People Remembered: David Heath

September 28, 2017

I’ve been thinking of my childhood friend David Heath lately.  Fifty years ago today he died.  16.  Dead within two weeks of a diagnosis of leukemia.

We had been friends all through high school.  In early September of 1967 I left for college.  He stayed behind a high school senior.

The first weekend of the school year, the weekend after Labor Day, I came home.  We went to a football game.  Two weeks later I went to his wake.

David.  Someone in the neighborhood introduced us.  His family had moved north from the Albany area when we’d just started high school.  Our families became friends and he and I did all sorts of things you do when you’re in high school.  We were always at each other’s homes.  His father taught me to make fried peppers and onions.  I still have photos of us swimming at the Oxbow in Cadyville during that summer before college.

I’d only been at school for a few days when my mother called to tell me that David had gotten sick.  A day later he was in the hospital.  The dominoes fell rapidly.  Within a week he was in a coma.  A diagnosis of cancer had come in.  On the 28^th Mom called to tell me he’d died.

I was 18 and had lost all my grandparents.  I was no stranger to death.  But this was different. This was my friend.  My contemporary.  He was only two years younger than I.  I came home.  Went to his wake.  Thought of the football game two weeks earlier.  The next day—the 30^th—it rained.  His funeral was at the Methodist Church.  I never saw his family.  He was buried near Albany.

I went back to college, moved on with my life.  At 18 the grieving process is different.  My cognitive/emotional development was not fully matured.  There are things that are just impossible to understand at that point in life.  I’d visit his parents when I returned to Plattsburgh.   His mother was clearly in a far deeper grief. I think she appreciated my visits.  I don’t know.  We never really talked about that.  I’d just listen and tell her I missed my friend, which I did.

The following spring, I tracked down the cemetery but it would be years before I went again.  Ten years after David died, 1977, I wrote his parents.  “I haven’t forgotten,” I wrote them.  But, like most 20 somethings, I moved in with my life and never contacted them again.

Sometime well into the 1990’s I went back to the cemetery and saw that his father had died.  I went through a new level of grief because I noticed that his father was my age then when his son had died.  He seemed so much older to me when I was 18.  By now, the emotional/cognitive process was fully in place and I could see what loss this was for his family.  Their only son.

The last time I visited, in the mid 2010s, his mom had died.  His sister and I the last surviving members of a small family.  Life’s circle.

I’m more able today to embrace mystery.  Why did he die at 16 and I why was allowed to live 50 more years? Why have I had four lifetimes to his one?  There are no answers, and that’s ok.

Fifty years!  All death is loss and it always diminished us in some way.  For me it deprived me of the possibility of a lifelong friend.  There’s never a September 28^th that rolls around when I don’t think of him.

Thanks, David.  It was wonderful to have called you friend.

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Things That Have Happened on My Birthday

March 30, 2017
Zipolite, Oaxaca, Mexico

I was born at 8:20 am on the morning of March 30, 1949.  It was not as easy birth.  My mother sacrificed her body so I could be born Caesarian.  She told me, more than once, that I was a “blue baby.” I’ve asked my aunt what that meant but she has no recollection of it.  I assume I was oxygen deprived. 

Over the years, I think my mother marveled that I had no long-term health damage.  I know I am fortunate, blessed.  My life could have been something else entirely

because of that deprivation. 

The earliest remembrance of a birthday is when I was six.  WE had just moved back from Florida and were living with my Uncle Francis on Broad Street.  In photos of me I am holding a clown birthday cake.  I still have the recipe in my mother’s old cookbooks.  It’s quite the cake and I seem to be very happy with it.

Those early birthdays flow one to the next.  There is always a party with my brother and cousins.  Typical 1950’s stuff—cake, ice cream, gifts.  Nothing theme related; nothing fancy.

My mother would ask us a few days before what we wanted to eat for our special birthday dinner.  For me, it was always chop-suey. 

Years and years later, when she was quite elderly, I asked her if she’d make me her Christmas applesauce cake.  She did—the last one she ever made. By then it was a tradition that had long passed.

What was fancy, though, as was so my mother who loved holidays and birthdays and any reason to decorated and be festive.  On the morning of our birthdays we’d awake, enter the dining room and find a single place setting had been set of her best china and silver.  Gifts would be on the plate and balloons and garlands would be strung from the chandelier above the table.

