Somehow, during the COVID-19 pandemic that’s taken over a hundred thousand lives, and in the midst of the storm caused by the murder of George Floyd, death hit home with me one more time this morning. And it hit hard.

In July I would have lived next door to him for six years. He was a slight man, always on the thin side but vital for a man older than me by at least a decade. He used to help the community association with replacing light bulbs on all the front porch lights and setting the timers. He cleaned up the pet waste bags and replaced them. He was always walking around, always.

There was a neighbor close by. She was confined to a wheelchair, and she was a big woman with MS who had once been a ballerina, proof that life can be so pitiless. She often fell while trying to get on the toilet or in and out of bed. She’d call Rich, who had a key. If he could not help, she already had medics on the way because her Life Alert or similar device could detect a fall. The guys from Tower 10 often came too, as it took a bit of muscle to lift her up. Sometimes she got hurt in the fall and the medics took her. But Rich helped her with a lot of things because he was just that way.

When I first moved in, I had no cellphone or cable. Nothing to do at all. But Rich would bring over his copy of The Washington Post once he was finished, and that really helped me feel connected to the world. Last year at Thanksgiving, he and his wife brought my housemate and me a plate. Rich was always thinking about others. He was a kind, generous and honorable man. He was a true friend.

About two years ago, he went into intense abdominal pain. He’d had it before and he thought he knew what it was. He visited his gastroenterologist, who detected a blockage in his bowel, just like the first time. Only this time surgery was necessary because the blockage was severe. During surgery as the doctor removed the blocked section of bowel, a growth was spotted. At first it appeared to be something that another procedure could fix. But for good measure a sample was taken for a biopsy.

The bad news came back: cancer. The growth was malignant, but the oncologist thought it could be handled with chemotherapy and surgery. We both had the same gastroenterologist and oncologist, something we took a bit of bonding over.

After a short recovery, he seemed back to his old self. Except for his treatment days. But it usually didn’t stop him from doing the things that occupied his time in retirement. I got used to the soft sound of his footsteps. If he was close enough I could tell him by his silhouette. His walk. The way his hands always faced palm to the rear. Even one foggy day, with my cataracts and retinopathy and, at the time, a hematoma, I knew that was him coming towards me. You can get to know someone very well just by recognizing the sound of their footsteps. You can even estimate parts of their demeanor and personality. It’s amazing what you learn when you depend on other senses when one is failing.

A year ago he was given more bad news. He spent the holidays going through radiation therapy and more rounds of chemo, and the most aggressive things the doctors could throw at him. He once told me, “I’m going to fight this thing.” But I’d heard those exact words from someone else. When Rich said it, I knew he had little time left. When his stepson told me the cancer had spread to the lymphatic system, I knew it wouldn’t be much longer. I stayed positive, asking Rich how he felt, and he’d say, “Not too bad today,” I would say, “That’s what I like to hear!”

I felt like a fucking heel. A liar. I hate dishonesty. I knew he was dying, but I put on some act like the asshole I am. I should have shut up and let him keep talking.

He never spoke much in the first place.

Following the holidays, I saw him doing the same chores, driving to the supermarket, and his energy seemed level enough, but he was dropping serious weight. Day to day it might not look so dramatic, but I saw it because I could identify him by his silhouette. The man was dying. Fast.

Three weeks ago I saw him walking around. Then his stepson told me Rich was in the hospital. He said it wasn’t looking good.

Suddenly, he came back home. His stepson told me that there was nothing else the doctors could do. I knew what that meant. I never saw him alive again.

A few days ago they got him a hospital bed. But his stepson told me that Rich hadn’t eaten for several days, couldn’t even open his mouth except far enough to take his pain medication and a sip of water. He had stopped talking, too.

At about 02:30 hours, today, in the dark of night and during a thunderstorm, or between storms, I can’t remember, Rich began to talk. He was talking to his mother and some other relatives. All of them had long since passed. They were coming to help him not be scared when it happened.

St 02:32 hours, he died. I told my friend, his stepson, how very sorry I was. Those seem such empty words. It’s all I had. I waited outside for a few hours waiting for the undertaker to arrive. It’s bad enough that I can’t imagine the world without him in it; I had to say goodbye. I was glad of only one thing. I’d once told him, “I love you guys.” He said, “We love you, too.” One of the few times in my life those very important words were not left unsaid.

When they brought the body bag outside to the stretcher, I was shocked. I could not believe a body was in there. It looked like a rolled up canvas sheet. I had to ask which end his head was on. They told me.

I said the last words I will ever say to him. He couldn’t hear. His mom had taken him to a place where he was free of pain. He was finally free…

I said, “Goodbye, Rich. What a helluva friend you were.”

Then I cried.