His face will not be seen again
Some of you who've been reading this for awhile may remember a character I know I've mentioned once or twice – a man about town I used to refer to as "the Sweater," because he was always sweating. I just found out he died this week. He was two years younger than me.
This is not someone I was close to, or even knew very well. But I did know him, and I always hated how ambivalent I felt about him. On the one hand, he was interesting – and there's a sad shortage of what I would call "interesting" people in this town, people who would catch my attention in a crowd, whom I would watch and think about possibly getting to know. He did a lot of volunteering, like I do, and always seemed to be around, at any public event and even at weird private functions where I wouldn't expect to see anyone I knew. He also had a certain rough kind of charm, despite the sweating and the cigars. He was intelligent and unconventional and accomplished (in some things). He seemed like someone who might have become a friend.
But he never did. He had a creepy, drunken, angry and out of control side that always seemed to come to the forefront of any conversation or interaction I had with him, and usually sooner (rather than later). We might start out talking about dogs, and then dog breeding, and then suddenly he would have turned it into a leering inquisition into my reproductive status, and whether I might be interested in "mating" sometime.
It didn't take many of those conversations before I started avoiding him.
Over the last year or so though I had started feeling weird about that. Enough time had passed since he'd offended me that I started seeing him as neutral again, instead of as an icky, unpredictable oddball best steered clear of. Also, his health was clearly deteriorating. He was always out of breath, and sweating more than ever. He'd always been fat, but suddenly he was really fat – so fat his skin looked tight and shiny, as if it might split right open – so fat his arms always seemed to be floating out to his sides. His feet and legs (always in shorts) were starting to look dark and burned, maybe from the sun, or maybe from some kind of skin condition. Actually, after all the reading I did about diabetes last year I was assuming it was a sign of nerve damage or necrobiosis lipoidica (look it up); certainly his feet and lower legs looked ripe for amputation, even though he was still using them to walk around on.
Anyway, all of these factors combined to soften my attitude toward him, and the few times I saw him I did say hi, and even used his name, which seemed to please him. But I still kept my distance. I didn't want to take a chance at having my day disrupted by some off-color remark.
A few weeks ago I was with a friend at the cafe near my office when he sauntered by on his tight, swollen legs and worn-down flip-flops. I knew he'd been in jail for awhile, and was now living in his car with several large dogs. "I'm worried about him," I said. "He's going to die if he doesn't start taking better care of himself."
And now he has died, and I feel strangely guilty for not feeling something more than just plain old sad. I wish I hadn't predicted his death out loud, even though his decline was obvious to anyone who cared to see.
It's strange to think I won't be seeing him around anymore. He's been a strong and visible presence in town for as long as I've lived here.
And what could I have done for him, other than what I did, which was to say hello and smile and assert myself, even if it was only lightly, as a friendly presence in his life? You can't tell people what to do, how to take care of themselves. We all do the best we can. Acceptance and support are what helps people heal – or maybe not even heal, but just live. Not criticism, contempt or unsolicited advice.
Still. It makes me want to try a little harder to extend myself to people around me, who could maybe use an encouraging word from time to time. Really, who couldn't?
This is not someone I was close to, or even knew very well. But I did know him, and I always hated how ambivalent I felt about him. On the one hand, he was interesting – and there's a sad shortage of what I would call "interesting" people in this town, people who would catch my attention in a crowd, whom I would watch and think about possibly getting to know. He did a lot of volunteering, like I do, and always seemed to be around, at any public event and even at weird private functions where I wouldn't expect to see anyone I knew. He also had a certain rough kind of charm, despite the sweating and the cigars. He was intelligent and unconventional and accomplished (in some things). He seemed like someone who might have become a friend.
But he never did. He had a creepy, drunken, angry and out of control side that always seemed to come to the forefront of any conversation or interaction I had with him, and usually sooner (rather than later). We might start out talking about dogs, and then dog breeding, and then suddenly he would have turned it into a leering inquisition into my reproductive status, and whether I might be interested in "mating" sometime.
It didn't take many of those conversations before I started avoiding him.
Over the last year or so though I had started feeling weird about that. Enough time had passed since he'd offended me that I started seeing him as neutral again, instead of as an icky, unpredictable oddball best steered clear of. Also, his health was clearly deteriorating. He was always out of breath, and sweating more than ever. He'd always been fat, but suddenly he was really fat – so fat his skin looked tight and shiny, as if it might split right open – so fat his arms always seemed to be floating out to his sides. His feet and legs (always in shorts) were starting to look dark and burned, maybe from the sun, or maybe from some kind of skin condition. Actually, after all the reading I did about diabetes last year I was assuming it was a sign of nerve damage or necrobiosis lipoidica (look it up); certainly his feet and lower legs looked ripe for amputation, even though he was still using them to walk around on.
Anyway, all of these factors combined to soften my attitude toward him, and the few times I saw him I did say hi, and even used his name, which seemed to please him. But I still kept my distance. I didn't want to take a chance at having my day disrupted by some off-color remark.
A few weeks ago I was with a friend at the cafe near my office when he sauntered by on his tight, swollen legs and worn-down flip-flops. I knew he'd been in jail for awhile, and was now living in his car with several large dogs. "I'm worried about him," I said. "He's going to die if he doesn't start taking better care of himself."
And now he has died, and I feel strangely guilty for not feeling something more than just plain old sad. I wish I hadn't predicted his death out loud, even though his decline was obvious to anyone who cared to see.
It's strange to think I won't be seeing him around anymore. He's been a strong and visible presence in town for as long as I've lived here.
And what could I have done for him, other than what I did, which was to say hello and smile and assert myself, even if it was only lightly, as a friendly presence in his life? You can't tell people what to do, how to take care of themselves. We all do the best we can. Acceptance and support are what helps people heal – or maybe not even heal, but just live. Not criticism, contempt or unsolicited advice.
Still. It makes me want to try a little harder to extend myself to people around me, who could maybe use an encouraging word from time to time. Really, who couldn't?
Labels: diabetes
1 Comments:
Wow.
I wish I could be a little more charitable toward people sometimes. I tend to operate on a one-strike-and-you're-out sort of basis. That remark about "mating" would have been the one strike for me, I think.
Still. His life was obviously difficult and he obviously had tons of issues. Sad.
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