with these girls ended, Danny and Greg remained close, and Greg introduced him to me, and his other high school friends while we all attended college. In those college days, Greg, Jim, John, and Wayne Wilson were living in adjoining apartments in Hermosa Beach, and they always made a point of inviting Danny to parties because we could always count on him inviting a flock of extra girls (who unfortunately all had crushes on him). When these roommates disbanded in 1970, Greg and Danny roomed together for a year in Riverside while they attended the University of California there. They lived together until Greg graduated in 1972, when he returned to Los Angeles, working with Danny at a Pioneer Chicken restaurant in Van Nuys until he got a job teaching at a Catholic elementary school in Glendale and moved into Playa del Rey with our friends.
When I was not at this apartment on Redlands Avenue, these friends often came to my home, where I lived with my mom, two sisters, Stela and Gracie, and my two younger brothers, Eddie and David Alex. It became common practice to include the two now young women in many of our various excursions around the city, going to movies and concerts, visiting local wineries, or playing sports. I suppose that’s when Gracie and Danny were attracted to each other, because at some point in 1973, Gracie asked me if she could openly date him. The question caught me by surprise. I had no idea that Gracie was interested in Danny, and my immediate response was an emphatic “No!”
The trouble with friends dating your sisters is that you know your friend’s faults and benefits, weaknesses and strengths. Long time friends are at ease with you and you with them. Pretense evaporates with time and you see each other for who and what you are – the good and the bad. Danny was a good friend and generous to a fault. He made friends easily and quickly. He was a drummer in a band, upbeat, optimistic, and happy. People liked him, especially girls. He had a luxurious mop of auburn hair, and sad, melancholy eyes, which gave him a soulful, puppy dog look that elicited the immediate sympathy and affection of girls and young women (a quality all of us envied). Also in 1973, Danny was working as a driver for Schaefer Ambulance and looked quite dashing and handsome in his uniform, a paramedic jumpsuit. He was likeable, and even loveable. Though I never considered him a “Best Friend”, like Jim, Greg, or John, I truly considered him a good one, but I never thought of him as a romantic possibility for my sister.
Greg was probably the first person I shared the news of Gracie’s interest in dating Danny, and my response forbidding it. At that time, our teaching schedules were almost identical but at odds with the working hours of the other guys in his apartment, so we usually found ourselves sharing a bottle of Gallo Spañada wine on Friday nights, talking about school, lesson plans, and future projects. It was the perfect time to discuss his friend, Danny Holiday, and my sister Gracie. Except for his impulsive proclivity for taking road trips around California at the drop of a hat, Greg always analyzed problems carefully and gave solid, reasonable advice. So I was confident that he would agree with my actions.
“Are you crazy! What were you thinking?” I remember him exclaiming, after hearing of my response to Gracie’s request. “Saying ‘No’ was a mistake. They’re adults, and you are literally insuring that they will see each other behind your back. Come on Tony, calm down”, he continued, “you’re overreacting. It’s not like they’re getting married. All they want to do is see each other. Trust me. Let their relationship run its course. It will be over in less that a year. I’m sure of it.”
Greg’s assessment and advice finally made sense to me. Perhaps I was overreacting and making a bigger deal about this than it deserved. So I talked to Gracie when I returned home and told her that I had reconsidered her request and decided to approve of her seeing Danny. It was approximately 6 months later, when Greg and I had just arrived in Mexico City to attend summer classes at the Universidad Autónoma de Mexico (the National University of Mexico), that I received a frantic, surprise phone call from my mother in Los Angeles. Gracie and Danny, she told me, had decided to marry the following September. I spent the next three months berating Greg over his incredibly bad advice and faulty prognostication. “It’s not like they’re getting married”, I would constantly quote back to him. All he would do was shrug and say, “What are you going to do? It must be love”.
45 years later, on March 4, 2018, I received a text from my sister Gracie informing me that our friend Danny Holiday had been placed in a Hospice/Palliative Care program in Portland OR, with a prognosis of only two to eight weeks to live. For the first time in my life I was confronted with knowledge of the incipient death of an old friend who was younger than I – and a reminder of my own mortality.
In 1970 or 1971, I remember seeing the movie Husbands, with John Cassavetes, Peter Falk, and Ben Gazzara. The indie film had gotten good reviews and I was a great fan of Falk and Gazzara at that time. IMDb summarized the film this way:
“Approaching middle age, best friends Archie, Gus, Harry and Stuart are suburban New Yorkers, white-collar professionals, husbands, and fathers. Stuart dies suddenly of a heart attack. Immediately following the funeral, Archie, Gus and Harry feel the need to spend time together not so much to mourn Stuart's death, but rather mourn their collective lost sense of immortality. After a two-day binge of trying to recapture the sense of their youth in various ways, the three know that they have to return to the realities of life, meaning returning to family and work.”
