Wednesday, September 5, 2012

My God, take care of Dwight.

oh my God.

These are the words that came out of my mouth, out of instinct and confusion, out of that kind of moment when you hear something that puts your life on pause.  I spent last night crying, telling myself my boyfriend needed to be with someone happy and social and not sad and angry all the time, someone other than me.  I told myself I'd like to not be here anymore, to not hurt those I love more than I already have, to not hurt inside any more than I already do.  My boyfriend kept trying to console me, asking me what was wrong, having no idea the thoughts going through my head.  This morning before he left for work, he asked me what was wrong.  I let it all out - I told him I think he needs someone else.  Someone better, someone happier, someone not so much like me.  He leaned down and hugged me, and said, "I've never thought that.  Ever, ever, ever.  I've never thought that."  He was so genuine, not like those times when you hear someone say, "Of course I don't think that" or "Of course I didn't say that".  He meant it.  I felt better leaving the house for work an hour or so later.  "I'm okay.  I'm gonna be okay."  I didn't apologize to God for thinking one of His creations would be better off dead. 

oh my God.

I'm getting off the elevator to go to my third appointment with my new psychiatrist.  I'm in my own head, rehearsing what I'm going to tell him, replaying all of the messed up, crossed wires that are in my head so he can fully understand what he's dealing with.  My phone lights up with a text message.  ":( Got an email that Dwight died yesterday morning.  Services will most likely be in Washington." 

oh my God.

Dwight.  A coworker and fellow member of the running group I was a part of in 2008.  An older gentleman who ran 20 miles with me on Thanksgiving of that year because I had missed my long run the previous weekend.  A man who gave me rides home after running and sweating in the heat, a man who had decided at 50 to start running marathons and got about 7 or 8 under his belt in just a few years.  I sent him a message on July 19th, not even two months ago, asking about his running, excitedly telling him I finally registered for a marathon.  He tells me he's not running anymore.  He was diagnosed with cancer.  He's lost his teeth and he had a feeding tube put in a week or so prior. 

oh my God.  I tell him I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch.  I tell him we should get together.  Coffee.  Tea.  Just sitting.  I miss him.  I want to tell him that he inspires me to run a marathon, to run marathon after marathon.  I want to tell him how often I think of our Thanksgiving trek through the park.  While families were gathering for turkey and dressing and pecan pie, he and I were running mile after mile while talking about God and how perfectly the trees and the lakes and everything in nature just fits.  I tell him we'll get together.  I tell myself we'll get together.

I've known he's been gone for an hour and I cannot stop crying, replaying our last "conversation" via text, our last conversation that truly was our last.  I've always procrastinated.  I can do it later.  There's always later.  There's always tomorrow.  My life got in the way of us getting together.  Now it's his death keeping us from coffee or tea or whatever it is that we were supposed to do.  There's no such things as always, another wise lesson Dwight has taught me. 

Lord, be with Dwight.  Guide him into your arms, into your kingdom, into his home that has been awaiting his arrival.  Please tell him I'm sorry that I didn't follow though with seeing him again, with being a true friend.  And Lord, I'm sorry I questioned this temporary life you have granted me so that I may smile and laugh and love and give before you welcome me home, on your terms.

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