Sad reminders of one’s mortality
In my quiet arbor of existence I’ve been rudely shaken of late by the vicissitudes of life.
Vicissitudes? Magnify that a hundredfold! No measly Texas League dimensions here.
I’ve reached that dreaded stage of life where it seems I’m routinely assailed by the loss of a friend. The sports page used to be my go-to section of the morning paper. Now, I’m tempted to begin with the obituaries.
It’s not as if my friends were moving out of the neighborhood or retiring to an exotic locale -– though that may be one way of putting it. After departing this veil of tears they’re bound for a far distant shore.
And I’m still here … missing them.
Poor me! I’m so self-indulgent.
Remember that noble and valiant mouse, Reepicheep, in C.S. Lewis’ fantasy series, “The Chronicles of Narnia?” In the third book (of seven) Reepicheep takes leave of his colleagues to sail away in search of “Aslan’s country” (heaven). He’s not seen again until the very end of the series -– in eternity.
In some ways, I feel as though my friends are doing the same. And I find myself missing cherished ones who’ve meant so much to me over the years. Some, I’m confident, are now enjoying their just rewards.
To demonstrate how bad things have gotten, six friends of mine have died in the last three months. SIX!
We humans need to be regularly reminded of our mortality. Otherwise, our natural disposition is to ignore death or to make futile attempts to keep it at bay. “What I don’t know can’t hurt me” has been a convenient mantra of mine since adolescence. Denial of our fate doesn’t negate anything, however.
Well, I’ve been given a huge wake-up call in recent weeks.
Life is fragile … not to mention brief. It’s a vapor, the psalmist warns.
My good friend since high school, Mike Parks, a longtime Costa Mesa resident, died in February. Like so many losses we’ve encountered, Hedy and I were not prepared for Mike’s passing. He’d been ill for a rather brief time, and had a natural enthusiasm and zest for life. He truly lived every moment.
We had no reason to anticipate his departure.
I know that sounds foolish, but I’m prone to foolishness. I’m also a fool who’s stubborn, which is a deadly combination. If I look the other way, that shadow in the corner will disappear of its own accord, won’t it? Not usually.
Like many of my gender, I don’t especially enjoy visiting the doctor for fear of a bad report. I’ve tried to avoid doctors even when it clearly was not in my best interest to do so. Mike wasn’t fond of doctors either.
He was bigger than life, and I wasn’t ready to bid him goodbye. A U.S. Army veteran, he was a patriot who wore his patriotism on his sleeve. He was particularly devoted to his family, his friends, the U.S. Marine Corps and the Los Angeles Dodgers.
Hedy and I have been lifting up his wife Joan and their family in our prayers.
Mike and I met for lunch once a month for the past several years. A fanatic for punctuality, he was always at the restaurant before I arrived. He’d wait patiently in his car, listening to talk radio, until I pulled up.
Mike would get out of his car and greet me with a bear hug. “How ya doin’, Jimmy?” he’d ask. “Mikey!” I’d shout. He was concerned about my ongoing battle with Parkinson’s disease. Every time we saw each other he’d request an update on my condition.
He cared about others. Oh, did he care!
At lunch, we’d discuss our high school days together (“remember when?”), sports, old friends and our kids and grandkids. In 2012, Mike and I and our spouses double-dated to our 50th Costa Mesa High School reunion.
We had great fun. More than 300 people were in attendance, and Mike must have talked to at least half of them.
Always upbeat, Mike was a friend to many.
And we shall miss him.
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.