The death of my best friend

The death of my best friend
I recently commemorated the death of my best friend, which happened some years ago. As I think back over our relationship I rejoiced in all the ways he showed his friendship. How many times he called me up and said, “Gerry, can we get together and talk? How are things going in your life, how is your family doing?”
Of all the people I know he was the one I could always talk to, because he knew all my past and still liked me. Wow! You know, the kind of a friend that you can call on in the middle of the night and he would listen. Of course he often had to tell me that some of my messes were my own fault, but I have to admit that he was always right. And it was such a comfort to be able to count on him laughing at my funny stories and crying over my sad ones.
And he was important, had a high position in some mysterious company that I never understood much about. Just hints, of course, he would feed me some fabulous meals and give me extravagant gifts – sometimes he would say, “Gerry, I made this sunset just for you, and sent the birds to sing outside your windows.” How many friends would do that for you?

The best part was when he would send me on errands, sometimes to my neighbor next door, and sometimes around the world. He’d say, “Gerry, I need somebody to take a message to that cashier in the checkout line,” or “pop down to Lima next weekend, I need you to remind some friends down there that I still have work for them to do and that the check IS in the mail.” He had such far flung interests, and yet he always had some errand to run for him, things that he said only I could do. What challenges he threw my way – look after foster children, open my home to some pretty unsavory characters, give cups of cold water and sandwiches with his company logo to the bag ladies living under the bridges, climb the highest peaks of the Andes to buy a blanket from a Quechua Indian and whisper my friend’s name in her ear, canoe down a small tributary of the Amazon to a remote cluster of huts and invite them to be part my friend’s company of friends.

He had friends everywhere I went on his business, all over the world. On the plane, at the beach, in the markets – big and small – you could just tell them by their smile and helpful hands. We’d start to talk and sure enough, they were part of his volunteer corps, giving out cold water and taking messages in their corner of the world.

But I’ve gotten sidetracked, I wanted to tell you how he died. You know, I’m a doctor and have seen dozens of deaths, and have thought about the best kind of death you could have. The person should be very old, so that death is just a slowing down of the body processes. There should be no pain, the person alert, surrounded by loving friends and grateful family, full of dignity and honors. The final goodbyes, and then the last peaceful breath.

But my friend didn’t die that way, not at all. His was an untimely death, cut off in the prime of his life, and not from natural causes – no, he was nailed to a tree and left to die by suffocation. Since he was hanging by his hands his chest couldn’t expand, and he had to push up with his legs with each breath. And dignity? Would you call being stripped and naked in front of his friends and his mother dignified? They had to watch people spit at him and hit him and mock him. And this painful, violent, shameful death was totally unnecessary, a tragic mistake. He was falsely accused of horrible things – rape, murder, robbery, incest, rebellion, false claims of divinity, wife beating, abortion – and he didn’t deny it! He could have gotten out of that terrible pain and disgrace and abandonment if he had just cried out, “No, I didn’t do all those terrible things, Gerry did them, Tom did them, George did them, Frank did them. Let them come to die here.” But he didn’t say that, he just died in my place.

So I remember his death with immense gratitude, the death of my best friend. Of course, he didn’t stay dead, but that is another story.

Gerry Gutierrez, Westwood, April 2005