Goodbye, Steve

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I received a phone call today that, sadly, was like many others I have had in my life. I knew it was coming. But it's never a welcome phone call, even when it is expected.

A good friend of mine, Steve Davidson, died of cancer early today. I knew him when I lived in Little Rock in the 1980s. We haven't seen each other in quite awhile, but I have kept up with him through our mutual friend, Brady.

It was through Brady that I learned Steve was sick, and, in the words of Yogi Berra, it was like deja vu all over again. Another friend in our circle, Mike Culpepper, died of cancer more than 20 years ago, and I kept up with the changes in his condition through Brady. Steve, Brady and I were pallbearers at his funeral.

Brady and I spoke on the phone last night. He spent some time with Steve yesterday. Family and friends had been summoned to Steve's side in anticipation of the end, but Steve apparently surprised everyone. When Brady called me last night, I expected him to tell me that it was over. But, he said, Steve was still breathing when he left.

His breathing was increasingly labored, Brady told me, and he said he didn't expect Steve to live through the night. He didn't. Apparently, he died at 4 this morning.

The picture at the top of this post was taken when Steve and I arranged to meet in southern Arkansas in the fall of 1988. I had been living in Texas for a couple of months, and we got together one weekend. Steve was a deer hunter; I don't own a gun, but I brought my camera, as you can see.

See that little black lump behind Steve? That was my dog, Pepper, curled up into a ball and taking a nap. He was part black Lab and part something else. At that time, he was still a puppy, probably about 10 or 12 weeks old (I got him as a stray so I don't really know when he was born). He went everywhere with me in those days. He loved to run, to chase a rubber ball or do anything, really, and I recall that he thoroughly enjoyed that weekend in the woods. So did I — even though it was very cold.

Steve was Pepper's buddy, maybe moreso than any of my other friends (although Pepper really got along with everybody). I think it may have been because Steve was the first of my old friends to meet Pepper. As a matter of fact, they met on that trip to deer camp in October of 1988.

(I knew they would hit it off when I saw Steve giving table scraps to Pepper.)

When that picture was taken, we had been out hiking through the woods, and Steve had decided to sit down and take a breather. Pepper flopped down behind him and, as dogs do, caught a few Z's while we humans were resting and talking and laughing. When we got up to go, he was up and ready, too.

Somewhere, I have another picture of Steve with Pepper that was taken on that trip to deer camp. Steve was sitting in a folding chair at our campsite. Pepper was sitting next to him, and Steve was stroking his head. I'm not sure where that picture is, but, if I find it, I think I might have it framed. It's one of my favorites, and I need to have it on display.

Hard to believe that weekend was nearly 25 years ago. It's even harder to believe that I will never see Steve again.

Remember that circle of friends I mentioned earlier in this post? When I was living in Little Rock, we formed a computer football league, using a football game disk I had found for my old Commodore 64. The league survived for three years after I left Arkansas. Every time I came back for a visit, I packed up my computer, and my visits became football weekends.

Eventually, the league fell by the wayside. But our friendships never did. The league began to falter after Mike died, but it survived for another year or so. But that's another story.

When I left Arkansas, it was to enroll in graduate school. About a week after I moved, Mike and Steve came down for a visit. The three of us went to Six Flags Over Texas, and I'll never forget sitting on a bench with Steve and watching as Mike rode a roller coaster over and over again. It became a running joke with the three of us, one that Steve and I never mentioned again after Mike died.

Now, I'm the only living person who remembers that afternoon.

I was between my first and second semesters of grad school when Steve and Mike paid me another visit — around New Year's. As it happened, Arkansas was playing in the Cotton Bowl, and we decided, at the very last minute, that we wanted to go to the game. I tried to pull every string I could, never thinking that I could actually get something at the last minute — but, lo and behold, I was able to get three tickets, and we went to the game.

The Razorbacks didn't play too well that day, but the three of us had a fine time, anyway. I still have the game program I bought that day, and, from time to time, I thumb through it, and my thoughts return to that sun–splashed afternoon. For many years, it has been mostly a reminder to me of Mike. Now, it will remind me of Steve as well — and of the afternoon the three of us shared.

Again, I am now the only living person who recalls that experience.

Sports so often figured prominently in our friendship — and I am not speaking only of computer football or the Cotton Bowl.