I’m sure some of my best friends accompanied me to see the movie – Jim, Wayne Wilson, or Greg – because I remember discussing it with them later. The movie was supposed to be a “buddy flick”, and the four of us had been best friends for years, weathering the ups and downs of high school and college, dating, dawning sexuality, different jobs, and putting up with each other through good times and bad. By the time we saw the movie we had graduated, or were close to graduating from college, and we sensed that we were coming to a crossroad in our lives. Our fates were at the point of going in many possible directions at that moment in time: being drafted; moving away to pursue other interests or careers; or getting married. For me, the movie was not so much about dealing with the death of a friend, but rather, I saw death as a metaphor for the end of a friendship. This interpretation made the film more personal and relevant to me, since I never saw death as a real possibility for any of us. Our mortality, at that moment, was impossible to accept or imagine. We were simply too young, too strong, too talented, and too full of ourselves – and glowing futures and long lives beckoned us forward. When I learned of Danny’s quickly diminishing heath, this movie came to mind again. Only this time I didn’t think of it in terms of a metaphor. I thought of it more in line with suddenly feeling the need to surround myself with old buddies to say goodbye to a dying friend, and to deal with our collective lost sense of immortality.
Greg, Jim, John, and I had talked about visiting Danny in Portland over the years, but had never acted on it. Greg was the last person to have seen him most recently. So when I phoned each of them to share the news I received from Gracie, I mentioned the idea of seeing Danny before it was too late. Greg was the quickest to decide, saying he would fly up from San Diego as soon as he could reserve a flight. I agreed to accompany him, as did John, and we arranged to fly up together from Los Angeles, meeting Greg in Portland on Wednesday, and returning home Friday morning. Honestly, I could not have gone alone. The only way I could see and talk with Danny was in the presence and company of old friends, who might share my mixed feeling, and emotions about his eminent death.
It was a difficult trip. Danny was in sad shape when we first saw him: cadaverous looking, rarely moving, with limp, lifeless hair that looked like straw, and his eyes closed. He breathed comfortably, for the most part, but sleeping the sleep of the soon departing. He never opened his eyes the first two times we saw him on Wednesday when we arrived, or the following morning. There was an absence of all energy or vitality. He was inert – silent and not present, except for the sounds of his breathing. In the stillness of his room, the only sounds and movement came from the hallway, with residents of the facility chatting as they walked or wheeled down the corridor, pushed by assistants or visitors. The vacuum of silence in the room begged to be filled – and so we did. Danny’s oldest son Tim arrived while we were there, and we talked. We talked to him and each other, wondering what had caused this rapid and seemingly sudden decline in our friend’s health and spirit. We recalled stories of times shared. How Greg and Danny met while dating girls who lived next door to each other, becoming best friends, and how Greg introduced us to Danny. We filled in details about seeing Danny play in a band at the Venetian Room as a drummer, and hanging out with Greg in the apartment in Hermosa Beach when he lived with Jim and Wayne. Of the days when Greg and Danny roomed together while attending UC Riverside, and how Danny always seemed to be sleeping over when Greg moved into the apartment in Playa del Rey. Greg spoke of the days they worked at Pioneer Chicken together, and how he, Danny, and John would make midnight runs to the restaurant after closing to fry up a batch of shrimp for a snack. How Danny influenced John into driving ambulances for Schaefer Ambulance Service, which subsequently led to his interest in becoming a paramedic for the Los Angeles Fire Department. I remembered how Danny and Greg entertained each other by making up absurd rhyming words with their names (“So jye, rye, nikki nikki, nye nye”), and then inviting John on pub crawls to a variety of places, their favorites being the Westward Ho Tavern on Jefferson Blvd, and Al Penny’s Restaurant in Culver City. Greg and John were ideal traveling companions for Danny; they were patient, dependable, and adventurous. Their enthusiasm for traveling, exploring, and discovering new places and experiences generated excitement and motivated Danny into joining them on countless trips to the desert, Ensenada, Mexico, the Grand Canyon, and Las Vegas. They would eventually be included in Danny’s wedding party, when he married Gracie in 1973 – Greg as Best Man. These and other stories were the memories we shared with Tim, and his brother Tom the following day.
