The end of an era

A chance encounter at a convention in the 1940s led to a nearly 60-year-long friendship between Al and Mike. Both men worked in their family businesses in Massachusetts, Al in textiles and Mike in lumber, and both eventually ran their respective companies. Over the years, they played tennis and skied together, celebrated holidays, and watched each others' kids grow up. They spent a lot of time together.

Al and Mike also consoled each other when their first wives passed away. For example, after Al's first wife died at a young age, Al started going to temple every morning and evening to say kaddish, the Jewish mourner's prayer. One day, Mike called him and said, 'You gotta come skiing.' When Al said he couldn't because of the mourning period, his friend convinced him that he could pray after a day on the slopes.

As Al recalled it, "Mike brought up a 'kaddish kit' that contained about a dozen prayer books and skull caps, and he'd go around the base lodge picking out people he thought were Jewish and saying, 'I need you downstairs for 15 minutes at 4 o'clock.' And we'd have a service in the boiler room at Cannon Mountain [in New Hampshire]."

Mike was that kind of friend.

Years later, when Mike was in his 80s, he developed pancreatic cancer -- one of the deadliest forms of the disease. It came as a shock because Mike had lived such a seemingly charmed life.

Al is now retired, remarried, and in his 80s as well, and he told me about what happened after Mike got sick and about the poignant goodbye between these two lifelong friends:

"I saw him in the hospital, and boy, he was very yellow-orange looking; you could see things really weren't working. It was a tough visit," Al said. "He went home from the hospital, and at first it seemed he was in a period of denial. Then there was silence; if you called, you didn't get through to him. As I experienced this pulling away by him, it was hard to understand and accept. I felt rejected and didn't realize how sick he was.

"Then one day I got a call, and I understood. 'Could you come over next Wednesday at 11 o'clock? Mike wants to see you. He wants to say goodbye to you.' Mike was a very orderly guy. He didn't like you to drop in to the house; he would like you to call ahead and make a date. Of course I said 'yes,' and I made it my business to go over then.

"When I went over, Mike was in bed. He had gotten an elevating bed so he could prop himself up. He says, 'You know, we've been friends for a long time. It's been a very nice friendship. And I just want to say thank you for everything and say goodbye.'

"It was really tough. I knew it was the end of an era, and it brought back a lot of memories. We talked about old times and some of the fun we had. We had a few laughs and a few cries and then called it a day. He died in about two weeks."

Then Al added three simple words packed with 60 years of meaning: "I miss him."

Consider this . . .
Having the chance to say goodbye to someone you love is a privilege.