Best Friend

Everybody should be lucky enough to have a best friend, somebody the rest of the world ties you to, a person who helps hone your persona toward life. Without one it strikes me existence is just that little bit lonelier regardless how many other equals we embrace as compensation. Of course, if one is blessed enough, their significant other can fill such a role nicely. However, it’s been my experience, as a fairly keen observer of human interaction, that’s a true rarity, at least until advanced age when increased isolation and the mortality of others necessitates it.

My best buddy – who I am certain would prefer to remain nameless throughout this narrative – and I go back all the way to tenth grade, almost 45 years as comrades. Through young adulthood and as single men we had enough adventures to fill a book, although it never seems as significant in real time. We both loved women and pursued their attentions and affections relentlessly. Such escapades now aren’t really appropriate to share with others, which only strengthens our bond. Once we got married and had families our lives followed parallel courses and provided for experiencing the most important milestones together. I was the best man at both of his weddings and the “witness” at his one divorce. The ties we have are special, even if dwelling on them is at odds with the irreverence and stoicism they were forged by. At the risk of stereotyping, men don’t generally ponder their friendships enough to fully appreciate them until they are threatened… or lost.

When he told me he had tested positive for Covid-19, I’m ashamed to say my first reaction centered on me and mine. My son Luke and I had visited not three days before, albeit observing stringent social distancing protocols outside on his carport, never coming near each other’s space. Even so, I strained to remember if I had to scold Luke for trying to hug as he still sometimes does. Suddenly, the tickle in my throat was ominous. As usual, he modified disturbing news by declaring “isn’t that crazy?” This is his go-to coping mechanism for processing bad tidings, render it more absurd than awful and move on to dealing with it. I generally start and finish at the awful part.

Turns out his oldest son had been working out with friends raised within the ignorant confines of MAGA sensibilities. Apparently, the family had recently been down to Florida with little to no intention of modifying their lifestyles. Moreover, my friend had been moronic enough to attend a senior graduation party for his other boy, inside, with a buffet and no masks in sight. Upon receiving this news we fell into a decades-old routine of me incredulously lecturing him about his stupidity: “why the f*** would you hole up for three months and then do that. Idiotic!” He provided no good answers; yet and still, I would regret the admonishment later.

The first couple days after diagnosis, when I would call him first thing in the morning for a report on whether symptoms had started yet, he would chuckle and wonder aloud whether the test was accurate. “Nothing,” he reported, “I feel like having a beer.” Several more days in the conversations were less jovial, but he continued to maintain, with a touch of annoyance, “I’m feeling fine.” I decided I didn’t quite believe him and texted his wonderful wife, who had tested negative and set up shop on the other side of their spacious house. Turns out my instincts were correct; he was “exhausted” and feeling “pretty bad.” And thus began my best friend’s Corona siege, two plus weeks of stress and misery, punctuated by frightening symptoms a guy who previously bragged about seldom getting sick won’t soon forget.

Once the full on symptoms began, communication between us grew spotty, even as I railed at him for being too lame to even send a one sentence text that he was, in fact, still above dirt. I turned to his increasingly worried spouse, who had precious little positive news to report. When she texted me one evening they were heading to the ICU because he had become very anxious and breathing was a bit labored, I was badly shaken. Honestly, I had always assumed there was little doubt about which of us would go first. The idea he might not get through this suddenly became fathomable and frightening to me. Fortunately, his chest X-ray was unexceptional; he had a fever and his blood pressure was elevated, but he was sent home with a reassuring prognosis.

In fact, the next couple of days were very positive and his appetite began to revive. He speculated to me the worst was over. “I may have a beer,” he joked. I cautioned the Covid ride was a rollercoaster and plenty had been lured into a false optimism only to crash again. I hate being right. The next day his fever was spiking and he was so fatigued climbing the steps from his basement where he was exiled provided too much of a challenge. When he texted me “I’m really not feeling well. Let’s talk tomorrow…” I was crestfallen. Later that day he was back at the hospital after experiencing numbness throughout his right side. Stroke has been reported as a fatal offshoot of this virus, suddenly things appeared dire.

In the tale of Lonesome Dove, perhaps America’s greatest novel, legendary Texas Ranger, Gus McCray, is attacked by a band of warriors up in Montana. He fights them off, but suffers a couple of arrows to his right leg. By the time he reaches Miles City, the nearest town, blood poisoning has ruined both of his wheels. The town doctor, a drunk, amputates one of them, but passes out before getting to the other. Gus comes to first and brandishes his shooter, warning “old saw bones” attempts to “have a go” at his other leg will prove hazardous. By the time his best friend, Woodrow Call, who had been tending their herd of cattle, reaches Gus, it’s too late. Nonetheless, Call is having none of it and demands Gus permit amputation. “What do you need legs for anyway? All you ever do is sit around drinking…,” Woodrow declares. “Yea, but I like to kick a pig every once in a while….” is the dying man’s response.

My best buddy and I are no Texas Rangers, and very few if any would deem us legends, but I God we have been a pair! Friends who know us best appreciate our brotherly rancor, the comical familiarity we exhibit during our constant bickering. The frailties of one compliment the strengths of the other. The best of neither, the worst of either…. that’s what a very wise man once said about best friends. And that is us! As I pondered that night a scenario in which he failed to survive Covid, the possible loss felt overwhelming. The idea of him not being around had honestly never occurred to me. Now it did, and it loomed large.

Thankfully, we seem to both have been spared such misfortune as he now appears to have rallied decisively, although his wife and I remain cautious. He is again jonesing for a cold one and, with the exception of some lingering fatigue, is clearly on the mend. After near 20 days and 15 pounds of hell, he knows what being deathly ill feels like and won’t be taking good health for granted any time soon. As for me? I suppose I’ll now move on to worrying about other things…. like making sure to avoid anything similar, or worse. Keep your distance and wear a damn mask!! BC