Monday, June 17, 2013

Just in my head


I think 2006 was my best year for blogging. It was still new and refreshing for me. Which would explain why I managed to post more than 200 times during the year. And many of the posts were pretty darned good if I do say so myself. I'm lucky to crank out 40 or 50 posts a year these days.

I wonder at times if I'm just running out of things to say.  Or that I've come to the conclusion that blogging is a bit like talking to yourself and I've heard everything I have to say one too many times. I suppose since I always think I'm talking to myself when I blog, I get a bit startled when someone comments. I want to say, "Oh, was I talking out loud again? Sorry, I thought it was just in my head."

Free form blogging is kind of like having Tourette's. It can disturb those around you as you shout out your random obscenities. But there is this random absurdness to it all that I am drawn to. I don't tend to blog about anything in particular. Or be too particular about anything I blog about.

I suppose I shouldn't admit this, but sometimes I go through my blog archives and read old posts and marvel that I wrote them. It sounds so egotistical. But some of the posts are really entertaining. What really makes them entertaining to me is that more often than not I have forgotten writing them and it seems like new material written by a familiar stranger.

Could this be a bit what Alzheimer's is like? At least it tends to keep things fresh. On the other hand, it can be disturbing to barely remember writing about something and then to be impressed with how well you actually wrote about something you don't really remember.

Something tells me that this post isn't going to be one of those ones I reread a few years from now and marvel at what I wrote.

Sigh.








Monday, June 03, 2013

Going to the show


In baseball, going to the show means a player is brought up from the minor leagues to the majors. Its something I wouldn't have known unless I learned it from my friend Steve. He is the one standing next to the rocket above. I'm the one in the rocket. Steve died on May 6 after more than a year long battle with angiosarcoma, a rare form of cancer. He was two weeks younger than me.

Although Steve didn't play major league baseball, he was the ultimate baseball fan and a beloved coach of his son's little league teams. It seems only fitting that his memorial service was held in Safeco Field, the major league home of the Seattle Mariners.

I know very few people who have touched so many lives that their celebration of life could be held in a major league baseball field. I was in awe as I stepped into the field and watched multi-media slide shows depicting various stages in Steve's life. And I was touched as 9 people, including Steve's two high school and college aged sons, delivered eulogies.

Steve had broke the news about his disease to his friends via Facebook more than a year ago. Then he shared his battle with the disease via an online journal. It was a touching story filled with optimism and humor that anyone who knew Steve could recognize.  Steve's last journal entry came just days before his death. It was titled, "Cue the harpist." In it, Steve shared that the doctor's had given him between a week and a month to live. He then went on to tell everyone he was at peace and thank them all for being part of his life. I was blown away by the courage and grace of this wonderful person. I couldn't even imagine if the situation was reversed, having that much strength and selflessness.

Steve died three days later.

I met Steve about 15 years ago when he took over as the account rep on my advertising account with the agency he worked for. Being almost exactly the same age, we immediately bonded over the popular culture we could relate to growing up. He shared my love for language and trivia. We spent many hours while taping radio spots or watching photo shoots, swapping stories and quizzing each other on random trivia.

About five years ago, my company switched ad agencies. But Steve stayed in touch, occasionally getting together with me for lunch. We'd take up where we left off, talking about family, life and health. It never occurred to me that any of these lunches would be the last time I'd see my friend. But it was.

The thing is, I wasn't Steve's best friend. But anytime I was talked to him, I felt like I mattered. And from what I gleaned from the outpouring of testimonies and eulogies after his death, many people felt like that about Steve.

As I sat in Safeco Field listening and watching Steve's life celebrated, I couldn't help but selfishly wish that I had been Steve's best friend. And I couldn't help but wish I was more like him. If nothing else, Steve's life, and sadly his death, has taught me that I could be a much better person. It has taught me to appreciate the moments I have and ask myself how I would be remembered if I died tomorrow. And Steve has taught me that, even faced with the tragic inevitability of dying an early death, it is possible to face it with grace, courage and dignity.

That truly is a testimony to a life well lived.