My Friend Tim

  If you're lucky, and if you live long enough, there will come a day when it's your turn to watch over those who once watched over you. For most of the world, we were just kids, but my very first friends, who were also grownups, were named Sarah and Tim, and today it was time to say goodbye to Sarah.

Most goodbyes have little impact on me. They mean: "Good to see you! Let's do this again soon! Tell your neighbor I said hey!" But, there's one goodbye that means: "I'll never see you again. We'll never do this again. Your neighbors are here with me."

Final goodbyes are more than difficult for me. They make my weak parts tremble and make my strong parts irrelevant. I've avoided many of these, believing they were just too much and it'd be better for everyone if I weren't there, but when I heard my friend Sarah crossed over, something inside said I had to go. I needed to go. My first thought was to go and sit with my sister. I'm a lot stronger with her, but she would be out of town. "Alone," a voice inside me said. I had to do this, and I had to do it alone. It was time for that. This is important.

I lied and told the nurses at St. Catherines, where I'd been convalescing, that my family would be there to take care of me, so they approved and made arrangements so I could go to the funeral. There would be dozens of people I knew there, and I wasn't that far from my apartment if anything happened, so it wasn't a total lie. They also knew that the strength that completely left me just months before was now returning faster every day. They're not just my nurses, they're my friends, and by now, they know there are times when I will not be denied. Still in a wheelchair because my returning strength was so new, I looked improbable, but I knew I could accomplish this, and I needed to do it. I thought I'd be alone, but sometimes life has other plans.

My plan was to sneak in early and sit in the back where nobody could see me, then slip out quietly. That way, I could say goodbye without a ripple and satisfy the urge that made me come. Whatever I felt, whatever happened, no one would see me, and I could return to the safety of anonymity soon. After I settled into a far corner, some misguided soul saw my wheelchair and came to me and said, "Hey, we need you to sit up front."

By "up front," he meant the very, very front where everyone could see me, and I had to tilt my head back just to see whoever was speaking at the lectern an arm's length away; then he said, "we're going to move Tim next to you." Hearing that name, the pieces fell into place. I came to say goodbye to Sarah, but my heart would also be with Tim, and he would be next to me. I knew he'd been ill and didn't know if he'd be at the service with us, but once I knew I was to sit with him, it didn't matter who could see me or where I was sitting; it was my turn to watch over him as he'd once watched over me. Being next to Tim was where I needed to be. Tim was in a wheelchair like mine, but his was more permanent. Together we sat and said goodbye to Sarah.

The service began. One daughter delivered remembrances of her mother in what I couldn't help but hear as her mother's voice. I hadn't seen her since she was a teenager, and today she delivered her mother, my friend, to another place. Another daughter, who was our class favorite from childhood, said a prayer. Her voice quavered. She was once the very first girlfriend for two of my teammates, and her smile often delivered us all. Today she did what she must do. This was a difficult transition, but she was always one of the strongest amongst us. A third daughter, now the age her mother was when I got married, sat behind me with her family. When she was barely two months old, her mother, Sarah, asked if I wanted to hold her. My arms had moved thousands of pounds of iron and, through the years, would move more, but they'd never held a baby before.

The priest who said the prayer before most of our football games and later officiated the service that married me delivered the sermon for our mutual friend Sarah. This was a very personal service, not only an important moment and connection for me but for my entire class. Many of them were with me. We met more than fifty years ago, and today we gathered together to say the last goodbye to our class mother.

I could tell the friend next to me was in distress. His hands fidgeted, and his eyes watered. So did mine. He was in pain. I patted his knee, but it didn't help. A young man, I learned, was Tim's grandson, pulled him to the side, away from the front, where he could have some privacy. A young woman I'd never met but recognized immediately as Tim and Sarah's granddaughter came to comfort him. I moved my chair next to his. "It's ok, buddy." We held hands.

Only Sarah Nelson could arrange such a class reunion at a funeral. There were so many faces I knew before they could shave, now with white beards and hairless scalps like mine. Somehow only two of us still had hair. Maybe there was something in the water at St. Andrews in the seventies. This was the best service and farewell for our friend Sarah, surrounded by those she watched over when they were small.

I stayed with Tim until the driver from the VA drove away with him. Together, we'd said goodbye to the mother of his children, friend, and mentor to us all. Today I visited with more of my classmates than I'd seen in twenty years or more. It wasn't an ideal reunion, but it was somehow perfect for us.

After everyone was gone, I sat alone, waiting for my ride, having said goodbye to those I'd loved so long. Through the years, I've learned to restrain my tears because it's embarrassing, but it makes my nose run. I brought an extra handkerchief, just in case. The technique isn't foolproof, and the tears still came anyway. What a sight I must have been, in my convalescent wheelchair, crying alone across from the Governor's mansion, in front of this ancient church. An office worker stopped to ask if I was ok. "I'm fine. Thank you. I'm stronger than I look." I'd listened to the voice inside me and reconnected with my past. I should listen to that voice more often. I watched over my friend Tim while a man drove him away to a place where they take care of him. Somehow, a circle that started long ago was completed. I was home.