Sunday
Then: Avoided
To conclude my tales of the support of male friends, this is story not so much about reaching out to friends for their support and help, but instead unconsciously (well, maybe not completely) not reaching out. Michael Yap (a.k.a. Chino; meet him at Chino.com) is to my mind one of the country’s most brilliant and creative software programmers. I’ve been a business partner of Chino’s in the past and his work then and since always amazes everyone he touches. Chino also has been over the years one of the few friends where I consciously would tell myself every couple of months: “Slow down with all the crap of the day-to-day and find a time to just go hang out with Chino in his basement studio.” I knew these would be rewarding sessions.
But here’s where it gets painful to say: I never called Chino once after my diagnosis and even failed to return a couple of voicemails from him asking about my disappearance.
The reason is obvious to me, and totally selfish. Chino lost his wonderful wife Pam to breast cancer the year before, and I simply couldn’t face going over there when my own cancer was so all consuming. I just couldn’t imagine sitting with Chino and either pretending it wasn’t top of mind with other banter, or actually telling him the latest on my case. And damn it, we both probably would have benefited from me doing that. I know Chino would have had the words to help me.
But there’s another reason. Chino and Pam’s little Bichon, Max, was Pam’s ‘Morrie’, her constant companion. And Morrie’s breed, Havanese, is a ‘cousin’ to the Bichon Frise breed. After Pam’s death, this poor little creature wandered the house in a slow gait day-by-day, shoulders slumped, head down, either looking for Pam or simply showing his deep-seated depression.
Yet, Chino held him so dear because of his obvious connection to Pam. And, one day when I was over, Chino suddenly straightened and said, “Where’s Max?”, sensing something was amiss. He bolted up the basement stairs only to find that the door leading outside was ajar, stuck on a rug. And Max was gone.
For the first time in Max’s 10-plus years, he had wandered off, obviously looking for Pam. Panic ensued. There was a very busy street only half a block away. Chino and his two staffers spread out on foot through the neighborhood. I jumped in my car to drive up and down the many streets, feeling so dreadful about the prospect of Chino losing Max and so helpless in a neighborhood of curving, hilly streets with lots choked with trees and brush.
It took 45 minutes to find Max about three blocks away.
Only now as I write this do I realize that I felt so guilty about this incident, because I could have been the visitor who left the door ajar.
An update:
Sadly, I must report that the Bichon Max has now had to be put down during the summer of 2004. And I’m urging Chino with my full powers of persuasion to find another canine companion. ¶ 1:26 PM
But here’s where it gets painful to say: I never called Chino once after my diagnosis and even failed to return a couple of voicemails from him asking about my disappearance.
The reason is obvious to me, and totally selfish. Chino lost his wonderful wife Pam to breast cancer the year before, and I simply couldn’t face going over there when my own cancer was so all consuming. I just couldn’t imagine sitting with Chino and either pretending it wasn’t top of mind with other banter, or actually telling him the latest on my case. And damn it, we both probably would have benefited from me doing that. I know Chino would have had the words to help me.
But there’s another reason. Chino and Pam’s little Bichon, Max, was Pam’s ‘Morrie’, her constant companion. And Morrie’s breed, Havanese, is a ‘cousin’ to the Bichon Frise breed. After Pam’s death, this poor little creature wandered the house in a slow gait day-by-day, shoulders slumped, head down, either looking for Pam or simply showing his deep-seated depression.
Yet, Chino held him so dear because of his obvious connection to Pam. And, one day when I was over, Chino suddenly straightened and said, “Where’s Max?”, sensing something was amiss. He bolted up the basement stairs only to find that the door leading outside was ajar, stuck on a rug. And Max was gone.
For the first time in Max’s 10-plus years, he had wandered off, obviously looking for Pam. Panic ensued. There was a very busy street only half a block away. Chino and his two staffers spread out on foot through the neighborhood. I jumped in my car to drive up and down the many streets, feeling so dreadful about the prospect of Chino losing Max and so helpless in a neighborhood of curving, hilly streets with lots choked with trees and brush.
It took 45 minutes to find Max about three blocks away.
Only now as I write this do I realize that I felt so guilty about this incident, because I could have been the visitor who left the door ajar.
An update:
Sadly, I must report that the Bichon Max has now had to be put down during the summer of 2004. And I’m urging Chino with my full powers of persuasion to find another canine companion. ¶ 1:26 PM