When I was nine, in 1958, we had a geyser. Or so we thought did as did the local media.  Hot steam emerged from the ground in the back yard.  When my Dad dug to fnd its source he found the earth hot to touch.  It was late March and the water table was still high and the standing water in the hole was hot enough to boil an egg.

This went on for the few days overlapping my birthday.  It wasn’t a geyser, of course, but we all entertained the idea of the property’s value as a new geological wonder.  It was, however, an overheated gas pipe that happened to run under out property from a home nearby that had operated a bakery many years earlier.  Someone had turned on the valve.  Once it was discovered and the valve turned off, all the drama ended.

Five years later: birthday #14—March 30, 1963.  We are in Florida on a family vacation and my parents have set up a three-day cruise from Miami to Nassau, the Bahamas. When we set sail it’s done in the old-fashioned way with streamers set off by all those sailing—something you now only see in old movies.  The weather is fine—until later that evening when a massive storm sweeps in.  Everyone is forced into staterooms.  Everyone by me.  For some reason, I don’t get sea sick.  Instead, I get lucky and win money in the casino.  No one bother to tell a 14-year-old boy that gambling was illegal.  For some reason, common sense to stop when the slot machines were in my favor.

Like every other teenager, I couldn’t wait to turn 18. In those days, I would be “legal.” That night, March 30, 1967, I walked over to a Mom and Pop grocery store, bought a quart of beer, carried it into Riverside Cemetery, sat on a low-rise mausoleum and drank it all down.

Because I could.  Not because I enjoyed it.  Fortunately, it never set up an alcohol pattern.

In 1978, for my 29^th, I was in Florida. My parents had just retired and I think my brother was there also.  I don’t remember anything special, but I do remember the angst I had over my age. End of the 20^th.  It was the beginning of a year of dread—turning 30 in a year. 

The next year I did turn 30—March 30, 1979.  The day before I saw my cousin John Ladue who was 20 years my senior.  I dumped out my woes.  “Oh, go home and kill yourself right now. Then you’ll always be 29.”

He was joking, of course, but those words have stuck with me since. What a waste of energy dreading a birthday.  Over the years, I’ve shared those words with lots of others who are dreading a particular birthday.

30 was an amazing birthday.  I was still teaching English and every one of my classes had a party.  That year I  got 8 cakes—some many I had to being one home to freeze it.

Twice Easter fell on my birthday and often the day before or after, yet never once do I remember an Easter themed birthday.  It will never happen again as the next time Easter falls on the 30^th will be in 2059.  I hardly expect to be around at 110 years old.

One birthday ran to the next and before I could count to ten I was forty!  Sally Goddard photopied 3” copies of the number 40 and plastered them all over the teachers’ room.   I was surrounded my people who were also turning 40 or who just turned 40, so it was just a fun way of reminding me that it was my turn.  Thanks, Sally!

Steve gathered people together later that weekend for a turkey dinner. I still have the silver

On my 49^th birthday my school graced us with a snow day.  A flood day, actually.  But Whiteface had no flooding and I was free and I spent a glorious day skiing in shorts.  The thermometer at mid station read 80 degrees!

A year later I was on my life’s dream trip around the world.  I’d thought long and hard where I wanted to be spend that day and chose Ayers Rock in Australia.  I went out of my way to get there, but was not disappointed.  I spent the day climbing on and around the rock.  I carried the few cards and gifts I had to the summit and opened them there.  A truly memorable birthday.

At 55, the day I could retire, I called in sick and went to Whiteface to ski. It was a glorious early spring day, cloudless, blue and reasonably warm.  Conditions were spectacular.  It was so spectacular, in fact, that I know I wasn’t the only one who played hookey from work.

At the top of a long, steep slope a massive group of people were waiting.  Below us was a film crew. 

“All of you who called in sick today, ski down now.  We’re shooting an ad.”

Hah!  Almost all of us scooted off that summit as fast as we could.

In 2004 my birthday came in quietly. That night I heard what was obviously a car crash in front of the house.  Some young drunk driver had slammed into a tree.  Luckily, no one was hurt.

I liked to say, later, that that birthday went out with a bang.

I would work for one more birthday.  Susan Ledges threw me a lovely party at school. 

A year later I would be in Playa del Carmen, Mexico.  My first year of retirement.  March 30, 2007.  I turned 58 with a party thrown by the language school I was attending.  It was the first year that anyone had sung Las Manaitas—the traditional Mexican birthday song.