When I first knew Steve, I was working on the sports desk of what was then the most widely circulated newspaper in Arkansas — the Arkansas Gazette. That job came with certain perks that appealed to Steve. For one, I had access to early editions of the newspaper, which came in handy on Saturday nights when the first edition of the Sunday paper complete with the coupons hit the newsroom.

On those occasions, I often brought several copies of the coupon inserts to Steve and my other friends.

As a member of the Gazette's sports team, I used to get a season pass to watch the minor league baseball team in Little Rock, the Arkansas Travelers. This wasn't as valuable as it sounds — admission to Traveler games in those days was only about two bucks a head — but I used it frequently on my nights off.

Since admission was free for me, I would pay for half of Steve's ticket, and it was like each of us got in for a single dollar. Besides, as a Gazette copy editor, I could go up to the press box and visit whoever was covering the game for the newspaper that night, and Steve went with me.

Steve enjoyed rubbing elbows with people whose bylines he had been seeing for years. And he got a kick out of the bird's–eye view of the action on the field.

Same thing applied to horse racing.

I didn't get a free season pass to the races at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs, but whenever Steve and I went there together, I did get us in to the press box where we could see the writer who was covering the horses for the Gazette — and, on one memorable occasion, I introduced Steve to Terry Wallace, the fellow who called the races at Oaklawn.

I don't think I ever saw Steve so starstruck. He'd been hearing that man's voice call every race he had ever seen at Oaklawn — and there he was, shaking hands with him, chatting with him.

"I'll never forget that," he told me when we left the press box that day. I hope that was a pleasant memory for Steve over the years.

There is even a sports connection to the timing of Steve's death. Nineteen years ago today, the Arkansas Razorbacks basketball team defeated Michigan in the regional finals to advance to the Final Four where they ultimately won it all.

I kind of think that might have appealed to Steve.

Perhaps my greatest regret after Mike died was the fact that I never said goodbye to him. I should have. I had a couple of opportunities, and I let them slip through my fingers. Maybe I was scared. I don't know.

I'm older now, and I truly believe that if I had been in Little Rock this weekend, I would have been able to tell Steve that he had been a true friend and that I will miss him.

I think he knew. I hope he did.

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They Call Him 'Chainsaw'

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When I was a child, my parents took my brother and me on several summer road trips through the eastern United States.

I think that statement requires a little context.

In the years before my brother and I came along, my parents were missionaries in Africa. While they were there, they became close friends with their colleagues. I don't know if their friends returned to America before or after my parents did, but it turned out that all their friends were in the eastern half of the continent — so, for a time, vacations meant planning trips based on who lived where.

In those days, it was entertaining simply to watch my parents unfold maps on the dining room table and plot the routes from one friend's home to another with felt–tip pens. Our starting point was our home in Conway, Ark. Our destination was Vermont, where a couple of my parents' closest friends lived. We saved money by spending the nights with friends all the way to Vermont and all the way back.

(It was a rare treat in those days for us to stay in a motel. For my brother and me, it meant being able to swim in a motel swimming pool.)

I guess I don't need to tell you that our route was never a straight line — and we must have made that trip three or four times when I was a child.

The itinerary was never the same, but this might give you an idea of what our trips were like. One year, I recall, we took kind of a northerly approach, stopping in Kentucky, then Pennsylvania, then New York, on our way to Vermont, then we took a southerly route home, stopping in Virginia, then North Carolina, then Tennessee. Each time we stayed with friends (well, the stop in New York was to visit my father's sister and her family).

I thought it was kind of cool, actually. Because of those road trips, I figured I had visited more states than just about anyone in my class at school. And, because I was born overseas, I figured it was a sure thing that I had been to more countries than any of my classmates.

To put it in Charlie Sheen lingo, I felt I was winning.

But, if I haven't already surrendered my crown (and I may have — who knows how many states my former classmates have visited since we graduated from high school?), I would probably have to turn it over to a fellow who was actually a year behind me in school — but, before 2011 is over, he may have visited more states than I have ... and he's been doing it the hard way.

His name is Jeff. He teaches physical education in Fayetteville, Ark., the town where I earned my B.A., but he grew up with me in Conway. We knew each other as children. I don't remember if we attended the same elementary school, but I know we were in Cub Scouts together.

In high school, we kind of ran in separate crowds. I was always more interested in writing, working for the school newspaper, that kind of thing. Jeff was always part of the circle of athletes, the guys who could always be seen wearing their letterman jackets or their football jerseys.

