Watch the Sunset Disappear...and Drink a Beer.

I’m happy to be back with the blog! I love this thing I share with my sisters and we do for ourselves. That said, I want to set expectations for my post today. This is not an insightful blog about the pandemic or what I’ve learned since COVID-19. There is not a wise, overarching purpose in this post. The purpose is that I need to write it…for myself and for someone I love.

One year ago, this week(end), I had the privilege of going to my dear friend Jeff’s celebration of life. And one year ago, on June 8, one of the most mirthful souls I’ve met departed from this world as I know it. I have kept a lot of it inside of me – death is weird. I know my sister, Anne, who is trained in grief and the grieving process, would say things much more eloquently and accurately. But it’s me writing this blog so I guess you’re going to get words like weird. Death is weird. It’s a lot of other things, too. Painful is one word that comes to mind. But it’s definitely weird.

I remember in November 2018, when Jeff told me he had stage four lung and spine cancer – HE was consoling ME. When I called him, I had no idea he was going to tell me he had stage four, metastasized cancer. I was right in the middle of a large pity party I’d thrown myself. I burst into tears and tried to ask “normal” questions and he consoled me. He told me he was moving back to the Des Moines area for treatment and that made me feel better – I’d get to see him more. I immediately texted my sister, Anne, because I knew I was probably fucking up handling death. Death is weird.

Because of Jeff’s diagnosis and move to Waukee, my RAGBRAI friend group got together a lot more (he was the heart and soul of our team). We all made it a priority to be present for Jeff and each other during those months. In a way, that experience gave us a lot more of each other. His diagnosis and death bonded a lot of people in ways that I don’t think would have happened if it weren’t for Jeff.

I guess I’ve been remiss in not telling you about Jeff…I don’t think I can adequately describe him in words. The first time I met Jeff was on RAGBRAI – at one of the towns we stopped in, one of our friends paid $20 at a bar for one of the bras hanging there – Jeff put it on with a pair of bunny ears and proceeded to pole dance (of course they had one in that small town bar) to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It.” The entire bar – RAGBRAI riders and regulars alike, was laughing and smiling. Oh, I forgot to mention – he borrowed an unlit cigarette to have hanging out of his mouth for effect. And he definitely had the moves for that pole.

That’s one of my first memories of Jeff. Jeff could literally get an entire bar standing on their chairs, singing “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel…this is how it went…on the part where they sing the chorus (“Lie la lie, lie la la lie lie lie, Lie la lie, lie la la la la lie la la lie) he had everyone clinking their drink at the end of ever “lie la lie”…listen to the song – you’ll know where the drinks clink (and have a drink and do a cheers – that’s what I’m doing right now). That was his personality – it was infectious, and he was so free to be, he let you free to be.

There are few people in life who I feel get to see or deserve to see your whole self – Jeff made me feel I could show and be that with him. Jeff also had opinions – sometimes outrageously hilarious and outrageously maddening opinions – and he was never shy about sharing them. I loved him for that. And he was kind. He would argue with you about politics or give you shit about being a vegetarian or a man-hater and the next minute he’d be fixing your bike tire or buying the entire bar a round of drinks.

That’s why his celebration of life took place in a huge hotel conference room, attended by people who went to grade school with him and people who had only met him a few years before. He made people feel a part of something and his energy was irresistible. I only got to know Jeff for four years and he had a lifechanging impact on me. The loss of his soul left an empty part of me, on my RAGBRAI team, on countless numbers of people who still post memories on Facebook, give blood, run, and commemorate him. I was on a bike ride this past Saturday and ran into friends – they had stopped where our RABRAI team spread some of Jeff’s ashes and found four four-leaf clovers. He is still present in so many of our lives. There are so many “Jeff stories”.

Death is weird. I have wanted to write this for a year, and I haven’t been able to – it’s still hard for me to speak about. Jeff was a doctor – and like I said, had outrageous opinions (sometimes only to shock and awe people). I catch myself wanting to hear what hilarious spin he would put on COVID-19…because that’s what he did. He was able to take a serious situation and get his friends laughing (or, on occasion, super pissed…lol). That’s what he did when he told me about his diagnosis…he took this blubbering lady and made her laugh. And he was the one who was sick.

Death is weird. There are times when suddenly I will be overcome by emotion thinking of him and tears will stream down my face…so unexpectedly that I have to analyze the moment and try to make sense of it. Death is weird – there is no making sense of it or how we react to it or when it hits us.

What I have been thinking about is that each person that touches us and touches other people – each person has their own story to tell about that person, their own experience. Even when the experiences are shared, we remember different parts, different things meant something to us, we needed different things, we gave different things, we received different things. And it’s so much to convey – we have to rely on a story here and a story there and it’s never adequate enough to express the impact and import a soul had on your life.

That’s why I’m writing this blog and why I said in the beginning there is no larger point, no objective to my post – other than to express heartbreak and remember a dear friend. Death is weird. It comes in an almost unbearable cloak of pain that doesn’t ever really leave. And it also leaves behind a trail of beauty and gratitude and love.

On the day Jeff died, on the kissing bridge (the green one near Principal Park, for those who know Des Moines), my partner and I took a moment at sunset. We played the following song by Luke Bryant while looking out over the beauty of Des Moines. This is how I feel when I think about Jeff. Thank you for reading – and being with me. I will never be able to truly convey Jeff or what he meant to me and the so many people he touched. So…let’s sit right here…and drink a beer.

“When I got the news today
I didn't know what to say.
So I just hung up the phone.
I took a walk to clear my head,
This is where the walking lead
Can't believe you're really gone
Don't feel like going home

So I'm gonna sit right here
On the edge of this pier
Watch the sunset disappear
And drink a beer

Funny how the good ones go
Too soon, but the good lord knows
The reasons why it gets
Sometimes the greater plan is kinda hard to understand
Right now it don't make sense
I can't make it all make sense

So I'm gonna sit right here
On the edge of this pier
Watch the sunset disappear
And drink a beer

So long my friend, until we meet again
I'll remember you
And all the times we used to
Sit right here on the edge of this pier
Watch the sunset disappear
And drink a beer
Drink a beer, drink a beer.”

So long my friend. Until I see you again – you will always be in my heart.