I first met my friend "John" back in 1981. It was my first advertising job. He'd already been there about four years and was being moved to another group. I'd been assigned his old office. He stopped by to give me the keys to the file cabinet, which I never locked. (I was writing about sheer and semi-sheer drapes, and that never seemed too confidential.) He was like no one I had ever met before. Tall, black, and gay. We became instant friends. He taught me how to party with The Boys, which was partying ratcheted to a new level. We also talked about our families and our (mostly failed) romances. I was fascinated to discover we actually had far more in common than I'd thought. We've been friends ever since.
Over the years we've seen one another through more failed romances, the death of my dad, the death of both his parents, promotions, lay offs, birthdays, fireworks by the Lake … The stuff of life over a quarter century.
Over the summer he began experiencing horrible bouts of gastrointestinal … ickiness. He'd be so violently ill, and lose so much weight, that his rings would no longer fit. But he didn't feel this justified a trip to the doctor. He has good insurance, so it's not the money. It's a guy thing.
This month he started feeling uncomfortable when he tried to go to sleep. Pressure on his chest.
At 53 he's outlived both his parents. His mother died of an aortic dissection and his dad had a fatal heart attack. You would think alarm bells would start ringing. Alas, no. Or perhaps they did. Maybe he subconsciously feared the worst, and that's why he still didn't go to the doctor.
On the 13th he looked so bad that his coworkers began mentioning it. This scared him. He doesn't have a doctor he can call, so on the way home he stopped at the hospital midway between work and his apartment. That hospital happened to be Northwestern (one of the benefits of living in a world-class city is that you can literally stumble onto a highly respected cardiologist).
"John" was suffering from heart failure. He had so much fluid around his heart that after they aspirated it, his pants no longer fit. He was in the hospital until Friday evening.
If he exercises (yeah, right) and watches his diet (go on, pull the other leg) and restricts his drinking (tee hee), he should recover very nicely.
I admit I'm angry at him. He doesn't take care of himself and it's selfish. He's my friend, my running buddy, my touchstone. I am not ready to give him up.
I am once again aware of how much I fear death. Not my own. My spiritual house is in good enough order that I don't think I have anything to worry about. But I am not prepared to lose those I love.
I just finished wrapping my mother's birthday gifts. I'm amused by the collection of disparate items I've chosen for her, and pleased by imagining how much she'll enjoy them all. 
