Bringing Light To Darkness

It was my first attempt to gather friends in our home since Leroy's been gone. His pals, our friends, who have turned into such a meaningful support group for me.

WE were a team when we entertained. So now I rely on the guests to step up when I can't refill a glass or replenish an appetizer. It's not a big deal, just another piece of missing Leroy.

Christian Meyer, Leroy's oncologist, and his wife Tracy joined us. I'm not sure Christian realized it, but I asked him to sit in Leroy's seat that night.

Christian writes the blog today. His message explains why he is one of the few who would be offered that chair.

-- Laurie

"How are you doing, Laurie?"

"Boy ... this grieving thing. You never know when it's going to hit you."

Laurie invited me to a dinner a week or so ago at her house. House is a pretty weak description of the place where she lives. It is truly a home. There are tchotchkes covering every nook and cranny of that dwelling. There are signs, awards, miniatures, chimes ... just stuff from seemingly every corner of the planet. Attached to each one is a story of some event in their lives. You really feel the essence of Laurie and Leroy every time you walk into that home.

Oh, and the pictures ... you can't turn around without seeing both of them smiling back at you from somewhere in the world. Leroy's smile in those pictures is always warm -- seeking to simultaneously welcome and comfort, and always reassure that, whatever the problem, it will be all right.

It was the first time I'd been back there since I last saw Leroy. That was the opening night of the Olympic ceremonies and the parade of athletes. He was lying in a bed in a room at the end of the hall. The night began with his simple request, "Let's not talk about cancer". So we didn't. We ate some nachos, Laurie's amazing fish tacos and key lime pie. He provided some interesting commentary regarding past Olympics he'd been to as well as some nice sarcastic one-liners about the current state of world fashion trends. I am sorry to say Turkmenistan did not fare too well in Leroy's view, despite my ardent defense of the color green.

So on the night of this dinner, I found myself in the hall across from that room. That area of the house was dark and silent. Light and laughter that emanated from the kitchen and dining area where friends recounted memories and retold stories did not penetrate down the hall.

It would have been easy for me to walk through the door, flick on the light, and see the room. However, I did not even want to look at the room. The last night I was there, for all the joking and life emanating from Leroy, he was dying. After we had talked and laughed at the Olympics, we shook hands and I walked through that door and never saw him again.

I often wonder what becomes of us when we die. Do the memories fade into yellowed pictures that end up on a shelf somewhere? Or do we live on through what we have taught others? Leroy clearly lives on loud and strong in his friends. You could really feel him there that night.

For me, part of him always will be in that dark room down the hall. It's one of the many pieces of him I carry with me that helps me understand living with cancer.

I grieve for Leroy not being here to teach me more about how to bring light to those dark rooms, and the fact that he had to go into those dark rooms at all.

I miss my friend.

-- Christian Meyer

7:00 AM ET | 11-20-2008 | permalink

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