The day afte Thanksgiving, 2004

So in high school my best friend died. I was literally the first student on campus to hear the news; the principal of the school, Mr. Cole -- a good friend to the family, told my mother (who worked at the high school) who then walked over to me in driver’s education. She pulled me out of class and told me, giving me a big hug.

I went back into class and everyone knew. All they had to do was look at my face and they could that something was wrong. It took Chris Elliott three times asking me what was wrong—when I said it, I think it was too loud because everyone in the class knew. Suddenly I saw what my face must have looked like.

As the next period began, Mr. Cole came over the loud speaker and announced it to the school. My French teacher started to cry, my sort-of girl friend and the time, Pam Bailey, gave me a hug. Chris Munroe (I know a lot of Chris’) got quiet.

I didn’t even know it but I got up and just walked outside. The teacher didn’t try to stop me—everyone knew how close I was to Tennyson. Everyone knew I went to see him in the hospital as often as I could.

Pam followed me outside. I was just standing there. She pulled me close and made me sit down and gave me a big hug.

I have no real memory of the days between her hugging me and saying it would be okay and the funeral. Just, all of a sudden, I was there. Mr. Reyes, Tennyson’s dad, had asked my mom if I would speak at the funeral. He wanted me to say something, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to see him in the casket, either. At least Chris Elliott, Tennyson’s other best friend was able to suck it up. He spoke, and said the right things. He was able to give the Reyes’ what they so very much needed. We both took positions at the front of the closed casket and walked it to the hearse. That helped a little.

And I didn’t cry.

When my parents got divorced, I didn’t cry. I was strong and quiet for my sister, who did cry. I thought she needed it, and I thought one of us needed to be strong. Little did I know then that by her crying, she was the strong one.

I didn’t cry when Jennifer went back to Michigan. I didn’t cry when she came back so, so different. I didn’t cry when she found the solace she needed in Shane and I thought I was genuinely happy for her when the got married. I mean, she found the piece she needed in him that I had once provided. The silver cord that connected us was severed. And I didn’t cry.

And then ten years ago I was diagnosed with a rare liver disorder, autoimmune liver disease. My doctor’s were baffled because the autoimmune disease typically strikes women and typically older people. I was male and 24. I took it in, I didn’t cry, I was strong. When autoimmune liver disease became rheumatoid arthritis in my joints, I only cried once. I woke up one day with a lower left leg the size of a football. I couldn’t walk and I was scared. I finally cried that day. But within an hour I was okay; I sucked it up and found my strength again.

The next time I found to cry was in the stupidest of times—I was home from work, sick again, and was watching AI (Artificial Intelligence). As the little boy staring forever at the statue of the blue fairy, I found something heartbreaking. It so reminded me of the little boy inside me who is seeking his own blue fairy and just doesn’t seem to find him.

When my mom fell and broke her shoulder the first time, I didn’t cry. I was strong for her. When she fell recently and rebroke the shoulder, I didn’t cry. I rushed out there, I took care of her, I bought her meds and got her to the point where she could find her own strength and plan for the future. And I didn’t cry.

Recently, a new friend’s dad died of a complication brought on by his own liver disease. Marcus is such a good man, a loving husband, a giving father. He seems so able to handle it. He seems so strong. Seeing that “strength” I always thought I had shown exemplified in him, plus the added knowledge that I could so easily fall to the same complications that his dad did, breaks my heart.

And, today, when I’m catching up on my old Joan of Arcadia episodes I came across the one entitled Friday Night. In this episode, Joan’s best friend Judith is killed. But not right away, which I could have handled. No, she goes to the hospital where they do everything they can to save her. This full-of-life girl, so similar in that regard to my pal Tennyson, is lying in a hospital bed slowly failing. Tennyson lingered on for quite some time before he succumbed. And Judith asks Joan to juggle. She wants Joan to be okay, so she asks Joan to juggle. But Joan can’t juggle. And then Judith dies.

Later, Joan is with her other friends an God arrives. God tells her the old story of the man and the three boxes and the bridge. Where the bridge is rickety and the man weighs enough that he can’t get across with his boxes, unless he keeps them always in the air.

And Joan juggles. Suddenly, she understands. The boxes are the burdens we carry, our hopes, our dreams, our everything. We have ups and downs, trials and successes that we must all juggle to make it through. And she juggles.

I’ve been holding Tennyson’s death and my need for strength. I’ve been trying to be the mediator keeping everyone in my friendship group together because I’m scared they will fall apart like my parents marriage did. When my sister’s marriage was rocky, I tried to be strong for her and be there for her. I’m scared for my nearly 60 year old mom’s health and her retirement.

And I’m scare for my own health and what it means for my future. I’m already scared to death to have a long-term relationship with a woman because I have to share that I’m sick and may not be in it as long as she is. I’m scared of how this mythical woman will take the news. I’m scared of passing an autoimmune disease on to any children we have.

I’m tired now. I think I need to lay those boxes down and juggle other things now. I don’t know what else I can focus on, but I need to lay these fears aside and do something else else.

I just can’t keep smiling and being strong for everyone else anymore.

I see my friend Chris Luff being strong. He has gone from being an introvert to finding new friends. He’s gone from not being in relationships to juggle a couple of girls. And one day he said, in a quiet moment that I bet he thinks I’ve forgotten, that he see my health declining and how fearful I’ve gotten, and how I just plain can’t do everything anymore. So he’s going to live now. He’s going to jump out of planes and go white water rafting. And he’s going to talk to the girls and buy a house.

I want that too.

And I’m crying while I type this. I’m crying so hard I can’t catch my breath and my fingers are tingling and my stomach hurts.

Because I don’t know what to DO with all this any more.

As long as their is life, there is hope. And maybe these epiphanies will serve to guide me in the right direction. Maybe just saying the out loud, to the world, even if it is semi-anonymously will ease the burdens, release the pressure cooker I’ve become, and let me start taking those steps away from these burdens I don’t have the strength for any more.

Maybe I can refind ME.