Danny was my friend and brother-in-law, and I loved him as kind-hearted husband and the father of two fine sons, Tim and Tom. Whenever I saw him we would talk nostalgically of the old days, and he would tell me what his sons were doing. He and Gracie loved hosting Thanksgiving for the entire Delgado family in their homes in Riverside and Costa Mesa. On those occasions, Danny kept himself busy preparing and cooking a sumptuous feast of turkey and assorted side dishes and desserts, while Gracie entertained and played hostess. Our family’s annual Christmas Eve get-together was the one occasion when Danny would take off his chef’s apron and enjoy the Mexican festivities, the gifts, and the meal that my mom and Stela prepared for us all. Those were the years Tim and Tom attended school, played baseball, and Pop Warner Football. Eventually, Gracie and Danny separated, the boys living with Gracie for a number of years, before moving to Oregon to live with their father. Their relations remained cordial and caring – the love for their boys maintaining their bond. The only times I saw Danny in Portland were for the weddings of his sons, Tim in 2001 and Tom in 2012. Until the communiqués from Gracie about Danny’s health, it was Greg, calling him by phone him on a regular basis, and occasionally visiting him, who maintained the most consistent connection with Danny. I think he took the news of Danny’s declining health the hardest.
The last time we saw Danny was the afternoon before we left Portland. Danny had slept during our previous two visits, so we were relieved to find him awake this time, with Karen, a nurse and longtime companion sitting by his side. She greeted us, and quickly directed Greg to stand next to him, urging us to talk to him while he was alert. With John and I standing on the opposite side of the bed, we talked to Danny until he again nodded off. Karen told us of Danny last few years, and we spoke of the times we shared with him, interrupted only by the arrival of Tim and Tom. We tried keeping the conversation animated and humorous, again talking of the old days and our adventures together, and hoping that Danny was listening. After an hour or so, with Danny seemingly asleep, John and I indicated to Greg that it was time to go. As Greg moved closer to Danny, saying his last goodbye in a quivering voice, Danny’s eyes shot open and widened. His mouth opened as if to speak, and he struggled to raise himself to a sitting position. But then he breathed out and fell back on his pillow, closing his eyes. We left him sleeping.
When we got back to the hotel, I was reminded of a trip John, Greg, and I took to Puerto Rico three years before. I wrote about it in my blog, and ended the essay with these words:
“Thoughts of aging, illness, and death did intrude at various times in Puerto Rico with Greg and John, especially on our last day there, when we finally made time to visit the beach and seashore of San Juan before departing. I had insisted that we couldn’t leave the island until we actually walked along its beaches and took photographs of the Atlantic Ocean. It was during those moments, moments of joy and laughter with two old friends who have shared so many other trips, secrets, and memories, that those thoughts occurred. These crazy and impulsive trips, with their gestalt moments, were unique experiences that no one else knew, shared, or could even imagine. These would be the stories that we tell each other, and argue over, as our memories fade and details become more and more hazy. When these friends die, those memories will be gone forever, and I will be lonelier because of it. This isolation, with the snuffing out of shared memories and the darkening of the past, was what Dr. Greaney [Kathy’s father] bemoaned when he told me that all his friends from medical school, World War II, and his practice were dead. As they died, their shared memories were also buried, and his children would eventually cease retelling them. In those moments with John and Greg, I realized that this life can end in an instant, or be unbearably drawn out through a long-suffering illness. That was life. And yet, thoughts of isolation, illness, and even the dying process, are dispelled when we are in joyous union with loved ones and friends. That is what happened in Puerto Rico. For 5 days we three friends were together in a blissful paradise – three amigos viejos, without jobs, wives, or families – joyfully at play in the tropical cities, beaches, rainforests, and mountains of Puerto Rico”.
That evening, sitting in Elmer’s Lounge near our hotel, the three of us, John, Greg, and I, raised a parting glass and toasted Danny, our stories, memories, and our friendship. The three of us talked long into the night, and departed together for home on the following morning.
I spent in good company.
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done,
Alas, it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit,
To memory now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass,
Good night and joy be with us all.
