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Let's see. On January 20th, my best friend of 17 years called me to tell me that he had been diagnosed with cancer. After months of visits to the doctor for back pain and general malaise, his doctor ordered a CAT scan. They found a football-sized tumor in his abdomen and two smaller tumors surrounding his heart in his chest cavity. The initial diagnosis was lymphoma. This was a good sign, as lymphoma is one of the easiest cancers to beat. A bit or radiation, some chemo. Sure, he would lose his hair and some weight but at least he would be alive.
His physician ordered a biopsy on the tumor in his abdomen. On January 25th, that biopsy came back as stage 4 malignant melanoma. Suddenly, everything took a turn for the worse.
On January 31st he was admitted to the hospital. His partner and he looked at all options before checking him in. Since he worked in the restaurant industry, he didn't have insurance, their best bet was emergency Medical.
I got to the hospital about a half hour after he was taken into a room at the ER. During the 10 hours that I was with him, he had several in-room xrays in the emergency room, was given 3 pints of blood, had multiple doctors come in and poke/prod/examine him.
Around 7:00 pm, he was taken into emergency surgery to remove what the surgeons believe was a tumor that had grown large enough that it was creating an obstruction in his bowel. What they found was that his cancer had grown so much larger than they expected: his upper intestinal tract had ruptured and he had become septic. In other words, the cancer had gotten its way into his bloodstream.
The surgeons removed about 15' of his intestines and as much of the cancer as they could. They closed him up knowing that he would die. They gave him 48 hours to live. This was on January 31st. They sent him to the cancer ward and put him on self-controlled dilaudid to control the pain.
That night, I called everyone I could think of, both friends and family alike, to let them know that our dear friend wouldn't be with us much longer. I asked that they come out to San Diego if they could, and to pray for our friend if they couldn't make it out. Late that night, I stood in the canyon behind my house and screamed at God for allowing this to happen to one of the most beautiful souls he had ever created.
On Friday, February 3rd, the surgeons who operated on my friend came into his room in the cancer ward and told him that he had beaten 1,000,000 to 1 odds. They offered him hope.
That hope helped my friend last another 5 weeks.
Friends and family from all over the country came to see him. I hosted so many people here I lost count. The big joke amongst people at my house was that all I kept in my refrigerator were condiments and cheese. I didn't have any time to shop, so my cupboards were bare.
My friend was transferred to Hospice on February 8th. It was a beautiful room overlooking Mission Valley here in San Diego. He was loved and respected and taken very good care of during his time there.
At one point after the first of March, I actually joked with a staffer that my friend was the longest-living resident of Hospice.
At 5:18 am on March 11th, I received a phone call from my friend's partner. My friend had passed away.
I drove to Hospice crying the entire time. How could my best friend be dead? We lived the same lifestyle for the past 17 years. I should be the one who's dead, not him.
I walked into the room at Hospice and my friend lied there. His eyes were stuck open. Regardless of how many times I tried to shut his eyes, they wouldn't stay shut. His skin was still warm to the touch but my friend was gone. I eventually had to pull the sheet over his face because I couldn't stand to see him with his eyes open.
His memorial service was standing room only. His sister concluded the service by playing Amazing Grace on the bagpipes. There wasn't a dry eye in the chapel.
On September 11th, his partner and I rented a boat and took it out into the ocean off of Coronado Island. We selected a spot about a mile out from the Hotel del Coronado and distributed his ashes.
We chose September 11th because it was the 6-month anniversary of his death and 9/11 delayed his decision to go to New York to attend the French Culinary Institute, which was a dream of his for many years.
Today is also the 12 year anniversary of my mother's death of cancer, so it's an emotionally raw date for me.
I'm sorry if this is an inappropriate place to post this, but I need to get it out.
Teddy, I miss you so much. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of you. Your death is so unfair. I only wish you would have gone to see the doctor sooner. Maybe we would have had a little more time together.
I love you Ted.
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