in a difference of degree
just one little victory
A spirit breaking free..."
–Rush, One Little Victory
In less than two weeks he would've turned 60. We talked about that a lot in the last few years of his life. He looked forward to it, because although living each year beyond 50 was harder, it was a win, nonetheless. For decades he told me he always said he wanted to see what happened next, wanted to be a part of what happened next. And for the most part he did. And was.
The last time we were all together was right after he turned 59, way back in January. The four of us and Robby, celebrating our over four decades of friendship, and what now feels like a lifetime ago. Because at our age, another year of life can be a lifetime when it's lived well and full. The cosmic joke is that you blink and life races by; your little kids are now teens; your teen friends are now 60. But I'd argue that my dear friends and I, including Robby, have always lived well and full, even when it didn't feel that way. And I've had plenty of feeling that way, especially in my younger years.
Those younger years are but bittersweet memories now. Bittersweet, building-block years of lessons learned and of letting go. Of embracing each moment since and living it as if it was my last. Of being grateful for my life, my wife, my children, my family, and my friends.
Last January was a lifetime ago. Since Robby passed away in February, the four of us -- Rob, Greg, Craig, and me -- have seen each other more than in previous years, including Robby's celebration of life, and we're grateful for every visit. Two of us turned 60 and we all celebrated together. Robby would've wanted it that way. He loved having us all together, even when he'd obsessively complain about our past transgressions when we were all together.
I miss our laughter. I miss our catch phrases and jokes. I miss our high school reminiscing. I even miss his obsessive complaining about our past transgressions. We talked regularly on the phone over the years since we only saw each other once or twice a year. His heart broke for me when my first marriage ended. It broke for me when I had a falling out with another longtime friend of ours. He was happy for me when I finished college. When I finally overcame my darkness. When I met my wife Amy and when we had our two children. And he loved the fact that I learned how to drum when I was 55.
Paralyzed from a swimming accident our senior year in high school, he became a talented artist over the years. But it got harder for him to draw and paint as his body atrophied, his strength dissipated, and his chronic neurological pain increased. He also struggled with meds. The last two years of his life were difficult for him, and he was in and out of the hospital with broken bones and infections. We're grateful that his sister Diana kept us informed of his health.
My heart broke for Robby every time we talked. He would've given anything to be able to walk again, to live an able-bodied life like the rest of us. But Robby lived as full of a life he that he could -- happily, and full of warmth, humor, sincerity, and love. His sister was right: "He lived the biggest life anyone in his situation could have. Robby had a golden glow that I’m sure still radiates from him wherever he is."
He talked a lot about getting back to his art. The last five years of his life he'd bring it up in nearly every phone call and I encouraged him to get back to it. Both our children are artists, and when we all visited Robby a few years ago, they were blown away by his artwork (and all his comics and his amazing superhero figurine collection).
After Robby died, his sister shared a picture with us that he had drawn the day before he passed. To me, it expressed the physical pain he'd experienced over the years. But it also embodied a spirit breaking free.
Blessings to you, my friend. We'll celebrate your 60th and your spirit come 2026.
