Raising a glass to a good friend

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This article was published 30/09/2020 (2213 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

My friend’s spirit left his body on a chilly afternoon in a lovely Winnipeg backyard in early autumn. He’d planned it that way. My friend — let’s call him Scott — and I met some six years ago. We have been helping each other and hanging out ever since.

He was a good neighbour, and it’s been hard to say goodbye.

Later that afternoon, I went to the local pub to order a single belt of Ardbeg 10 to drink to Scott’s memory. Other friends were there, but physical distancing was on my mind. I cut the pleasantries short to sit by myself, sipping Scotch and musing on memories of a man who’d shared tears and jokes that very afternoon — and was dead scant minutes later.

I recalled the events. We’d been a congenial company — the honoured guest, an assemblage of siblings, partners, offspring and me. We gathered on the deck by a swimming pool Scott had maintained over the years. The cabana bar was stocked and open. The chairs were in a circle, and flames from the table heater warmed against the chill.

Beside the pool was a coffin designed and built to resemble a large Lego block, featuring more than 60 wooden dots to mark the length of Scott’s days.

We clustered around the flames, sipping coffee and sharing banter. Early on, Scott’s partner beckoned me near to talk about the home care attendant who’d wept when he said goodbye on Scott’s final night. He expressed appreciation for working with a family who showed so much love to each other during this cancer journey. She wept in the telling.

Throughout the rest of the proceedings, she was composed. Grieving, yes, but her emotions were largely spent in the rigours of the past year.

We listened carefully when Scott began to speak more seriously. He mentioned his residual belief in God, a “distant Christian,” as he put it. He acknowledged failures and regrets in his years. He spoke of some fear, but harboured a strong hope for a blissful eternity. He expressed immense satisfaction with the outpouring of love that made his past few weeks a season of family restoration.

Scott’s adult children were a godsend, attentive to his desires and responsive to his needs, active and engaged, with their dad’s well-being the goal. The experience bonded them all in meaningful ways. They were practical and imaginative, doing their grieving in the process of being good helpers. They’d come as soon as they could when they learned his diagnosis. That marked a clear beginning, and the activities of the afternoon delivered an ending most solemn.

The night before he died, Scott casually asked me to share a few comments with the company. I focused on the value of relationships and highlighted my own role as a friend of a very ordinary kind. Because we lived in the same building, Scott and I bumped into each other frequently. It struck me again how a multiplicity of small encounters accrues to a companionable friendship — the sort that will be sorely missed.

Helping others was a driving force in Scott’s character. We remembered how he liked to be the guy who went above and beyond. We also touched on religious themes. I spoke to my Christian faith’s abiding hope in a loving Creator and an enduring human spirit. Such thoughts often comfort my soul. They did for Scott, too.

I concluded with a blessing: “May the God of hope fill us with all joy and peace as we learn to trust, so that we may overflow with hope by the power of our Creator’s eternal Spirit.”

The mood in the circle grew more somber after the team from Medical Assistance in Dying (MAID) arrived. They were informative, courteous and discreet, meeting with Scott privately to secure his final consent, and then the nurse inserted the IV tubes into his arm that would deliver the medicines that would carry his life away.

Scott selected a section of the yard from which to bid farewell — “a good taking off spot,” he called i t— and we gathered near around him. Pictures. Hugs. Tears. I saw no shrinking from the imminent death. He was accepting, brave, and minutes later … dead.

After a brief spell to absorb the finality and complete formalities, the kids wheeled Scott back to the conversation circle beside the coffin. For 45 minutes or so, the stories flowed. Shortly before workers arrived to take away the body, the kids picked up their dad and laid him to rest inside the coffin — the coffin Scott had designed, and they brought into being.

As the vehicle bearing Scott’s body drove away, I received a nice hug from one of his kids, who spoke of the peace that had settled the night before, of a wonderful rest and a pervasive sense of satisfaction with the way the family came together to make Scott’s final days so special. They honoured his wishes, laid on the love he so craved, and observed the rituals he desired.

I finished my own wee ritual, sipping the last drop of the peaty Scotch, its taste a sharp reminder of the down-to-earth man who died that afternoon. Scott himself was with us one moment; only Scott’s body was there the next. His spirit gone. He is gone.

Now, like the mingled flavours that surface once the initial bite of the Scotch subsides, may my continuing memories add meaning to the legacy of a man I’m glad became my friend.

Doug Koop is a spiritual health practitioner and freelance writer.

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