Being here means not being there

One of the factors that made my move to Chicago an attractive choice was the chance to be closer to my family.  Having spent most of my adult life living a 10-12 hour drive away, the thought of being able to pop over to my father's or sisters' houses for an afternoon was appealing.  My dad is 88 and doing well, but it is comforting to be able to see him more frequently than I could living in the east.

But, moving closer to my family meant moving further away from others i care about. I've missed being able to meet my dearest friends for dinner or lunch, meeting monthly with my book group friends, and seeing familiar faces around town.

One of the people I found the hardest to leave behind was my colleague, Bill. But, while it was hard for me, it made no real difference to him.  Bill had dementia and by the time I left Syracuse he no longer recognized me or remembered that we had worked together.My absence would go unnoticed by him.

For four years, Bill and I had lunch together nearly every week.  At first, it was a way to help him transition to his new role of professor emeritus, to his retirement.  People were concerned about how he was adjusting, but it turned out his problems weren't the result of retirement, they were the result of forgetting.  For a year or so, Bill came into his office nearly every day, but the day came when it wasn't safe for him to drive or safe for him to be alone.  So, I started meeting Bill at his home.

Our relationship was not conventional.  We had not really been friends before his retirement and we didn't have much in common.  But, Bill came into my life at a time I was becoming enamored with the power of stories, the fragility of memory, and the value of listening.  We forged a friendship based solely on the present and what Bill could remember of his childhood--summers spent at the Jersey shore, his beloved grandmother, working with his father as a tree surgeon.  After some time listening to these stories, I suggested we write them down and Bill enthusiastically agreed.  We started our work on Bill's life story.  Bill would sit and tell me stories and I would record them.  Later, when his memory deteriorated, we would sometimes read the story together and he would marvel at the similarities of this fictional "Bill" to his own life.

When Bill died recently I struggled with the decision to make the trip to his services. It was going to be quite difficult and expensive to get back to Syracuse.   It was when I came face to face with the simple reality of my move--to be closer to some, I needed to be further from others.  In the end I didn't go, but the memories we recorded together became an integral part of his eulogy and a treasured gift to his family. 

In the end, I was there through his stories, but more importantly, Bill's voice was there. His life, his memories, his stories. I promised Bill I wouldn't forget him and I never will.