On Saturday, while Rachelle and I were driving through Ottawa, we passed by an old friend of mine who was waiting on the corner to cross the street. He had an open, happy expression on his face, and when he began to cross the street, his gait, as always, was sturdy and confident, as if he was consciously presenting himself to the world.
A complicated and charismatic man, he’s been a fixture in the Ottawa scene for a couple of decades. He’s always been the guy you wanted a dinner party, as he was sure to charm, entertain and shock whomever was there. I used to work as a waiter with him and he was always, always the customer’s favourite server. Blessed with an exceptionally agile mind, he has a true blue streak of eccentricity and is as witty as somebody you’d seen on TV and wished was your friend.
I always thought that he preferred a solitary life, but the truth is that I have no idea. Although I’ve known him and liked him for years, I never really understood him, and I never had the sense that he actually even liked me. He was always at a certain remove, and although I always hoped to win his approval, I can’t say that I ever felt like I did.
Tragically, he’s now faced with a very grave illness. This unfolding sadness has been revealed to those of us who exist in his periphery circles, in dreadful segments. One of his dear friends has taken on the heavy, yet compassionate role, of being the bearer of bad news, giving us updates, first of his diagnosis, and later of his surgeries, treatment and worsening prognosis.
I’ve had some experience with cancer, and was hopeful that I might communicate with him and perhaps, in some way, help. But I was told that he did not want to communicate with anybody.
I suppose I understand this better than most. When I was sick with cancer and my future was an uncertain thing, all I wanted to do was separate from the herd. I won’t try to parse the psychology that informed this posture, but can say with certainty that it was a deeply felt and utterly authentic position. I let it be known, as my friend has now, that I did not want to see any visitors, I did not want any cards, I did not want any phone calls. At the time, I think that I, like my friend, preferred a solitary life.
Still, some people ignored my declarations and came to see me anyway. It turns out that it was these visits that meant the most to me. I had tremendous respect and admiration for the people– who in spite of my wishes– did what they needed to do. They needed to see me, to try and encourage and help me, and they were willing to risk my anger.
And so, when I saw my old friend through the window of our car, I had mixed feelings. I didn’t know if I should start screaming at him or honking the horn, or whether I should quietly respect his want for privacy. And so I just sat there, meekly waving from the passenger’s seat, hoping he might notice me. He did not see me, or if he did, he didn’t betray a glimmer of recognition. As we pulled away, I was acutely aware that this might be the last time I would see him, and for that, to see him happily being himself in an unguarded moment, I was truly grateful.