Jeff acquired a nickname when we were in school. Because of his ferocious tenacity, he earned the name Chainsaw. No matter what might stand in his way, folks said, he would rip into it like a chainsaw. No holds barred. "Straight ahead" was his attitude about, well, everything.

Our families were acquainted as well. His father and my father were colleagues at a small private college. My father taught religion and philosophy there. Jeff's father was a coach, specializing in swimming. He built a successful program that included using the college's pool to teach children in the community to swim.

Jeff was one of the youngest in a rather large family, and he was always close to his father. I remember attending the high school graduation ceremony the year Jeff graduated. His father was a member of the local school board (the middle school in my hometown now bears his name), and, that evening, he was handing the diplomas to the graduates after someone else called their names.

He shook their hands, they smiled at each other, they might exchange brief pleasantries, then it was time to give the diploma to the next one. Pretty innocuous stuff.

When Jeff's name was called and he strode across the stage, father and son embraced to a thundering, spontaneous ovation. No one in that gymnasium that night could help but be moved by the sight.

Sadly, Jeff's father passed away in 1997. I don't know the details, but I believe he suffered from some kind of respiratory disease — an ironic way for an athletic life to end.

As I say, Jeff also is involved in physical education. I have no doubt he was strongly influenced by his father's example — as he was a year ago when he was diagnosed with cancer.

Jeff's admiration for his father is evident on his Facebook page, where he attributes (falsely) his favorite quotation to his father: "Be kind to everyone because everyone you meet is fighting a battle."

(I'm sure Jeff's father said that many times — it's the kind of thing I would have expected him to say to his children — but he probably never told them that it was really Plato who was responsible for it.

(That's OK, though. I don't think Plato would have objected if Jeff's father took credit for it.)

And Jeff appears to be winning his battle with cancer. In fact, he's doing so well that he's been trying to raise awareness of leukemia and lymphoma with a cross–country bicycle ride that began about three weeks ago in Oregon.

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His friends and family have kept track of his progress through the updates and pictures he's been posting on Facebook.

An avid fisherman, Jeff has reported stopping at some rivers to do some fishing along the way. He appears to pitch his tent wherever he can — although, like my parents, he's been making some stops at friends' homes. He reported, for example, that he stopped in Boise for a few days of R&R with some friends around the Fourth of July.

Sometimes, the wind is at his back, and he makes more progress than he expected. His original goal was to cover 70 miles a day traveling at roughly 10 miles per hour, but he actually covered about 85 miles when he left the coast. "Great day in the saddle," he wrote.

"The coast of Oregon is a feast for the eyes around each bend."

Conditions continued to be favorable as he made his way through Oregon. A few days later, he wrote this: "McKenzie River. Gonna fish here today. Pedaled up the river from Corvallis yesterday 90 miles slight uphill. The weather is great. ... Slept in an old growth forest last night. ... This part of Oregon is very lush with lots of rain."

Then there are times when conditions are not so favorable. "Met my match today with the toughest climb I have had yet," he wrote last week.

"The ride down the main Salmon was nice and then once in White Bird the climb started 11 miles at 8% grade for 3200 vertical feet. The legs had a hard time responding after three days fishing in Boise, will begin my ascent over Lolo Pass tomorrow."

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His latest post on Facebook says he is in Montana now. "The big open country of SW Montana makes one feel small," he writes. "In Virginia City now."

Montana, he wrote yesterday, "gave me all I wanted and more. Got hit by a hail storm, 40 mph headwinds and got a dose of the huge country with lonely roads."

In spite of all that, he observed, "This is beautiful country."

I've never been there, but, from what I have heard, it really is.

He closes each post with his signature line — "Straight ahead. Chainsaw."

My understanding is that Jeff won't be going clear across the country. Originally, his plan was for his ride to conclude around the Kansas–Colorado border — and if that is still the plan, then I expect that he will start to move in a more southeasterly direction now, probably taking him through Wyoming and Colorado.

But his plans might have changed. And, if they have, I would recommend that he stay in the northern half of the country. It's just too hot in the central and southern states for extensive bike riding.

Whatever his plans are now, though, I just say, keep going, Chainsaw.

Straight ahead.

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Elizabeth Edwards

In 2004, I voted for the Kerry–Edwards ticket.