Oh all the comrades the e’er I had,
Are sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts that e’er I’ve had,
Would wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not,
I’ll gently rise and I’ll softly call:
Good night and joy be with you all
Good night and joy be with you all
(The Parting Glass: Irish Song – 1700’s)
The first time I faced the idea of one of my sisters dating a good friend of mine was probably early in the year of 1973. I had been living at home since my early discharge from the Air Force after the death of my father in November of 1971, and working as a history teacher at my alma mater, St. Bernard High School. A group of my high school friends, John and Jim Riley, and Greg Ryan, had moved into an apartment near the school in Playa del Rey. I would hang out there as often as I could, along with another good friend of Greg named Danny Holiday. Danny and Greg had met years before, after graduating from high school and discovering that they were dating girls who were best friends. When their relationships with these girls ended, Danny and Greg remained close, and Greg introduced him to me, and his other high school friends while we all attended college. In those college days, Greg, Jim, John, and Wayne Wilson were living in adjoining apartments in Hermosa Beach, and they always made a point of inviting Danny to parties because we could always count on him inviting a flock of extra girls (who unfortunately all had crushes on him). When these roommates disbanded in 1970, Greg and Danny roomed together for a year in Riverside while they attended the University of California there. They lived together until Greg graduated in 1972, when he returned to Los Angeles, working with Danny at a Pioneer Chicken restaurant in Van Nuys until he got a job teaching at a Catholic elementary school in Glendale and moved into Playa del Rey with our friends.
When I was not at this apartment on Redlands Avenue, these friends often came to my home, where I lived with my mom, two sisters, Stela and Gracie, and my two younger brothers, Eddie and David Alex. It became common practice to include the two now young women in many of our various excursions around the city, going to movies and concerts, visiting local wineries, or playing sports. I suppose that’s when Gracie and Danny were attracted to each other, because at some point in 1973, Gracie asked me if she could openly date him. The question caught me by surprise. I had no idea that Gracie was interested in Danny, and my immediate response was an emphatic “No!”
The trouble with friends dating your sisters is that you know your friend’s faults and benefits, weaknesses and strengths. Long time friends are at ease with you and you with them. Pretense evaporates with time and you see each other for who and what you are – the good and the bad. Danny was a good friend and generous to a fault. He made friends easily and quickly. He was a drummer in a band, upbeat, optimistic, and happy. People liked him, especially girls. He had a luxurious mop of auburn hair, and sad, melancholy eyes, which gave him a soulful, puppy dog look that elicited the immediate sympathy and affection of girls and young women (a quality all of us envied). Also in 1973, Danny was working as a driver for Schaefer Ambulance and looked quite dashing and handsome in his uniform, a paramedic jumpsuit. He was likeable, and even loveable. Though I never considered him a “Best Friend”, like Jim, Greg, or John, I truly considered him a good one, but I never thought of him as a romantic possibility for my sister.
Greg was probably the first person I shared the news of Gracie’s interest in dating Danny, and my response forbidding it. At that time, our teaching schedules were almost identical but at odds with the working hours of the other guys in his apartment, so we usually found ourselves sharing a bottle of Gallo Spañada wine on Friday nights, talking about school, lesson plans, and future projects. It was the perfect time to discuss his friend, Danny Holiday, and my sister Gracie. Except for his impulsive proclivity for taking road trips around California at the drop of a hat, Greg always analyzed problems carefully and gave solid, reasonable advice. So I was confident that he would agree with my actions.
“Are you crazy! What were you thinking?” I remember him exclaiming, after hearing of my response to Gracie’s request. “Saying ‘No’ was a mistake. They’re adults, and you are literally insuring that they will see each other behind your back. Come on Tony, calm down”, he continued, “you’re overreacting. It’s not like they’re getting married. All they want to do is see each other. Trust me. Let their relationship run its course. It will be over in less that a year. I’m sure of it.”
Greg’s assessment and advice finally made sense to me. Perhaps I was overreacting and making a bigger deal about this than it deserved. So I talked to Gracie when I returned home and told her that I had reconsidered her request and decided to approve of her seeing Danny. It was approximately 6 months later, when Greg and I had just arrived in Mexico City to attend summer classes at the Universidad Autónoma de Mexico (the National University of Mexico), that I received a frantic, surprise phone call from my mother in Los Angeles. Gracie and Danny, she told me, had decided to marry the following September. I spent the next three months berating Greg over his incredibly bad advice and faulty prognostication. “It’s not like they’re getting married”, I would constantly quote back to him. All he would do was shrug and say, “What are you going to do? It must be love”.
45 years later, on March 4, 2018, I received a text from my sister Gracie informing me that our friend Danny Holiday had been placed in a Hospice/Palliative Care program in Portland OR, with a prognosis of only two to eight weeks to live. For the first time in my life I was confronted with knowledge of the incipient death of an old friend who was younger than I – and a reminder of my own mortality.
