My apologies for the length of this. I have struggled for a few days with Matt's challenge. I can't think of anything else to write. My mother passed away with me alone at her side a year ago today. Two years and six days ago, I underwent major surgery for a stage four heart problem. Both of these anniversaries have been heavy on my mind, but this is what came out of my fingers.
Let me tell you about my friend Mike.
Back in high school, Mike was the exact opposite of me. One year older than I, with Brad Pitt good looks and eternally cool, Mike had it all… charm, girls, a car, friends and charisma in spades.
In contrast, I was the geeky nerd; already grown up and responsible at thirteen due to a broken home, younger siblings to take care of, brains beyond my years, and a mature outlook that robbed me of a childhood.
What brought Mike and I together was a rock band.
Back then, live music was common at high school and small town hall dances, and in dive bars. We played them all. Looking back it was insane – at sixteen years of age I was an A student in high school, spending my evenings rehearsing or working at McDonalds to pay for equipment, and on the weekends; travelling up to 250 miles in a 54 passenger modified school bus (that we owned) to play dances somewhere, often twice in a weekend on both Friday and Saturday nights. We had union cards, a booking agent, and ran a real rock’n’roll show earning between $400 and $600 per evening.
I played drums, Mike played rhythm and lead guitar (often badly), and Brian and Rick (two neighbourhood friends from a different school) played bass guitar and keyboards respectively. Brian sang lead, Mike and Rick pitched in with backup vocals and wisely I didn’t have a vocal microphone.
People loved us. We would roll into town, with a couple of ‘roadies’ along (guys to help setup and tear down, and run sound and lights during the show), play a four hour dance with four sets of cover tunes (mostly pop and rock staples of the day) close out the night as gods to our audience and get invited to local parties afterwards to meet girls, drink and (for some) do light drugs.
As the serious ‘adult’ in the group, I was never interested in the extra curricular activities, except the odd cute female who happened to look my way. I was there for the music, which I absolutely loved, and do to this day. I also was the percussion section leader in our school band, played in a marching and drill band (in my spare time, hah!) and taught drumming to young kids at a local studio. Music, and our rock band, was my life.
Mike’s friends, a completely different social group than mine, would often bug him about me. “How can you hang out with that guy? He’s such a dork! What a loser!” they would tell him. And Mike would respond to them “No! Rob’s okay. You don’t know him like I do.” While we had different personalities, were from different schools and social groups, the four of us band members shared a camaraderie – our shared experiences growing up together on the road on weekends, and our love of music. The things that tied us together became more important than the petty things that often drive teenagers apart.
What Mike lacked in musical skill, he made up in stage presence. He knew how to charm an audience, or make an instant friend one on one. Everywhere we went, everyone looked up to him. He was the kid that had it all. It really was remarkable watching how people gravitated towards him, and life just seemed to open up to him as he went along. Everyone likely knew of someone like that in high school. Mike was THAT guy!
A couple of years into our rock’n’roll journey, Mike started making unusual mistakes while playing. At first, they were rare and we were likely the only ones noticing, but as the dances and road trips wore on, Mike’s troubles became more and more pronounced. He couldn’t play like he used to. Eventually he told us that he had a pinched nerve in his arm, which wasn’t healing, and he would have to stop playing with us. Our agent found us a replacement guitarist, but being much older than us and in a different place in his life, the new guy just didn’t work out. The magic that the original four of us created together was gone.
After the converted bus blew up on the highway and needed repairs we couldn’t afford, we knew we had to pack it in, and we did. My rock’n’roll dreams dashed, I turned my attention to high school, and finished my graduation year with top marks, and awards for band leadership and acting, coveted prizes in a school with top level performing arts programs.
As I went off to university and we all began pursuing our careers, I lost touch with Mike. After my wedding, I didn’t see him again until about twenty years later. Somehow it was decided that we should all get together and have lunch one summer when Rick was back in town, to enjoy each other’s company and reminisce about old times. The lunch was a great get together.
But when I saw Mike I was shocked.
By that time, he was in an assisted living residence, unable to take care of himself. His wife had left him, taking their two kids with her. She just wasn’t prepared to stand by him as his progressing Multiple Sclerosis ate him from the inside out, destroying her hopes for their life together. Mike lived alone, a shadow of his former guy-who-had-everything persona.
Our annual summer lunches continued from there, and have for the last twenty years! We get together and update each other on our families, careers and our lives, and laugh about old memories and great times.
I eventually learned that when Mike had to quit the band, it wasn’t due to a pinched nerve. Mike had severe MS in his family, and he knew, as a kid at eighteen, what his future entailed, and that his fumbling on his guitar was the small start of what would be a long and painful journey through life. I can’t imagine what that realization must have been like for him, and what it would have been like to hide it from everyone who cared about him. He had to keep it hidden, as he chose a career out of school that he knew would provide a disability pension for him, so long as his affliction wasn’t present or known when he started working.
So Mike hid his struggle, got on with his career, life and family, and then watched it all slowly, painfully unravel.
Mike eventually moved into a top level assisted living facility, where he was confined to his bed or a wheelchair, needed a catheter bag, and assistance with everything, including eating at times. His speech became quite limited, but he still expressed himself well and forcefully, with a big smile and bright dancing eyes.
As I watched Mike deteriorate further over the years, I couldn’t help but wonder about the contrast between the cool kid… king of the high school, and the withered man in front of me. Back then, so many things were important to us as teenagers, with adult bodies and childish brains, and now none of them really mattered. Mike, the kid that had it all, ended up losing more than most people can imagine.
What a study in contrast. What an example of how often what seems important really isn’t, and that often things are not really what they seem. Those that have everything may have nothing, and the best thing we can do for ourselves is be grateful, and live our lives like we truly appreciate the blessings we have.
Despite his affliction, Mike was always joyful. How many of us can honestly say that?
We moved the location for our annual lunches to Mike’s facility, held in a room down the hall from the single bedroom where he has spent the last seventeen years. At our lunch last summer, we gave Mike some cookies, which he really enjoyed, and helped him eat them, until one of his nurses came in and admonished us for doing so. He wasn’t allowed such sweets.
Later, we said goodbye to Mike and headed on our way for another year. As I rode down the elevator and walked out the front door, I noted to myself that Mike seemed especially sad to say goodbye. I wondered about his future, scared because I’ve learned to pay attention to my own intuition.
Last week, we attended Mike’s funeral. I don’t know how or why he passed away specifically…it doesn’t matter… the MS got him as it always was going to.
It is often remarkable how things turn out in our human experience. Mike’s life was a school of lessons for the rest of us. He and I really shouldn’t have even known each other.
But as things turned out… Mike was my friend.
