Giving Up

I’ve known Brian for about a dozen years. We get along because we share a world view that’s either cynical or realistic, depending on your perspective. We laugh at the same things, usually human foibles. The people we know rarely disappoint us by acting rationally.

When I want to let Brian know how much I like him, I tell him he’s the kind of guy I would have gone drinking with back in the day when I used to drink. He says the same thing about me.

In our circle, the compliments don’t get much better or more genuine than that.

Brian discovered he had lung cancer about the same time I did. He had surgery and I remember being jealous because I figured he was so much better off than I was.

How’s that for an outlook? Being envious because a friend gets a big chunk of his lung excised?

Well, I’m not envious anymore.

Brian is not doing very well. He had the surgery but he never really recovered. He was forced to quit work. He lost weight and found it difficult to get around. Of course, drawing each breath was a struggle.

Now he’s on chemo and he’s miserable. He came into a meeting I was at the other day and only stayed about five minutes. I caught him in the parking lot.

"I’m ready to give up," he said. "It’s just not worth it." He was sitting behind the wheel of his car, his head bent, breathing as if he’d just run a mile.

"Oh, Christ," I said. I couldn’t think of anything else. What else could I say? Hang in there? Don’t give up? Life is worth living? None of those statements seemed appropriate.

A little later, when I was home, sitting on the side of my bed, my wife asked me how I was feeling. I tried to answer her and I couldn’t. I wanted to, but I just didn’t know what to say.

"I wish you could talk more about what you’re feeling," she said.

I wish I could, too. And I do try. I tell her I’m sad. I tell her I’m angry and frightened. But those words don’t really convey what I feel. I guess I’m lucky – she and I are both lucky – because if I was really able to tell her what I feel we both might start crying and raging and shaking and maybe never stop.

So I say I’m okay and I say whatever I’m feeling will pass soon enough, but, dammit, there are moments when I’m not at all okay and when the feelings don’t quickly pass.

I’m not okay when I see a friend like Brian because I realize that someday soon I’ll be just like him. Or worse. Maybe, just maybe, I’m closer than I imagine to the point where I say I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I’ll be ready to give up.

There are simply no words I can say or write to adequately describe how that makes me feel. And if I could express those feelings, I wouldn’t because, in truth, you don't need or really want to hear or read those words.

But I’ll be okay. It’ll pass. It always does.