In 1970 or 1971, I remember seeing the movie Husbands, with John Cassavetes, Peter Falk, and Ben Gazzara. The indie film had gotten good reviews and I was a great fan of Falk and Gazzara at that time. IMDb summarized the film this way:
“Approaching middle age, best friends Archie, Gus, Harry and Stuart are suburban New Yorkers, white-collar professionals, husbands, and fathers. Stuart dies suddenly of a heart attack. Immediately following the funeral, Archie, Gus and Harry feel the need to spend time together not so much to mourn Stuart's death, but rather mourn their collective lost sense of immortality. After a two-day binge of trying to recapture the sense of their youth in various ways, the three know that they have to return to the realities of life, meaning returning to family and work.”
I’m sure some of my best friends accompanied me to see the movie – Jim, Wayne Wilson, or Greg – because I remember discussing it with them later. The movie was supposed to be a “buddy flick”, and the four of us had been best friends for years, weathering the ups and downs of high school and college, dating, dawning sexuality, different jobs, and putting up with each other through good times and bad. By the time we saw the movie we had graduated, or were close to graduating from college, and we sensed that we were coming to a crossroad in our lives. Our fates were at the point of going in many possible directions at that moment in time: being drafted; moving away to pursue other interests or careers; or getting married. For me, the movie was not so much about dealing with the death of a friend, but rather, I saw death as a metaphor for the end of a friendship. This interpretation made the film more personal and relevant to me, since I never saw death as a real possibility for any of us. Our mortality, at that moment, was impossible to accept or imagine. We were simply too young, too strong, too talented, and too full of ourselves – and glowing futures and long lives beckoned us forward. When I learned of Danny’s quickly diminishing heath, this movie came to mind again. Only this time I didn’t think of it in terms of a metaphor. I thought of it more in line with suddenly feeling the need to surround myself with old buddies to say goodbye to a dying friend, and to deal with our collective lost sense of immortality.
Greg, Jim, John, and I had talked about visiting Danny in Portland over the years, but had never acted on it. Greg was the last person to have seen him most recently. So when I phoned each of them to share the news I received from Gracie, I mentioned the idea of seeing Danny before it was too late. Greg was the quickest to decide, saying he would fly up from San Diego as soon as he could reserve a flight. I agreed to accompany him, as did John, and we arranged to fly up together from Los Angeles, meeting Greg in Portland on Wednesday, and returning home Friday morning. Honestly, I could not have gone alone. The only way I could see and talk with Danny was in the presence and company of old friends, who might share my mixed feeling, and emotions about his eminent death.
It was a difficult trip. Danny was in sad shape when we first saw him: cadaverous looking, rarely moving, with limp, lifeless hair that looked like straw, and his eyes closed. He breathed comfortably, for the most part, but sleeping the sleep of the soon departing. He never opened his eyes the first two times we saw him on Wednesday when we arrived, or the following morning. There was an absence of all energy or vitality. He was inert – silent and not present, except for the sounds of his breathing. In the stillness of his room, the only sounds and movement came from the hallway, with residents of the facility chatting as they walked or wheeled down the corridor, pushed by assistants or visitors. The vacuum of silence in the room begged to be filled – and so we did. Danny’s oldest son Tim arrived while we were there, and we talked. We talked to him and each other, wondering what had caused this rapid and seemingly sudden decline in our friend’s health and spirit. We recalled stories of times shared. How Greg and Danny met while dating girls who lived next door to each other, becoming best friends, and how Greg introduced us to Danny. We filled in details about seeing Danny play in a band at the Venetian Room as a drummer, and hanging out with Greg in the apartment in Hermosa Beach when he lived with Jim and Wayne. Of the days when Greg and Danny roomed together while attending UC Riverside, and how Danny always seemed to be sleeping over when Greg moved into the apartment in Playa del Rey. Greg spoke of the days they worked at Pioneer Chicken together, and how he, Danny, and John would make midnight runs to the restaurant after closing to fry up a batch of shrimp for a snack. How Danny influenced John into driving ambulances for Schaefer Ambulance Service, which subsequently led to his interest in becoming a paramedic for the Los Angeles Fire Department. I remembered how Danny and Greg entertained each other by making up absurd rhyming words with their names (“So jye, rye, nikki nikki, nye nye”), and then inviting John on pub crawls to a variety of places, their favorites being the Westward Ho Tavern on Jefferson Blvd, and Al Penny’s Restaurant in Culver City. Greg and John were ideal traveling companions for Danny; they were patient, dependable, and adventurous. Their enthusiasm for traveling, exploring, and discovering new places and experiences generated excitement and motivated Danny into joining them on countless trips to the desert, Ensenada, Mexico, the Grand Canyon, and Las Vegas. They would eventually be included in Danny’s wedding party, when he married Gracie in 1973 – Greg as Best Man. These and other stories were the memories we shared with Tim, and his brother Tom the following day.
