David,

I finally met your family on Saturday, and it was the way I always feared I’d meet them – at your memorial service. I could tell in a moment that whatever shitty cards life dealt you God made up for with the hearts of those He placed around you. Your parents are warm and genuine; your brothers show exceptional, quiet strength. I loved them all with a single hug, and could feel how much you are a part of them. Your presence emanating from them was such a comfort. You will not fade from their hearts and minds, and it made me wish I knew them better.

What I always understood but didn’t fully appreciate until Saturday was that I only knew you for one tiny fraction of your life – the very last part of it. It was strange and wonderful for me to sit and listen as your loved ones talked about you at hockey games and Hooters. They reminisced about you bowling and working and eating and trash talking other football teams. (Wait, that one I did experience…)  Through their stories, you came alive for me in a different way than you had been when you were alive. And for a few minutes, I was jealous of them. I was envious that they’d had real conversations with you, that they’d seen you standing, walking, talking. I was jealous that they’d heard how your jokes sound in your own voice, not through the halting robotic drone of an electronic communication board.

Then I realized how lucky I’d been to witness the pinnacle of your presence here on earth, when you displayed not regular ol’ muscular strength but the immense inner strength of your being. I knew you when you were fragile yet amazingly unbreakable, when you were feeble yet fierce. And I learned so much from witnessing that strength.

When your uncle spoke to the crowd of us gathered, he talked about how tough you were, how you never complained a single time about the insurmountable challenges you faced.
“He took it like a man,” he said of you, and I thought about how often I’d silently lamented how cruel and unfair it was that you’d never get to experience so many of life’s treasured moments, the usual privileges of being a man in this world. Driving a car. Falling in love. Having kids. Building a life.

In my misguided lamentations, I overlooked how much of a man you already were. I feel like I should apologize to you for that.

Ours was a friendship that was as quiet as it was powerful, and I loved the quiet as much as the power. So I didn’t get to go bowling with you, or to a hockey game. We never shared a meal or a car ride or a trip to a sporting event. But I think I’m lucky. I saw the best in you while you endured the worst. I saw courage and strength and resilience; you let me witness and touch the human condition in a way that changed me, I hope for the better.

I miss you, David. I miss the way you’d start laughing at a funny part in a movie a full 15 seconds before the funny part happened. I miss the intimacy of feeding you those ice cream Magic Cups (which I found out Saturday was actually against the rules. Thank goodness Nurse Amy bent the rules for me). I miss the anticipation of waiting to see what you would push next on your communication board, what gem you wanted to tell me. (And how it was often the random yet pointed “Steelers suck.”)

I miss the tenderness of holding your hand.

We released butterflies at the end of your memorial service.  They were folded in little opaque envelopes with your name on them, their wings pressed together, immobile, until the envelopes were spread open. It took a few moments for mine to be coaxed out of its flat paper cage.

Watching so many butterflies dipping and fluttering around us in the parking lot didn’t do much to comfort me, but the poem the pastor offered beforehand did.

A butterfly lights beside us like a sunbeam
And for a brief moment its glory
and beauty belong to our world.
But then it flies again
And though we wish it could have stayed,
we feel lucky to have seen it.

I am so lucky to have known you, David. And when the sadness of my loss creeps up, I am comforted knowing you are happy, whole and free of pain, somewhere unreachable yet just around the corner from my existence. I imagine you hanging out with your mom and your beloved Dale Earnhardt, your mischievous grin attracting all who happen by.

I believe we will meet again. You’ll be standing, and your frame will be full and healthy, a smile of gleaming white teeth spread across your face, and if I don’t recognize you at first because of all that then I will when you open your arms for a hug in that way you always did. (Also, for what it’s worth, let me remind you that I wore a Redskins shirt to your funeral, both because your parents requested it and because I knew it would make your smile light up heaven. So when we meet again you should probably be sporting a Bills jersey. It’s only fair.)

Until then, our friendship will live with me, a gem in my heart I’ll carry the rest of my days.

I love you.
Robyn

From David’s Memorial Service card:

God saw you getting tired
When a cure was not to be.
So He wrapped His arms around you,
And whispered, “Come unto me.”

In tears we saw you sinking,
We watched you fade away;
Our hearts were almost broken,
You fought so hard to stay.

But when we saw you sleeping,
So peaceful and free from pain;
We could not wish you back
To suffer so again.

So keep Your arms around him, Lord,
And give him special care;
Make up for all the suffering,
And all that seemed unfair.