When I turned 60 I wanted to be somewhere special.  That was the winter I spent in South America.  I wound my way to Iguazu Falls that lay on the border of Argentina, Paraguay and Brazil and spent two days there.  On the 30^th I bought ever service possible—boat ride, personal video, fantastic dinner.  If I had to turn 60, I might as well have done it with a splash!

A year later I was in Plattsburgh—the last time I’ve been north for my birthday.  My mother was dying, and the staff was as nice as they could be.  They gave me a small stuffed animal.  That evening, though, they turned off my mother’s life support.  It’s not a memory that weighs heavily on me, but I do remember it. The darker side of birthdays.

Since then I decided to celebrate my birthday in a way that neither my father or grandfather did.

Birthdays in my 60’s have been phenomenal.  Apart from two of them, all have been spent in Mexico where “Happy Birthday” is far less sung to me than Las Manaitas.

At 62 I climbed 16,000’ La Nevada outside of Toluca

A year later I headed to the state of Tlaxcala to spend the night at an old, and expensive, ex-hacienda.  As I got out of the bus a hail storm ensued.  “One hail of a birthday,” I later say.

Other years I’ve gone to Acapulco.  Two years ago, at 66, the same age my grandfather was when he died, I para-glided over Acapulco on my birthday.  Cool beans!

This year Gerardo arranged a family birthday celebration for me and his nephew, Derek.  We rented a trajinero in Xochimilco and spent a lovely afternoon cruising the old Aztec canals.

For my actual birthday, I went to the beach again, but this time to Zipolite.  I ate shrimp salad, bought a piece of tres-leches cake and had a massage.  Quiet and reflexive.

I do not like turning 68 and dread 70.  But I must be philosophical about all this.  I have had an extraordinary life and extraordinary birthdays.  I have my health, I have time and I have enough money to enjoy these days. For that I am supremely grateful.

I do not know what the next years will hold, but I can only hold on to each day and give thanks for that.

Happy Birthday, me.  And thank you—all of you—who have had a hand in making past birthdays special.

Happy Celebration of Life: Five Years Ago Today--My Near Death Experience

I have an acquaintance who survived the 9/11 attacks on the Twin Towers. By his very good fortune he was on a lower level of one of the buildings having breakfast that day. Only once did I ask him to tell me his story. He told me of running down stairs and as far away from Ground Zero as fast as possible. He told me of racing away as panes of glass and human bodies fell around him. He told me he was unscarred physically and emotionally. He knew he was a very fortunate man.

That was thirteen years ago. As time went on I made it my habit to send him a short email each September 11^th: Happy Celebration of Life it reads. There is not need to elaborate on anything else. He knows exactly what those four words mean to him.

Over the years he's always responded, not always addressing the email directly. He tells what´s happening around him and the fact that he recently married and that life in general is pretty darn good.

And so it is today, January 18^th, that I have come to observe my own Happy Celebration of Life.

Three years ago this morning my body was critically ill. For every liter of water going in, two liters was coming out. I'd not eaten much in days and the very thought of food was making me nauseous. I'd lost 15 pounds in less than a week. By early that morning, I knew something was terribly wrong.

I´d been sick for days and my first visit to my doctor curbed back the initial symptoms—a bit. On Day three, for whatever reason, Steve was home from school and we were Skyping I could barely get out of bed and he had to encourage me to get moving, take a shower, get dressed. He stayed with me the whole time. “Put on socks,” he'd tell me. “And now a shirt.” It was terrible. I can only imagine how powerless he felt. Then I called a taxi and went to the doctor.

But by day six I knew was even sicker.

It isn't often I reach out for help. It's not my nature, anymore than it's the nature of many people. Had my landlady been around I would have reached out to her, but she'd flown to LA that morning. Instead, I contacted the Mexico City daughter-in-law of a woman I knew from home. We'd met the year before and she and her husband told me that if I ever needed anything I was to ask.

Well...I needed something, and I needed it in a very big way. I sent her an email, and because the world has become flat, she picked it up in Boston. It took her no time to contact her husband in Mexico who in turn contacted his secretary and his driver. Maria called me immediately and told me that Marco, who I'd also met the year before, was on his way. Every few minutes she'd make contact with me just to make sure I was OK.

Ninety minutes later I was in the Emergency Room of Hospital Angeles in Interlomas, way outside of the City's center. The doctor spoke good English and between his English and my Spanish we got by. He suspected, as I did, giardia.  I was immediately given intravenous hydration as I'd lost a lot of liquid. I assume I was given meds in the ER for the infection.

