I miss him

"Hi. I know this is odd, but I live in Kansas and I have some bad news for you. Your son/nephew/friend/son-in-law/brother Eddie has died suddenly. I am at the hospital now with his wife. She needed me to call you, because she is hurting right now. We think it was related to a blood clot. It was unexpected, fast, and we are hurting. I am his friend, his mentor, his beer-drinking buddy. He was my poker teacher, my daughter's No-Hair friend, and my hallway companion. Please come if you can, and I will call you again when I know more."

I came when the EMT's called for me. I drove his wife to the hospital, and held her as the Chaplain told us the awful truth. He had beaten Hodgkin's Lymphoma, survived the Marines in Desert Storm, devoted his life to bringing to others a strength to fight. And a damn blood clot took him down as he prepared to go see a doctor. His wife, Jen, is the sweetest, gentlest person and they loved each other dearly. And her world has crashed around her.

It is an awful honor, to make that call again and again. To serve Eddie and Jen, to stand when they couldn't. But oh it has laid me low. And I fear for Jen.

Eddie, my friend, I miss you so much. I keep seeing you in the doorway of my classroom, and I stand alone where we used to laugh and scheme.

How awful to measure my years in Kansas in terms of tombstones. Steve, Eli, Art, Scott, Zach, Pam, Eddie. Is this what years gain me? Is it a growing list of loss? Is there a Sunday in this terrible calendar that will give a day of rest for the wives, the parents, the brothers, the friends?

I pray that my phone doesn't ring, or that I don't have to pick it up to call. "Hi, my name is Colin, and although we have never met, I am handing you pain and sorrow. Forgive me."