This morning, when the high school friend texted, “Hey matt” I knew word of my friend Tim’s passing had gotten out. Tim’s wife had shared a short note and a few pictures on Facebook. Then came a group text through Facebook messenger. Then another friend from high school texted and eventually called. My daughter saw the posts – she called too.
For most of the morning, I’ve been following the original post from Tim’s wife – watching the comments roll in – many of them offering sympathy, love, and condolences. Elementary school friends, kids from the old neighborhood (though we’re far from being kids), our third grade teacher, my ex. The friend who had texted me in the morning shared his own Facebook post with pictures of him and Tim in the Navy. He’s devastated. He tagged me in that post – we all grew up together. The friend who called said he doesn’t think of Tim and not think of me.
For most of the morning, I held off on sharing the photo of Tim and me in little league – I didn’t want to draw attention away from where it rightfully belonged: on Tim’s family. At times, I wanted to let people know that I’ve known about this since it happened last Thursday; that I’ve been carrying the grief for a few days already; that I was in the inner circle and things hit differently when you’re part of the inner circle; that this is so much deeper than what can be expressed through Facebook sympathy.
Death makes us greedy and giving all at the same time. We want to share and offer condolences, but we also want it to be about our loss. We want to claim our piece of the deceased like it’s some stadium being torn down and we want a souvenir brick or a seat or a piece of the bleachers. We want something to show that this was real and a part of us. As we collectively sympathize, we also try to elbow our way into the line of people left grieving, try to find our connection…. as if grief is some sort of competition. I’ve had more than few instances these past few days when I’ve missed my friend terribly and then thought how selfish and small my sense of loss must be compared to his wife and kids. I’ve thought about his wife and kids a lot. The proms, the graduations, the weddings, the grandkids. I can’t imagine how overwhelmed Tim’s wife feels. How incredibly unfair this is. As a family, they had plans – they weren’t supposed to be living out the rest of their lives without Tim. Not yet.
Aside from my immediate family, I haven’t had a relationship that’s lasted as long as my friendship with Tim has. And while I’ve known a lot of people as long as I’ve known Tim, most of them fall into the Facebook friends category: we grew up together, but don’t really talk or hang out as adults. Tim and I hung out as adults. He gave me a going away present a few months ago before I moved out to CA. Two weeks ago he was texting me and asking what type of air conditioning we had in my house when I was growing up. A few weeks prior to that I was at a show where the band played one of his favorite songs from them (“Busting Up a Starbucks”) – a song he had heard for the first time at show we went to back in 2012. Know he liked the song, I recorded it and sent it to him. If there are Starbucks wherever he’s at, I hope he’s busting them up…
I don’t know many people who have maintained active friendships for 45 years – I was hoping it would last longer.