O Best Beloved
When I was very small, one of my favourite books was Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling. The tales are all narrated to the storyteller's best beloved, as in, "Now in these days, O Best Beloved..." As I read the stories one by one, over and over, I always felt warm and comforted and embraced.
The little one? That's my son, of course - and yes, he is the Most Beloved of All. But the person I am referring to tonight is the man on the right.
Bobby. That's what I've always called him. Nobody else ever calls him that, not his parents, not his siblings, not any of his other friends, not his acquaintances or associates. He's always been Bob to them, or Father Luchi.
We first met and struck up our unlikely friendship via a Buffy the Vampire Slayer forum. I found his posts to be witty and insightful and warm and fun, and he thought similar of mine. We began e-mailing back and forth, and eventually moved from that to IM's. We shared stories of our lives, our families, everything, sharing secrets and truths that we couldn't or wouldn't share with anyone else. It was easier to bare our dark corners to an IM window than to a person face-to-face. The physical distance between us helped, as well - he was living in Rwanda at the time, and I was here in New Hampshire.
Nobody ever would have thought that two people so outwardly dissimilar could ever become so close. We ourselves reflected upon it once in a while - he a Jesuit just hitting his 50's, me a post-punk bisexual feminist stay-at-home mother in my early 20's - even the most "Odd Couple"-influenced sitcom writer would look at us and find it ridiculous. We knew better, though - we always moved in harmony.
He was dreadfully depressed - more than anyone around him knew. His family was aware, but since they were stateside like myself, they couldn't do much of anything about it. I was home every day, awake at strange hours, and achingly, near-suicidally depressed, myself. He was emotionally isolated where he was, feeling empty and alone and almost not even human...and I poured every ounce of myself that I could into letting him know, getting him to feel, to understand, that there was light and hope for him. At the time, my desk was next to a window that had a glorious view of the rising sun, and I would wake before sunrise here, and wait for him online. He would always do his best to come online, and I would spend the next hour or so describing to him in as much detail as I could the changing light, the world going from black-and-white to full colour, the view outside of my window as it revealed itself to me, slowly altering as the sun peeked shyly over the rooftops. I sent him care packages filled with shelf-stable dried tortellini, stacks of CD's packed with songs from my eclectic music collection, books and letters and drawings and things to make him smile, to make him feel warm and loved - because he was loved, very much so.
Months into our friendship, he was finally able to come home to the US. My heart felt too big from my chest when he told me that visiting me and my family was one of his top priorities...when we finally met in person at the airport, I felt instantly like I'd known him all my life. There was no awkwardness between us, no strangeness, just the relief of finally being able to -be- in each other's -actual presence-. We spent almost every waking hour with each other during that visit. I showed him every possible nook and cranny of my part of the world - all my favourite places to visit, all the nifty things within walking distance, and even just within a short driving distance. It was a blast, and it didn't feel like a first meeting at all - it felt like a reunion of two very old friends. When it was time for him to head back to St. Louis, I was sad, but happy that it was thousands of miles closer than Africa. My sadness didn't have time to last very long. It was only a couple of short months before I discovered that he'd been accepted to a university just an hour's drive south from me. That was...late 2003? Early 2004? Either way, it was the beginning of an amazing couple of years. We visited one another at least once every month after his arrival in Massachusetts. He'd drive up here, or I'd drive down there, and of course we'd IM or e-mail every day or so...we were best friends, and we were convinced that we had at least the next 20 years or so together to share, best friends side by side and all that.
"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me,
ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."
Pooh thought for a little.
"How old shall I be then?"
"Ninety-nine."
Pooh nodded.
"I promise," he said.
Still with his eyes on the world
Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt
for Pooh's paw.
"Pooh," said Christopher Robin
earnestly, "if I--if I'm not quite" he
stopped and tried again -- ". Pooh,
whatever happens, you will understand,
won't you?"
"Understand what?"
"Oh, nothing." He laughed and
jumped to his feet. "Come on!"
"Where?" said Pooh.
"Anywhere," said Christopher
Robin.
--From the House At Pooh Corner,
by A.A. Milne.
