Last weekend, I attended the memorial service for a friend of the family, at least that was how I described him until about a year ago when we bonded over our separate health journeys.
One of Dave’s signature phrases was “If you can’t sing well, sing loud.” He did everything loud and with love. I do everything quietly.
We worked in the same general field…housing/real estate development, but he focused on the financing aspects and I focused on the permitting aspects…and these two pieces rarely overlap.
When we did cross paths, occasionally at a professional event, but more likely at one of my grandma’s piano recitals or birthday parties, we greeted each other with respect and enthusiasm. Whether at a professional or musical event, we conversed more about our overlapping connection through my grandma, as two of the countless people she taught to play the piano in her 65-year career, than about our overlapping connection through our daily work.
And so, for most of the 13 years since we met, I considered him one of the many friends of the family that there are in Pittsburgh. All interesting and caring people who are fun to be around, but not close personal friends.
Last summer that changed.
By then, I had heard through the grapevine that he and I had both missed my grandma’s 90th birthday party the prior fall due to health. Me because of Long COVID; him because of cancer.
I had us both ranked as people guaranteed to be present at the party. Clearly, life has no guarantees.
When I started writing about my Long COVID experience, I intentionally chose the platform of a public blog instead of an invite-only blog or a private journal. I hoped that my experiences would help others dealing with the uncertainties and unknowns of Long COVID, at the very least by letting them know they are not alone.
When Dave started commenting on my posts, I felt thankful for the choice I had made. He frequently said that my words and experiences were very relatable. Some days he shared in response a parallel experience from his own health journey. Some days he shared fewer words or just a like or heart. However he responded, he sent back to me the gift of being heard and understood.
It is a gift that I cherished through the darkest and scariest days of my Long COVID experience.
I saw him one last time earlier this year when I went over to his house for tea. Though his cancer was clearly limiting his body’s ability to function and causing him pain, his spirit remained undimmed. His smile was as bright and prevalent as ever…I don’t think I ever saw him not smile…and he was clearly still living life to the fullest extent, finding ways to continue doing what he loved despite the limitations of his body.
The memory of his courage and joy will be a gift that I carry with me as I continue to journey through the uncertainties of life.
Feature image credit: care by Kamin Ginkaew from Noun Project (CC BY 3.0)
Carolyn Ristau 