Danny was my friend and brother-in-law, and I loved him as kind-hearted husband and the father of two fine sons, Tim and Tom. Whenever I saw him we would talk nostalgically of the old days, and he would tell me what his sons were doing. He and Gracie loved hosting Thanksgiving for the entire Delgado family in their homes in Riverside and Costa Mesa. On those occasions, Danny kept himself busy preparing and cooking a sumptuous feast of turkey and assorted side dishes and desserts, while Gracie entertained and played hostess. Our family’s annual Christmas Eve get-together was the one occasion when Danny would take off his chef’s apron and enjoy the Mexican festivities, the gifts, and the meal that my mom and Stela prepared for us all. Those were the years Tim and Tom attended school, played baseball, and Pop Warner Football. Eventually, Gracie and Danny separated, the boys living with Gracie for a number of years, before moving to Oregon to live with their father. Their relations remained cordial and caring – the love for their boys maintaining their bond. The only times I saw Danny in Portland were for the weddings of his sons, Tim in 2001 and Tom in 2012. Until the communiqués from Gracie about Danny’s health, it was Greg, calling him by phone him on a regular basis, and occasionally visiting him, who maintained the most consistent connection with Danny. I think he took the news of Danny’s declining health the hardest.
The last time we saw Danny was the afternoon before we left Portland. Danny had slept during our previous two visits, so we were relieved to find him awake this time, with Karen, a nurse and longtime companion sitting by his side. She greeted us, and quickly directed Greg to stand next to him, urging us to talk to him while he was alert. With John and I standing on the opposite side of the bed, we talked to Danny until he again nodded off. Karen told us of Danny last few years, and we spoke of the times we shared with him, interrupted only by the arrival of Tim and Tom. We tried keeping the conversation animated and humorous, again talking of the old days and our adventures together, and hoping that Danny was listening. After an hour or so, with Danny seemingly asleep, John and I indicated to Greg that it was time to go. As Greg moved closer to Danny, saying his last goodbye in a quivering voice, Danny’s eyes shot open and widened. His mouth opened as if to speak, and he struggled to raise himself to a sitting position. But then he breathed out and fell back on his pillow, closing his eyes. We left him sleeping.
When we got back to the hotel, I was reminded of a trip John, Greg, and I took to Puerto Rico three years before. I wrote about it in my blog, and ended the essay with these words:
“Thoughts of aging, illness, and death did intrude at various times in Puerto Rico with Greg and John, especially on our last day there, when we finally made time to visit the beach and seashore of San Juan before departing. I had insisted that we couldn’t leave the island until we actually walked along its beaches and took photographs of the Atlantic Ocean. It was during those moments, moments of joy and laughter with two old friends who have shared so many other trips, secrets, and memories, that those thoughts occurred. These crazy and impulsive trips, with their gestalt moments, were unique experiences that no one else knew, shared, or could even imagine. These would be the stories that we tell each other, and argue over, as our memories fade and details become more and more hazy. When these friends die, those memories will be gone forever, and I will be lonelier because of it. This isolation, with the snuffing out of shared memories and the darkening of the past, was what Dr. Greaney [Kathy’s father] bemoaned when he told me that all his friends from medical school, World War II, and his practice were dead. As they died, their shared memories were also buried, and his children would eventually cease retelling them. In those moments with John and Greg, I realized that this life can end in an instant, or be unbearably drawn out through a long-suffering illness. That was life. And yet, thoughts of isolation, illness, and even the dying process, are dispelled when we are in joyous union with loved ones and friends. That is what happened in Puerto Rico. For 5 days we three friends were together in a blissful paradise – three amigos viejos, without jobs, wives, or families – joyfully at play in the tropical cities, beaches, rainforests, and mountains of Puerto Rico”.
That evening, sitting in Elmer’s Lounge near our hotel, the three of us, John, Greg, and I, raised a parting glass and toasted Danny, our stories, memories, and our friendship. The three of us talked long into the night, and departed together for home on the following morning.