...we were supposed to have the next 20 years together. Best friends. Side by side. And then he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. It's been a little over a year now, and he's already had surgery, and chemo, and radiation...and the cancer has spread to his liver. He's very ill now, and he sleeps much of the time. Even talking on the phone is hard for him. He's visiting with his parents as I write this, and he hopes to spend his last days in St. Louis...the only thing left to do is to make him comfortable, and wait. During our most recent phone conversation, I managed to joke through my tears that he'd "broken the contract," because we were supposed to have all these years left. He replied in his typical plainspoken and truthful style, that no, "cancer had broken the contract." I knew in my soul then, and I know it now, that he was telling the truth.
Bobby, I want you to know something. I'm writing it here, and I'm going to write it in the letter I'm going to send to you in the mail tomorrow. Remember during your first visit to New Hampshire? How you said that I saved your life when you were so alone in Rwanda? You saved me, too. Seeing your light grow, your hope grow, gave me hope and gave me light, too. You saved me. We saved each other. Part of the pain I feel right now is not just because my best friend is going away so soon, but also because I saved you once before...but I can't save you from this. Not this time. I'm powerless now and my hands are empty and I'm grasping and flailing at air trying to find some part of you to cling onto to hold you here and make you better, and I can't. I can't. I can't fix this, and I can't save you and now you're going away from me, and it'll be so long before we see each other again. So much is going to happen between the day I lose you and the day I see you again, and we'll have so much to catch up on...but I don't want to have to catch up. I want you to be able to stay and see it all. I want you to be able to see Phoenix grow up, to see my hair go mostly grey...so much, Bobby, so many things to share. Most of all, I'm going to miss sitting next to you, knitting while you read, both of us side-by-side warm and comfortable and quiet and happy...I miss that already. I miss my best friend.
So many times I'd say to you, when I was feeling small and childish, "Friends forever, right?" And you'd always reply, "Yep. Forever." And then, when I'd inevitably say, "And a day after that?" You'd say, "Yep, and a day after that. Then after, we'll just have to see how it goes."
I'd give so much to hear you say that one more time. Even if I don't ever hear your voice again, though, I want you to know...you are my Best Beloved. Best friends forever, Bobby. And a day after that. And then you and I, we'll just have to see how it goes from there.
The little one? That's my son, of course - and yes, he is the Most Beloved of All. But the person I am referring to tonight is the man on the right.
Bobby. That's what I've always called him. Nobody else ever calls him that, not his parents, not his siblings, not any of his other friends, not his acquaintances or associates. He's always been Bob to them, or Father Luchi.
We first met and struck up our unlikely friendship via a Buffy the Vampire Slayer forum. I found his posts to be witty and insightful and warm and fun, and he thought similar of mine. We began e-mailing back and forth, and eventually moved from that to IM's. We shared stories of our lives, our families, everything, sharing secrets and truths that we couldn't or wouldn't share with anyone else. It was easier to bare our dark corners to an IM window than to a person face-to-face. The physical distance between us helped, as well - he was living in Rwanda at the time, and I was here in New Hampshire.
Nobody ever would have thought that two people so outwardly dissimilar could ever become so close. We ourselves reflected upon it once in a while - he a Jesuit just hitting his 50's, me a post-punk bisexual feminist stay-at-home mother in my early 20's - even the most "Odd Couple"-influenced sitcom writer would look at us and find it ridiculous. We knew better, though - we always moved in harmony.
He was dreadfully depressed - more than anyone around him knew. His family was aware, but since they were stateside like myself, they couldn't do much of anything about it. I was home every day, awake at strange hours, and achingly, near-suicidally depressed, myself. He was emotionally isolated where he was, feeling empty and alone and almost not even human...and I poured every ounce of myself that I could into letting him know, getting him to feel, to understand, that there was light and hope for him. At the time, my desk was next to a window that had a glorious view of the rising sun, and I would wake before sunrise here, and wait for him online. He would always do his best to come online, and I would spend the next hour or so describing to him in as much detail as I could the changing light, the world going from black-and-white to full colour, the view outside of my window as it revealed itself to me, slowly altering as the sun peeked shyly over the rooftops. I sent him care packages filled with shelf-stable dried tortellini, stacks of CD's packed with songs from my eclectic music collection, books and letters and drawings and things to make him smile, to make him feel warm and loved - because he was loved, very much so.