And, knowing what I now know, I would still vote for Kerry over Bush — in spite of John Edwards' presence on the ticket.

But I don't want to think about John Edwards today. I think I made my feelings about him pretty clear in this post nearly a year ago.

At that time, I acknowledged that I had been one of Edwards' supporters in 2008. If I had the chance to make that choice again, I would choose someone else. I don't know if I would have supported Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton in the primaries, but I wouldn't have supported John Edwards.

And I feel that, if he had the opportunity to make that decision all over again, John Kerry would choose someone else to be his running mate.

On the surface, of course, North Carolinian Edwards failed to deliver any Southern states for the Democratic ticket. If he had, he might be vice president today.

And, as we have all learned in recent years, Edwards simply lacked the moral fiber that Americans expect from their leaders.

I have heard of presidential tickets in which voters complained that the nominees should have been reversed, that the nominee for vice president should have been the nominee for president and vice versa.

In hindsight, that doesn't really seem to be the problem with the Kerry–Edwards ticket.

The problem may have been that the wrong Edwards was nominated for vice president. His spouse possessed all the qualities — with the exception of a political resume — presidents want from their vice presidents.

But we will never know if she might have been up to the job.

Edwards' wife, Elizabeth Edwards, died of cancer today at the age of 61. She first learned she had breast cancer on Election Day 2004.

For awhile, it seemed Edwards had beaten the cancer. But then I heard it had returned and had spread to her bones.

Then, yesterday, we were told that she had halted her cancer treatments. Medical science had done all it could, we were told, and her prognosis appeared grim.

But her death did not appear imminent.

I always admired how she dealt with the ordeals she had to live through — which included her husband's infidelity, the loss of her oldest child, her cancer diagnosis.

And the only thing I have left to say, besides "Rest in peace," is to remind you of something you've probably heard before.

It isn't too early to start screening for breast cancer, especially if there is a history of breast cancer in your family. Early detection can save your life.

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Mysterious Ways

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The Bible tells us that God moves in mysterious ways.

And it is not given to us humans, I have often been told, to understand those ways. We are asked to accept them — even when the logical and rational mind practically screams out, "Why?"

If you read this blog yesterday, you know that a dear friend of mine died a couple of days ago — but I didn't find out about it until yesterday. And I have been trying to make sense of it.

I guess it takes me a couple of days of putting my thoughts down — I used to do it on paper, now it's mostly on the computer screen — before I can adjust to this kind of news. My friend's name, in case you didn't read my earlier entry, was Phyllis, and she had colon cancer.

But that may not have been the cause of her death.

I've had several friends now who have died of cancer. In fact, today is the anniversary of one of those deaths. As a result, I guess you could say I never really feel that, once someone has been diagnosed with cancer, he or she is ever truly cancer–free. Some of my friends thought that they were cancer–free, only to learn their cancer had returned.

But I never say anything about that to a friend who has cancer, though. And I always hope for the best. I rejoice with my friends if they tell me that their doctors have told them they are in remission. And, in some cases, I suppose, some people I know have been cured — not temporarily but in the truest sense of the word.

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, after all, was diagnosed with colon cancer a decade ago. Last year she was treated for pancreatic cancer. But she's still around at the age of 77. I don't know if that means she has permanently beaten her cancer. But she has survived.

So there are exceptions. And I try to remember that. But I guess I've been conditioned since early in my life to regard a cancer diagnosis as a death sentence — one that may be carried out shortly or after a long, drawn–out, roller–coaster ride (both mentally and physically), but one that is, ultimately, unavoidable.

Many strides have been made in the treatment of cancer since I was a little boy. Some types of cancer have been conquered. And survival rates are, at least, better for other types of cancer than they were. So the mere mention of the word cancer in a diagnosis does not automatically mean there is no hope — as it once did.

Now, as I said yesterday, I don't know the details of Phyllis' death. At the time she went in to the hospital, I really believed she was being treated for pneumonia. And perhaps she was.

I'm not a doctor, but I figured the diagnosis of pneumonia might have complicated her cancer treatment. And that made sense to me. Maybe I misunderstood. Or perhaps Phyllis chose not to fill in all the blanks.

I can't honestly say what my rationale was. I just didn't feel her pneumonia was a threat to her life.

And that is, I guess, why I felt such a sense of shock when I heard about Phyllis' death. Maybe that's why I have felt so blindsided by this news. Perhaps if I had been there and I had been able to see her with my own two eyes, I would have seen that my friend was dying.

