And so.. Chris died, but not so unexpectedly. Before he passed away, he was infrequently updating his Facebook status on his deteriorating health from throat cancer. He had courageously posted pictures of the gaping hole in his neck from the throat tumors clawing their way to the surface. He shared the terrible details of surgery to save his carotid artery and he reminded people to have a wake. Incredibly, in it all he kept his sense of humor like this: update from Nov 19: "the fact that 3 people have died in this 4 bed room in the last 48 hrs and I'm still here".
As the weeks went on, the tributes and memories poured in from his friends. Many of them people I knew or "knew of". I read each one, little pictures colored in with words. Snapshots to scenes I wasn't in, parties I didn't go to, gig's I was too young to attend. Some posted photographs and I remembered how I used to know him.
I was in Toronto in July and happened to see him on the street as I drove by- amazing in a city the size of Toronto. I saw how badly he looked. He was in ill health then. He looked like death then. I got in contact and was able to see him and experience both the spirit of Chris as I remembered him and the sense he would be leaving. We walked down Bloor talking of the past, the mundane, the future. I was grateful to see Chris again and in so many ways, he hadn't changed. He always had enthusiasm and excitement for things he thought were cool. He always seemed to walk quickly, slightly forward as thought he couldn't get to where he was going quick enough.
We walked past a church I had passed on the way to find his apartment. My senses alert and tingled the same way I have always been when aware of making memory yet I had ignored the church. Chris excitedly pointed out the beautiful stained glass windows of what was now an apartment building. "Isn't that cool?" he asked me. We walked near Dovercourt Ave where he was staying and he got excited about a book in a window and we went in an looked at it, he quickly engaged the shop keeper on the attributes of a certain cartoon style that segued into something political- my mind was elsewhere.. but it was the spirit of Chris- intelligent, always engaging, insightful and talkative that I knew so many years ago.
He bummed some money off me for cigarettes, the irony, and scurried to the phine booth to make a call and probably buy drugs. He'd been an addict for as long as I've known him but I gave him the money. We stood on the corner of Bloor and Dufferin, in the sun as the people streamed past and I knew it was likely I would never see him again and I hugged his tall and always lanky but now bone thin frame for a long time and I started to cry. I told him all the things I thought he would want to hear and things I knew I would regret if I didn't say. "I think you're beautiful and I love you. Your life has already been perfect and thank you for being in mine so long ago." And I said, you're lucky. You're lucky if you get to go. Life is hard and brutal. I wanted him to know it was OK to put down all the pain and I hoped it would mean he could let his heart lift from the weight of his existence and heal.
I updated my Facebook that it was great to see him sometime later that day. Social commentary. I saw you.. I took some photos..other people see this..you'll see this..Why does anybody put anything on Facebook? To share and connect and keep a tether thread to the lives of others no matter how tenuous. In the last weeks, the updates started to come from his sister and others who watched over him... in the hospital. And thanks to Facebook, old friend, past friends- people made peace with Chris, expressed their gratitude, love and support and all these messages were read to him one by one as he lay in palliative care. That's a beautiful thing.
Finally yesterday, his status was updated by his sister:
Chris Bates Died today, Wednesday, December 1, 2010 - 44 years old
It was as my response said: worst.status.update.ever (and I'll fucking miss you.)
I feel bewildered that I watched his life wind down on Facebook. I saw weekly updates to the situation unfolding with each new refreshed day. We weren't close. I'm not an ex- girlfriend or a family friend. We went to the same gigs, hung around in the same bar and eneded up at the same parties. He wore a red beret and a quick wit, always on the go. He found out where I lived and came around or I invited him to dinner. We hung out a few times and I was about 22. Once, smoking hash and cigarettes, we burnt a hole in my favorite bedspread and messed around. He was probably a drug addict back then and I kind of pushed him away. He came to my door and announced he felt ostracized and I had to look up the word. Last time I saw Chris back then, was at a poetry reading; he spent a lot of time in the bathroom and looking sleepy. I didn't know what heroin was like back then and he left town.
I never saw or talked to him again for probably 15 years but I watched and participated in the most personal and private event of his life because it was on the Internet, on Facebook. In some ways I'm grateful and in others- I feel the white bright numbness of the burst of hot firecracker fast and brilliant, stunning from a distance. Poetic. Like an over exposed photograph you hold at a distance. I still have that bedspread and that memory of that hot hash burn was as brief moment with someone who also burned hot and fast through his 44 years.
RIP old friend. x
2 comments:
Beautifully written! The last time I ran into him was on a TO subway going home from a concert a few months ago. As you described him, he looked like shit but was friendly and talkative. I wasn't aware of the cancer, but suspected it. We swapped Edmonton stories (I grew up there). I asked him about the suitcase he had with him, and joked about him running away from home. He just paused and said he was between places to crash. I guess he's reached the final place.
@Charles.. thank you for visiting. Chris was one of a kind.
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