Months into our friendship, he was finally able to come home to the US. My heart felt too big from my chest when he told me that visiting me and my family was one of his top priorities...when we finally met in person at the airport, I felt instantly like I'd known him all my life. There was no awkwardness between us, no strangeness, just the relief of finally being able to -be- in each other's -actual presence-. We spent almost every waking hour with each other during that visit. I showed him every possible nook and cranny of my part of the world - all my favourite places to visit, all the nifty things within walking distance, and even just within a short driving distance. It was a blast, and it didn't feel like a first meeting at all - it felt like a reunion of two very old friends. When it was time for him to head back to St. Louis, I was sad, but happy that it was thousands of miles closer than Africa. My sadness didn't have time to last very long. It was only a couple of short months before I discovered that he'd been accepted to a university just an hour's drive south from me. That was...late 2003? Early 2004? Either way, it was the beginning of an amazing couple of years. We visited one another at least once every month after his arrival in Massachusetts. He'd drive up here, or I'd drive down there, and of course we'd IM or e-mail every day or so...we were best friends, and we were convinced that we had at least the next 20 years or so together to share, best friends side by side and all that.
"Pooh, promise you won't forget about me,
ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."
Pooh thought for a little.
"How old shall I be then?"
"Ninety-nine."
Pooh nodded.
"I promise," he said.
Still with his eyes on the world
Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt
for Pooh's paw.
"Pooh," said Christopher Robin
earnestly, "if I--if I'm not quite" he
stopped and tried again -- ". Pooh,
whatever happens, you will understand,
won't you?"
"Understand what?"
"Oh, nothing." He laughed and
jumped to his feet. "Come on!"
"Where?" said Pooh.
"Anywhere," said Christopher
Robin.
--From the House At Pooh Corner,
by A.A. Milne.
...we were supposed to have the next 20 years together. Best friends. Side by side. And then he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. It's been a little over a year now, and he's already had surgery, and chemo, and radiation...and the cancer has spread to his liver. He's very ill now, and he sleeps much of the time. Even talking on the phone is hard for him. He's visiting with his parents as I write this, and he hopes to spend his last days in St. Louis...the only thing left to do is to make him comfortable, and wait. During our most recent phone conversation, I managed to joke through my tears that he'd "broken the contract," because we were supposed to have all these years left. He replied in his typical plainspoken and truthful style, that no, "cancer had broken the contract." I knew in my soul then, and I know it now, that he was telling the truth.
Bobby, I want you to know something. I'm writing it here, and I'm going to write it in the letter I'm going to send to you in the mail tomorrow. Remember during your first visit to New Hampshire? How you said that I saved your life when you were so alone in Rwanda? You saved me, too. Seeing your light grow, your hope grow, gave me hope and gave me light, too. You saved me. We saved each other. Part of the pain I feel right now is not just because my best friend is going away so soon, but also because I saved you once before...but I can't save you from this. Not this time. I'm powerless now and my hands are empty and I'm grasping and flailing at air trying to find some part of you to cling onto to hold you here and make you better, and I can't. I can't. I can't fix this, and I can't save you and now you're going away from me, and it'll be so long before we see each other again. So much is going to happen between the day I lose you and the day I see you again, and we'll have so much to catch up on...but I don't want to have to catch up. I want you to be able to stay and see it all. I want you to be able to see Phoenix grow up, to see my hair go mostly grey...so much, Bobby, so many things to share. Most of all, I'm going to miss sitting next to you, knitting while you read, both of us side-by-side warm and comfortable and quiet and happy...I miss that already. I miss my best friend.
So many times I'd say to you, when I was feeling small and childish, "Friends forever, right?" And you'd always reply, "Yep. Forever." And then, when I'd inevitably say, "And a day after that?" You'd say, "Yep, and a day after that. Then after, we'll just have to see how it goes."
I'd give so much to hear you say that one more time. Even if I don't ever hear your voice again, though, I want you to know...you are my Best Beloved. Best friends forever, Bobby. And a day after that. And then you and I, we'll just have to see how it goes from there.