And I would have felt better prepared for it when it came to pass.

But there was too much physical distance between us.

Phyllis was living in our hometown of Conway, Ark., at the time of her death — although I know she lived in other places after we graduated from high school together — and I have been living in Dallas for the last 14 years. I really couldn't tell you the last time we actually saw each other, the last time we heard each other's voices, the last time we hugged. We reconnected on Facebook last year and "chatted" there from time to time.

And it was through Facebook in the last couple of months that I picked up tidbits of news — that Phyllis had been in intensive care, that she had been removed from intensive care. But I heard nothing more substantial than that until yesterday.

I gather, from what I have picked up since, that it was primarily pneumonia that ended her life. Perhaps a doctor would tell you that it was the pneumonia and the cancer combined that finished her off. I'm certainly no doctor, but I know that, even though pneumonia doesn't usually kill people in our age group, a compromised system is more vulnerable to opportunistic diseases.

So, perhaps her cancer played an indirect role. Or perhaps pneumonia was the sole cause of death. It doesn't really matter. I don't need to see the death certificate.

All I need to know is that my friend is dead — and our mutual friends and I are grieving.

It is, as I say, a place I've been before. It isn't one I have been eager to revisit.

This is eerily reminiscent — 19 years ago, when I was in north Texas, finishing my work on my master's degree, another old friend from my Arkansas days was diagnosed with cancer in the spring. He declined rapidly, then died on Wednesday, Aug. 7, 1991. A mutual friend called me that night with the news and told me his parents wanted me to be a pallbearer at the funeral in Pine Bluff that Saturday.

So I did what I had to do to get ready to drive to Little Rock after work on Friday. I would stay overnight with a friend who also was going to be a pallbearer, then we would drive to Pine Bluff for the funeral the next day.

It was a busy time for me, and the distraction was welcome. Without it, I would have spent every waking moment thinking about my friend. But, even so, I always felt that I was right on the edge of breaking down — except for a few minutes that Friday night, when I was driving along the highway that cuts through southwestern Arkansas sometime after sundown.

There wasn't much traffic, stars filled the sky and temperatures were dropping. I rolled down my window a little and switched on the radio. Immediately, I heard the Eagles singing a song I seldom heard before and even more rarely since, "My Man."

It seemed as if Mike was talking to me through the song:

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"My man's got it made
He's gone far beyond the pain
And we who must remain
Go on living just the same
We who must remain
Go on laughing just the same."

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Here I am, 19 years later, and another friend has gone far beyond the pain. And I am reminded how desperately I want to hope.

I hope the song speaks the truth. I hope Phyllis does have it made now. I hope there really is an afterlife because, if there is, I have no doubt that she is reaping her rewards for the life she lived here on earth. (I may have my doubts from time to time about whether an afterlife exists, but I have no doubt that, if it does, certain people I have known in my life are there.)

Many of those "who must remain" will be gathering in my hometown a week from Monday to remember Phyllis and celebrate her life. I wish I could be there. But I can't help feeling that, even though I can't be there, Phyllis' spirit is working some of her special magic.

And it makes me hopeful that an afterlife really does exist.

In the aftermath of her death, I have reconnected in Facebook with a mutual friend from my high school years, also named David, who is living in this area. He'll be in my hometown in the days leading up to Phyllis' memorial, working on the arrangements, then I will be starting my new job the next week, but we've agreed to get together and have a couple of Cokes about three weeks from now.

It's been a long time since we've seen each other — and, David, if you're reading this, I must warn you that my hair isn't brown anymore! — so we'll probably spend some time getting caught up. And we'll certainly reminisce about Phyllis.

It may be a good thing that some time will pass before we get together. If we were getting together today, I'm sure there would be many tears from both of us.

Three weeks probably won't be enough time to completely drain those tear ducts, though, and we were two of many who loved Phyllis so I'm sure there will be moments when one of us will say something that moves the other to tears.

That's a healthy part of the grieving process, I guess, and, if one believes in the afterlife, which Phyllis clearly did, it will be helpful to believe that she has gone beyond her pain and that now, she's got it made.

And we who must remain will go on living and laughing, even when it means laughing through the tears, because Phyllis brought a lot of laughter into all our lives. We will miss that and we will miss her.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to listen to "My Man."

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