a time to live, a time to die

My friend Francis is dying. Big, gruff, hard living, hard drinking, hard driving Francis is dying of stomach cancer and there is nothing that I or anyone else can do.

He found out about the cancer in April. He thought it was indigestion. Since then, it's been one round of bad news after another. It has spread. It's in your stomach AND esophagus. It's in your liver. It's in your kidneys. It has spread to your brain.

He is in the hospital, now. He won't come home anymore. Monday they are going to move him to a hospice. To wait. It won't take long.

I met Francis years ago, when Annie was working parttime at our library and had become friends with Carol, who was working there, as well. Annie and Carol had become such friends, such very good friends, it was inevitable that our two families should become close. And we met. And we were (and are) such total opposites we became friends immediately. Even as opposites we had things in common - baseball, football, rum and beer. And that was enough to start with. That was enough to begin to build a friendship.

Francis is a truck driver. An over-the-road brownshirt (UPS driver). He drove triples back and forth to Ohio from Illinois every night. Actually, he'd drive a double into Indiana and pick up a third trailer there, to take into Ohio. And then drop one off in Indiana on his way back. Triple are illegal in Illinois. His schedule was so weird we wouldn't get to see each other but once or twice a month, if that. But that was enough. It never felt like we needed to 'catch up'. We never lamented the fact that we didn't get to spend much time together. That would have been a waste of what time we did have. So we would just pick up where we left off.

Someday, when it's my turn, we'll meet up. Francis, with his white moustache, his deep gruff voice, his big strong hands. We'll meet up, and pick up right where we left off.