The old man smiled. “I shall not die of a cold, my son. I shall die of having lived.”
Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop
“They’re certainly entitled to think that, and they’re entitled to full respect for their opinions,” said Atticus, “but before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn’t abide by majority rule is a person’s conscience.”
Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
I lost an old friend on Thursday evening; lost in the sense that death has placed a veil between us that living mortals do not know how to penetrate. He died as he lived – head high, gaze forward, ready to take on yet another challenge and moving on without fear of process or consequence. A good death, as some would say.
He was as shocked as either you or I would be upon first learning of the medical condition that would eventually bring about his death, but his shock only lasted a matter of hours. I could hear the shock in his voice when he called me the day after his diagnosis to tell me about the findings. But, two days later when I sent him a joking email about some inane thing or other, he responded with a joke of his own, and I knew then that he had processed his shock and moved on. I ceased to worry about his mental condition at that moment, never to have even a momentary concern about it thereafter. Why I’d had any concern whatsoever at that beginning is something I now question. I should have known better, given his courage, his indomitable willpower, his curiosity – especially his curiosity.
He was always asking questions – of himself and of others. I was talking to a mutual colleague yesterday, and we were wondering what it was about him that so many people cherished and found comforting. Having thought about it during the long night just ended, I think it was his curiosity. You could never take anything for granted when you were around him, not only what he might do since he always thought outside of any box you might think him in, but even your own cherished assumptions. For he always challenged your assumptions either by his behavior or by his words; not to cause you discomfort or to call you names, but to make you think harder about yourself and how you might better assist others. There is comfort in this sort of challenge, seeking, as it does, to enhance, rather than denigrate, your character.
And I suspect that is why each of us – each of us who had the great good fortune to be his friend – believed ourselves to be nearest the heart of his caring and concern. He had the ability to react positively to anyone who was his friend and make you feel special – if only you first succeeded in achieving his friendship by demonstrating some personal characteristic that he held dear. I recognized this reality only yesterday, listening to my friend trying to explain, in his own words, Bob’s importance to him. Bob’s was a kind of caring that was universal, and there can be no jealousy of another who shared it with you; he gave equally of himself to everyone, but in ways personalized – specialized, if you will – to each person’s needs or desires. And the army of his friends was legion.
When I finally awoke this morning after troubled dreams, I realized that while the veil of death is now firmly in place, his lessons – and his voice suggesting that you learn a lesson (since he never preached) – live on. I can hear him now: “What do you think about my having died? Think we’ll never talk again?” Of course we will.
Goodbye Bob, but not farewell. May I find the courage within me to live and die as you did. I know you will be there to help me find it.