“We suspect more,” he told me, “ And we'd like you to spend the night.” Thus followed more blood and stool samples. I was totally compliant. There was no question that this was out of my hands. I was just glad to be cared for.

While I was waiting in my apartment I'd sent emails to my aunt and to Kathy Crighton, my pastor. “I'm very sick,” I told them. “Please keep me in prayer.” I do not know what transpired on their end, but I do know that their prayers, and the prayers of others, helped me get through this drama.

Within a few hours of being in the hospital I began to feel better. My body was seriously dehydrated and the flagyl, which I just hate, was kicking in.

I spent the day communicating with home, setting up a series of credit cards to pay for this. I had no idea what it would cost, and I didn't care. I would pay anything to get better.

The next day I just hung around. I had phone calls and a visitor. My friend, Gerardo, whose birthday it was, made the long trip out to see me. He snuck in a can of Diet Coke, which I wasn´t allowed to have. I was able to walk with my IV's hanging off a bag. I brought him downstairs and bought him a piece of cake at Starbucks. “Feliz cumpleaños” I sang. I still had no appetite, but I could at least wish him well.

That afternoon the good doctor visited again. Not only did I have giardia, but e-coli and salmonella as well. I was given more meds. And I was also visited by a small team of very well spoken English speaking interns who queried me at length as to where I picked up this triad of diseases.

I will never know. No one I'd eaten with had gotten sick. I'd only been in the country five days before my first symptoms emerged. I was absolutely no help to them and they had every right to be concerned. This was serious stuff. At home it would hit the local news.

I have often thought of the source of these bacterium. It could be as benign as wiping my mouth after using the railing of the metro. I will never know.

Two days later, still weak but disease-free, I was released, but I hardly had my strength back. It would take a full week for some appetite to return and even longer to feel myself again. But throughout the winter I was never really well. I'd lost 15 pounds from the start of this sickness, but by early May I'd lost 27!

Once home, my local doctor re-diagnosed giardia. Apparently the infection was strong enough that the ten day regimen of antibiotic didn't kill it all. I was given another round of flagyl and by the beginning of the summer I was fully well—and much thinner. Some good things come out of illnesses.

***

I have thought many times of the event from three years ago; I have always been beyond grateful and appreciative that Scott and Amy, the local connection from Platttsburgh, were there for me and that they cared enough to get me to the hospital. I will always love them for what they did, 

I have honestly wondered what would have happened if they had not stepped forward. Three years ago I did not know Mexico City the way I do now.

I have never, nor will I ever, lose my appreciation for Pastor Kathy and my Aunt Gloria for the prayer team they set up. My recovery was not just the work of medicine, although I knew they worked in conjunction with God's grace.

Since that event, I have learned two things that expand what really was happening that day. One was shortly after I arrived home and someone I know well commented on my weight loss. When I told her the story, she simply said...”Your body was shutting down to die.”

And more recently, in a breach of privacy that is another story altogether, I learned that my case was the worst the good doctor had ever seen—and he'd been in practice for more than 25 years.

I am so grateful that I didn't know those things three years ago today. I would have been hysterical. As things played out that day, I never could use the word “drama” to describe any of it. I was sick. I called out for help. I went to the ER. I was treated. I got well. I was released.

It's only now do I realize that there was a great deal of drama going on that day. I could have died, but before that my organs would have shut down. It was already happening. Had I lived, I could be in very bad health.

People have often said told me that it wasn’t my time to go, and they are right. For whatever reason God still has a purpose for me. I do not know what that is, and I may never know. What I do know today, and I knew three three years ago, is that there was a divine component to this incident that pulled me through and got me well.

I have never lost an attitude of thanksgiving—for my family, my friend, for Scott and Amy, for Dr. Tache and for my Creator who had other plans for me three years ago.

It is only in the past year that I have really come to know how seriously ill I was and how January 18th, 2012 could have had a very different outcome. I´t could easily have been a very grave day indeed.

And so this is is my 9/11, my celebration of life. I didn't dodge panes of glass or falling bodies, but I did dodge mortality in my own way.

So I write these words with the deepest humility I know, and I give eternal thanks to those who were with me that day--to those who reached out, to those who cared locally, to those who prayed for me from afar. You who read this today... you must know, must know from the depth of my heart, that I will always love you for it and always give thanks for what you did.

And for me...Happy Celebration of Life, Dan. Happy Celebration of Life!