For Andy, Who Would Have Known How to Ship This to His Forwarding Address

 

A few days ago I was lying awake in bed. It was about four in the morning. I was thinking of a friend and former coworker who was diagnosed with mesothelioma two years ago and given only months to live. Months passed, and even though the cancer was unresponsive to surgery and treatment, he kept living. In fact, the only thing he listed in his interest section on a popular social networking site was “living.” Most of us want more: to travel, to get rich, to eat exotic food, to write the next great American novel. Andy just wanted to live. For a thirty-three year old man, this doesn’t seem too much to ask.

Today I remembered that Andy kept me awake the other night, and so I went looking for him. He had started an online comic strip about living with terminal cancer and it was there that I learned that nine days ago, Andy died. Over a year has passed since I’ve had contact with him, and I missed him by nine days. 

Last time we spoke, I suggested we get together and do something fun. His energy was inconsistent, but he wanted to play video games, order pizza, you know, before he died.   So, I told him, “yes, let’s do that.” And then, my life went on. I moved to a bigger apartment. My husband and I separated. I went on dates. I fell in love. I moved to Arizona. I moved back to Georgia. I played video games, and ordered pizza, but I didn’t call Andy. Living was the last thing on my agenda. After all, as far as I’m concerned, it’s guaranteed. 

While I am often dissatisfied with this promise called life, I cling to it. It’s all I know. I know only these bones, the lines on my palms, the secret places I have freckles, that the knuckle on my right middle finger is larger than its counterpart on the left because I fractured it catching a football when I was thirteen. I know that my knees make a perfect table for my chin, and that my left wrist will need to be popped back into place every morning. I can predict how my breasts will change size throughout the month. I know how I taste and smell, which parts of me are lovely and which are asymmetrical.  I am all I know for sure, and I’m not quite even certain of that. I realize now with a fullness I can only compare to fruit or the sea, that I will die too. Andy certainly was on to something. The only interest we all should adopt is living.

I don’t know if Andy thought of me over the last year. I did think of him, but--and I just looked to be sure-- Andy was the sixth person to subscribe to this blog. When I post this, an email will be sent to him. Even though he will never receive it, I say these words for him:

Andy, you laughed a lot. Your laugh was so loud that it carried through the warehouse and into the office and when you laughed, we all would giggle in the boxes of our cubicles. Nothing, it seemed, could possibly be more funny than the very sound of you thinking something was funny.  l had to tell Michael today that you died and he says you have his Richard Pryor box set and he hopes it brought you joy. I told Michael that I bet you laughed that crazy laugh all the way through.  I bet your laugh is what kept you alive so long. 

I want to ask you things like, “what is it like to die? Does it hurt? Were you scared? Is the weather nice? Will I need an umbrella? Can I bring my own pillow?” But what I wish more is that I could have told you in life that you were good, Andy. I remember once you found out someone at work needed help with something...a medical bill for his child, I think. I don’t remember who or exactly what, but I do remember that you just went ahead and gave your whole paycheck. When word spread that you had been so extraordinarily generous, you were embarrassed and shrugged and said, “you can’t take it with you.” You didn’t know then that you would be leaving so soon.

Andy, you were right. You can’t take it with you. But you can leave it behind. You will be remembered for all that you gave, and didn’t take. You, in your millions of Nine Inch Nails t-shirts, with that crazy laugh and your moon-shaped heart, took care of us all.  

Comments

[ro]

The lump in my throat actually hurts. Noone could have said all this more perfectly.

[dave]

This is beautiful. So are you. Even, maybe especially, your asymmetrical parts.

[renee rutledge]

Chris/Eutie sent me this link and I'm glad he did, It definitely touched me.

[Bee]

I didn't know him. But, it hurts my heart just the same.

I'm glad you said these things.