Distance, Death and Facebook

Whenever I go to Michigan to visit my parents I bump into somebody from my past.  A high school friend at Starbucks, a familiar face at the movie theatre, a wave to someone whose name escapes me at the gas pump.

I hadn’t seen Jeff in years.  My most vivid memories of him are in a hockey jersey when we were ten, maybe some high school snapshots, a moment or two from college.  And then I am back in my hometown for one of those short visits, where you fly in at an un-godly hour so you can squeeze in four meals (lunch, dinner, breakfast, lunch). 

On the way to my parents’ house I stop at Steve’s Deli for a corned beef sandwich.  Walking in my eye catches a familiar face, I stop to say hello.  He is sitting outside at a table with someone having lunch.  I approach him, my hand outstretched and his arms open wide and he welcomes me back as a long lost friend.

He looks healthy and strong and maybe even he didn’t know what poison was moving through his body.  I welcome the embrace.  We talk for a few minutes, exchange family anecdotes, I ask about his wife.  “It was great seeing you, take care.”  “And you too.”

And 24 months later he is dead at 43.  It was the last time I saw him and it is my most enduring memory.  I recall almost nothing from the trip, but I do remember saying to my mom, “Guess who I just bumped into at Steve’s…Jeff Camiener... Yea, Emily Holzman…He’s doing great.”

Living away from your hometown you feel a detachment at first and then a complete dislocation.  You return and the places are familiar, but the names and faces have changed.  No one lives in those houses any more.  You remember the street names, but have trouble finding them from behind the steering wheel.  When you move to a new country the time change makes finding a convenient time to talk impossible, and your efforts to stay connected move online.

When Jeff got sick his friends started a Facebook page and I felt like a voyeur watching his illness, his life and death unfold.  And when it got near the end I checked more frequently for updates.  And then the messages morphed from, “Stay strong” to “the world has lost a mensch.” 

And I wanted to reach out because I felt so close to them, but I was still distant and I knew the closeness was one sided.  And then the funeral was broadcast midday in Detroit and here in London it was closing time and my office mates were going to the pub, but I stayed behind.  And here I sat alone in my office, 4000 miles from home watching the drama of a young man’s funeral as his parents, wife and two young sons escorted his coffin. 

So when the camera pulled back I scanned the crowd for faces of old friends, memories.  And I spotted some familiar people, mostly older, bigger, grayer.  And I was grateful for the connection to these people and places and the technology that allowed me to appreciate a life even in his death.