Category: Writing Through the Quiet Struggles

It always happens when you least expect it. Every time someone I know dies, the news comes in the morning—always first thing.

It happened again yesterday. I woke up at 4 a.m. and checked my phone. There it was, a text waiting for me: “Damian’s dying, total organ failure.” Do you know how many times you reread a message like that at 4 a.m.? Too many, especially when Starbucks won’t open for another hour and a half.

You try not to cry. What good does it do, anyway? Then his brother calls, his voice trembling. It’s a call you don’t want to return. Forty-six-year-olds don’t just suffer from total organ failure because they’re schizophrenic, do they? There must be more to the story. But I’m 1,600 miles away, so I’ll probably never know why my friend’s body is giving out. Long ago, he was a meth user—maybe he was still doing it and that what caused his body to start shutting down. He’d tried to end his life before. That’s what some people with schizophrenia do, I guess. We haven’t spoken in over 5 years, so I’ll probably never know, unless, by some miracle or act of God he pulls through. I’ll pray for that miracle every day.

So, that was my Sunday. It was supposed to be a good day, but it turned out sad. He was never really all that nice to me. I’m not sure why I feel this way—maybe it’s the realization that life is short. Too short for regrets. Too short not to tell people you love them, even if they weren’t always kind. Sometimes, just having someone to talk to when no one else will is enough. That counts for something.

I hope he finds peace, in this life, or the next.