I sat holding my friend Ed’s hand for a good hour today. He is special to me: wise; persnickety—which I love in a man—experienced; worldly and a reminder of my Father, because he possesses a velveteen-like strength: Velvet of a hypnotic midnight-blue; his eyes like the stars in the night sky, engaged and looking right into you. And then there is his grin: a crescent moon waxing: what a beauty. He’s 81.
Ed has shared many stories with me over the last couple of years. But one of my favorites was his time serving our country either around or during the Korean War. He was looking to upend the world on its axis, give it an artful spin, some glamour; excitement. He was stationed in Paris and hardly saw the war at all, but he saw many a lovely Parisian leg kicking up a can-can; he saved art for history’s sake; and spent some time in café’s courting worldly aims. A young man then, my Ed…
He came home to find his love; a city girl. She was all things sophisticated; all things fast: speaking; walking; loving; giving and sharing. They had three lovely children and from them, came beautiful grandchildren. When he spoke of those grandchildren, those stars in his eyes would light up, and he was ready to live again. He lost his wife a couple of years ago to breast cancer. When she was in the hospital, dying, or so he thought, he had a full-blown heart attack in ER, while by her side. She needed to hear his promise that he would not leave and with a sealed envelope of kisses, he promised he would never leave her alone in this world. And in some crazy way, as fates would have it; she left him for her heaven and through his heart attack and the drugs needed to keep him stay alive, they killed his kidneys and that is how I came to meet him—in my Mother’s dialysis center.
Three days a week; 2 hours a day, almost 3 years long, I would take up a chair and sit beside him and we would talk. We would talk about everything—he, sharing wisdom and fun stories of yore, and I liberating his heart to see the world of LGBT; smoking pot; whims of risk, were not all bad—in fact, maybe they were empowering. He was attracted, like I was, to our differences. But, with all of our differences we had countless similarities; he was raised on a mid-western farm. His Father left the family when he was two, and so he was left alone. When he came back from the war, his family, leaving their Mother to her own devices when she needed help, he chose to stay at home and help her. He cared for her lovingly until the day she died. He cared for his wife, lovingly; he took care of his brother, at a time when it was difficult to do so. He blazed a trail of love and on that trail; he discovered a life worth it all. He liked hearing my stories from my life; my days on the farm; my experiments in living; singing in gay bars around this old earth to dancing with Royals.
We shared the travel of the world in our minds and hearts together. He, much more traveled than I, re-visited the Louvre; the walk across the Bridge of Kings under the full summer moon; walking into Voltaire’s summer cottage on Lake Geneva. We spoke of the old European town squares, which miraculously stayed in-tact through WWII. We laughed about the sex museum in Amsterdam and marveled, until we were teary over the profound depth of the Dutch Masters in their Van Gogh Museum. We spoke of Eagles daring; and days when we saw our Mother’s weep and didn’t know what to do or say. We relived a lot of life together in that dialysis facility.
The last three months have been difficult for my friend, Ed. Diabetes eating up his feet; too much smoking in his youth, robbing his lungs muscle; and the loneliness that can come from old age: Living with others showering you, feeding you, and assigning your time; I believe in some ways, our conversations opened a door for him to live again—ride the wild ride of a young man; feeling a kinship in our shared experiences. There was a magic Ed offered up. Often we would forget about being in a sterile dialysis facility and actually be discussing our life’s stories in a park somewhere, smelling spring in the air; living life as if it was timeless.
Until today, I’ve never held Ed, hugged him; or even touched him. We always sat, he in the dialysis recliner and me in an office chair at the foot of his chair. You see, five days ago Ed went into the hospital. And yesterday, he decided to stop dialysis and go to be with his beloved in the heavens above. Today, I went to tell him good-bye; to tell him the difference he made in my life; to remind him to look for me one day and to give him my first and last hug. I swear, we didn’t exchange more than 50 words in that hour. But never in the three years that I knew him, did so many words well up in my silent heart.
He asked me to speak at his service—“use some of your wit”, he said. “Dazzle ‘em all for me.” I guess I look at this as the last conversation I will have with Ed, by responding to his request today. But there will be moments, going forward, where I will speak to him quietly from my heart; for he is a force; a rose; my Ed.