Goodbye, David

Goodbyes are always hard for me, and some of them raise downright complicated feelings, which makes them even harder.

David fought his pancreatic cancer to a draw this last week. (I stole that phrase from someone. I wish I knew who it was, because I like it. He didn't lose any battles; the cancer definitely didn't win. But the contest has definitively come to an end.) Most people, once they find they have this type of cancer, die within a year. He lived almost three, beating the odds one last time. (Grit was his middle name...)

I first met David some thirty years ago - he was the photographer at my step-brother's wedding. He and my sister Maria hit it off as he was taking photos at the reception, and started dating very shortly thereafter. The first few years of their relationship were good, at least from the outside in. They got married, had a baby, settled in a house in the suburbs.

But their relationship couldn't stand the strain of the drinking - his, hers, theirs, whatever the combination. The alcohol-fueled sparks eventually led them to a bitter divorce. He went through some rough years after that; dark years where alcohol came and went and played a large part in damaging his relationships.

But time has a way of healing even deep wounds for some people, and so it worked for David. The last few years before he got sick found him back on his feet. He had his drinking mostly under control. He'd found a good partner, and did his level best to mend his relationships with his kids. He had steady employment, and worked once again to create a good home for himself and his wife, who I know only by reputation. (Juliann and Connor tell me she's good people, and they are rarely wrong in such assessments.)

Because he was not kind to his children during those dark years, I was angry with him for a long time. But when he found his balance and worked to change, and his children forgave him, my anger also dissipated. I cheered him on, even. Not everyone gets a second chance at relationships, and he didn't take his for granted.

I find it both sad and ironic that he'd finally gotten his stuff together and, poof! The margarita truck hit. But, it's also the good news part of the story. He died in a good emotional space, surrounded by people who loved him. He had time after he found his way out of the dark to mend a lot of broken fences. He was able to enjoy a bunch of good days. And that's nuthin' to sneeze at.

 Rest in Peace, David.