Remembering Jay
You know where I live sometimes? I live in databases. It was my job, when I had a job, and it's what I do as a volunteer. Today I ticked a box in a database to mark Jay Lake as deceased, and it hit me, as it hadn't really hit me until now, that Jay is really dead. It's not that I hadn't known it before, and it's not that I hadn't been sad about it before, but it hadn't gut-punched me before. Jay's dead, and today I had to do something minor and official about that, and I sat down on the floor and sobbed for a few moments.
Jay Lake was my cancer buddy. He was probably your cancer buddy, too. He was cancer buddies with a lot of people, people he knew, people he'd never meet, and probably people who will find his words years from now and take comfort and courage from them.
Jay was my buddy in real life before he was my cancer buddy, but in a much more casual way. I saw him at Orycons and at Clarion West parties; we talked about writing and about how Clarion West had missed the boat, turning him down years before. Jay was always a colorful presence in his Hawai'ian shirts; hell, he'd have been colorful in white shirts and black suits. He dueled with pool noodles instead of swords, sold manuscripts at auction like a pro selling cattle, could double an entendre in several languages, classical and modern.
We started corresponding and talking about cancer after his first dramatic diagnosis. At that point, my sister was a several-year survivor of colon cancer, and I could say to Jay, been there with someone I loved, she made it, you can, too, and these were the things she did that made chemo less horrible. A while later, Jay was doing well, but my sister had colon cancer again, and Jay could say to me, hang in there, how's your sister, these are the things I learned my first time around. He helped me get through that fear of losing her, a fear which was stronger the second time through.
And then Jay had cancer again. My sister and Jay would pass messages via me to each other about their chemo ports and dealing with various gastrointestinal issues. They never met; they never spoke; I'm not sure I ever told Jay my sister's name (her name is Gini). Maybe they had a camaraderie of illness, or maybe they had just learned that their support system got stronger when it functioned as more of a network of people supporting multiple sick people.
Gini's doing well now; every day of her life is a bonus. We've lost Jay, and I expect I'll miss him at random points for the rest of my life, just as I miss my other deceased friends and relations at random points already. I got no great philosophical wrapup for this entry. Get on with living your life; Jay lived his thoroughly while he was alive.
Jay Lake was my cancer buddy. He was probably your cancer buddy, too. He was cancer buddies with a lot of people, people he knew, people he'd never meet, and probably people who will find his words years from now and take comfort and courage from them.
Jay was my buddy in real life before he was my cancer buddy, but in a much more casual way. I saw him at Orycons and at Clarion West parties; we talked about writing and about how Clarion West had missed the boat, turning him down years before. Jay was always a colorful presence in his Hawai'ian shirts; hell, he'd have been colorful in white shirts and black suits. He dueled with pool noodles instead of swords, sold manuscripts at auction like a pro selling cattle, could double an entendre in several languages, classical and modern.
We started corresponding and talking about cancer after his first dramatic diagnosis. At that point, my sister was a several-year survivor of colon cancer, and I could say to Jay, been there with someone I loved, she made it, you can, too, and these were the things she did that made chemo less horrible. A while later, Jay was doing well, but my sister had colon cancer again, and Jay could say to me, hang in there, how's your sister, these are the things I learned my first time around. He helped me get through that fear of losing her, a fear which was stronger the second time through.
And then Jay had cancer again. My sister and Jay would pass messages via me to each other about their chemo ports and dealing with various gastrointestinal issues. They never met; they never spoke; I'm not sure I ever told Jay my sister's name (her name is Gini). Maybe they had a camaraderie of illness, or maybe they had just learned that their support system got stronger when it functioned as more of a network of people supporting multiple sick people.
Gini's doing well now; every day of her life is a bonus. We've lost Jay, and I expect I'll miss him at random points for the rest of my life, just as I miss my other deceased friends and relations at random points already. I got no great philosophical wrapup for this entry. Get on with living your life; Jay lived his thoroughly while he was alive.