Old Friends: Guy

It’s hard to write about an old friend who died.  Twenty-four years of emotional investment in someone who left and will not come back.  That may sound selfish and self-indulgent but that’s what death does. In life, you focus on the friend; with their death, you focus on your loss.

The more generous point of view is what a good friend he was and I shall not forget him or his kindness to my family as well as to me.

This is the time to remember; his birthday is in two days.  The last one he lived to see was 77, in 2010.

Our friendship started while we were working in the same organization.  We were both smokers back then.  It was still legal to smoke in buildings but we had the then-new idea of a designated smoking area. That’s where we got to know each other.  We had a lot more in common than smoking.  We both loved movies, especially old movies.  We both loved music. We would “dish” about how few people cared about good grammar.  Once we agreed that we were editorial snobs, we would turn to each other as back-up reviewers of our drafts for our separate departments. There were lots of opportunities because our organization produced a lot of printed materials: letters, newsletters, booklets, training materials and more.

He was the superior editor, but I didn’t mind.  Even in recent years, I asked him to review drafts of mine.

His birthday is not the only time I think of him.  December 7 always stands out –because that was the day of my going-away party at work.  I always joked that my farewell was far more important than Pearl Harbor.  He always acted amused.

I sadly thought it would be a real goodbye when I left that job, but I did see him once more when I went back to NYC.  I visited him only for a short time, as it was a business trip.

We talked occasionally on the phone but, as his hearing got worse, it was pointless.  We emailed almost daily for a few years.

I also think of him when I see the name of a hardware store chain that matches his.  I think of him when there is a funny or unusual street name.  I think of him when tennis starts (I don’t watch tennis, but he did). I think of him when I watch old movies. I think of him when I read jokes – especially puns – that I am sure would evoke a chuckle from him.  I think of him…too often.

Guy had a sort of passive-aggressive, self-deprecating attitude.  I’m not sure he knew how much some of us loved him.  Maybe it is easier if you live alone to convince yourself that no one cares.  But, surely, the consistent caring came through to him – it must have.  I have to believe it did.

He never knew I sent him an electronic birthday card that last birthday.  He was already in the hospital.  He never knew that I wrote him a note, emailed him daily, and even called a couple of times in my desperate attempts to see if he was okay.  I don’t know why it bothers me that he never knew all this, but it does.

One reminder in all this came through very clearly:  we should not let a day go by without letting people know we care – especially if they are alone.   Never let opportunities for kindness slip by – you never know if you have another day with that dear, beloved friend, the one that no one can replace.  The friend who brings tears to your eyes every time the thought of him comes to mind.

In spite of my ever-present sadness, there is gratitude, too, that I met him and we were friends.  It didn’t have to be, but it was.  Strangely, it bothers me, too, that he doesn’t know any of this.  I know it, though, and I’m grateful - sad and grateful, but mostly sad.