The Last Goodbye

Yesterday, I wrote about the tragic death of Los Angeles Angels rookie pitcher Nick Adenhart on my Tomato Cans blog.

I found a video tribute that someone uploaded to youTube. It was a series of pictures of Adenhart with Garth Brooks singing "The Dance." It seemed appropriate so I posted it with the article.

Today, though, I have been reflecting on it. Brooks' message in the song is, essentially, don't dwell on how the story is going to end. Just enjoy the story. "I'm glad I didn't know how it all would end," goes one of the lines in the song.

Now, in general, that is a sentiment I share. I have my preferences about how I would rather die. And there is a certain advantage in not knowing the specifics. I think, perhaps, the most fortunate person I've known was my mother's father. He went to bed one night, planning to get up early and go fishing with a buddy of his the next morning, but he never woke up. We were told that he probably just rolled over and died.

But for those of us who must remain behind, it might help if we could somehow know when we would be seeing friends and relatives for the last time.

Sometimes you have a pretty good idea. In 1991, I was on the verge of finishing work on my master's degree in Texas. A friend of mine back in my home state of Arkansas was dying of cancer. I came to Arkansas to see him during the late spring and again in mid–summer. His physical decline in about six weeks' time was stunning, and I was sure my next visit to Arkansas would be for his funeral — as, indeed, it was.

I was 31 at the time, but I was unable to deal with thoughts of my friend's death. So I never said the things to him that I wanted to say, that I should have said. He died about five weeks later.

Strangely, though, that isn't my greatest regret when the subject is friends and relatives who have died. My greatest regret is the ones who were not obviously dying the last time I saw them.

But I didn't know it would be the last time, you see. I treated those times like all the other times — with the implied expectation that we would see each other again.

Now, in this group, I don't really count my grandparents — or my father's sister, who lived overseas for awhile. I seldom saw her, even after she returned to the States.

But I last saw my mother about three weeks before she was killed in a flash flood. I have often wished I could go back in time and tell her the things I should have told her before she died. When I think back on that afternoon, it almost seems to me, at times, that somehow she sensed it was the last time. It may not have been something that she was aware of, just something that she instinctively understood.

Now, my mother was a loving woman. But, in hindsight, it's hard not to interpret some of her gestures — touching my hand or my shoulder, the way she hugged me when we parted — as having special significance.

And I've been thinking today of "absent friends." I've been communicating by e–mail today with an old friend. I met him and his ex–wife in college nearly 30 years ago. His ex–wife died of cancer a few years ago, and I asked him if he could tell me anything about it. He couldn't fill in many of the gaps for me; by the time his ex–wife died, he had "moved on" in his life and met and married his current wife.

He says she is his soulmate, and he doesn't want to speak ill of his ex–wife. I understand that, and I wasn't trying to open old wounds. I'm happy for him. I just wanted to know more than I know. I think I've gone past the point in my life where I believe in soulmates, but if he believes he found his, I'm not going to dispute it.

I guess it's like the existence of God. Some people believe God exists. Others aren't so sure, but the ones who aren't sure don't necessarily believe they have to reinforce their doubts by tearing down someone else's faith.

It seems like there have been a lot of people in my life who are gone now — and I wish I had known ahead of time so I could have said my final goodbyes. Perhaps that is the point. We should appreciate the people in our lives — parents, siblings, friends — and make sure they know how we feel about them. Even if they're going to be around for another 50 years.

Because our lives truly are left to chance. To randomness. And, as Brooks suggested in his song, it's probably for the best that many of us don't get any advance warning.

But, sometimes, I guess, you can't help regretting the opportunity that got away.