Brothers

Another particularly important one (for me, anyway) from my old blog, this time about my best friend Jim.  I called him Sid in the original article due to an overzealous privacy instinct.  But really, what’s the harm in using a real first name here?  I’m not going to worry about it, and hopefully Jim doesn’t either.  Originally published on August 28th, 2009.

 

An interesting realization came to me today at a rather peculiar time. Today was a really stressful day at work in a lot of ways. I have one of those jobs that people have one of two immediate reactions to, either “Wow, how did you manage to pull that off?” or “Wow, that must be incredibly stressful!” I admit the first thought has occurred to me quite often without anybody’s help. I know I worked hard to get where I am today, but I also know I’m pretty damn lucky that a lot of pieces fell into the right place at the right time to get me here. The second thought isn’t one I have very often though. I usually enjoy what I do, even though sometimes lately I find it lacking in challenges and hence interest. Today was a pretty high-octane day though, from the moment I sat down at my desk this morning until well after I’d left the office for the day.

Smack in the middle of all the professional stress a thought just kind of materialized in my mind, as if someone was holding a sign in front of me with this thought emblazoned on it. The thought that popped into my head was that I have a friend who I’ve literally known longer than any other living human being in the world, with the exception of my sister. For the purpose of this little exercise I’m going to use the name “Sid” for my best friend, since I’ve no idea if he’d want his real name used on this blog.

I met Sid in September of 1983. It is now nearly September of 2009, almost exactly 26 years later. In the intervening 26 years I’ve been through a lot of difficult times. I’ve been married, and divorced. I fell in love harder than I thought possible after that, and when that failed it tore me apart for a solid two years. After that I was married again. Three weeks before that second wedding I wound up hospitalized for nearly two weeks after my appendix ruptured, with most of that time spent in a hospital bed hallucinating and hoping the pain would just end at any cost. I lost my maternal grandfather, who was for all intents and purposes a second father to me (we all grew up in the same house) on the same day I closed on my second house. I lost my father, quite unexpectedly, literally being called home from Paris when he received his surprise diagnosis, and then being called home from Las Vegas just in time to get home and see him one last time (although I’m not sure he really knew I was there by then – I also slept through the time when he actually died for which I never really forgave myself). I had a daughter, which unlike the rest of these events was a great thing and what kept me going through some of what was to come. I was diagnosed with a life-threatening condition from which I was not expected to recover (although I obviously have, and am now probably healthier than I’ve ever been). I lost my mother, with a few years advance warning which did absolutely nothing to cushion the blow. Much like when my father died I wasn’t there when she actually went, I was in a dentist’s chair having a badly infected tooth removed, and I still have not forgiven myself because I spent so much time with her those last weeks and had to pick that particular morning to not be there. I lost my maternal grandmother, who was for all intents and purposes like a second mother to me. And I’m a hair’s breath away from being divorced a second time (this also, however, is a very good thing).

The reality underneath is that I’m a pretty fundamentally happy person, but you can lose track of that when a string of bad shit (not unlike that outlined above) comes rolling your way. I’m not saying my life has been all bad either, not by any stretch. It’s probably fair to say I’ve led a pretty charmed life. For all the bad things that have happened in the last few years, here I am. Still going, successful professionally, optimistic for the future personally, and doing my best to enjoy every day that comes my way in the meantime. Being told you’re going to die, then being told they don’t know why you didn’t die, then being told it’s a miracle and you’re not going to die, that can have a pretty profound impact on your outlook on life. It’s too bad it took a little extra time for that to sink in and for me to learn that lesson, but I’ve learned it now.

Through it all, there was Sid. Others who should have been there weren’t, and fell by the wayside when the going got tough. Sid was my one true friend who I could always count on. He’s been there, listening to me dish out the alternatingly solid and stupid advice to him during his tough times, only to see me unable to heed my own advice when rough times came my way. He’s been a rock, a friend, a confidant, and has helped me sift through the madness to find the reality underneath. He’s been there to share all the good times along the way too, and I’m proud that my daughter calls him Uncle Sid with a smile on her face and a sparkle in her eye.

Sid, you mean a lot to me. I am sorry if I forget to tell you that sometimes, or get so wrapped up in myself or my own problems that I take you for granted. You’re my brother, and I love you. And know that in another 26 years I plan to write a very similar blog entry (hopefully without the string of bad shit in the middle) while sitting next to you on the shuffleboard court. And then, like now, you’ll still be older than me.