Three parts to a Friday

A hard night has fallen

Three weeks ago, almost to the hour, the sisters, Emily and our dad escorted Craig from his apartment one last time. Wrapped in his golden bed sheets, two pictures we kept close to his chest, and dressed in his red "Beer Lao" shirt he bought while traveling (and the one Sandy, the hospice nurse, commented on just days before), we walked tall with our hands draped over him as he was respectfully escorted on a gurney by his apartment management through a private exit. Three weeks ago, we coached Craig through his last moments of life, and watched as his last breath left his body and his pulse faded from view. We--his sisters, girlfriend and Dad--"called it" when it seemed he had passed. Three weeks ago, the remnants of the last 24-48 hours filled the trashcans with saline syringe wrappers and times of binge drinking (Diet Mountain Dew and Coke Zero). Three weeks ago, Craig's hospital table held his glasses, his bell, and his next dose anti-lung secretion medication. Three weeks ago, the pictures we hung for Craig still peppered the door, minus Mom's infamous "thumbs up" picture and a picture of the family we placed on his chest after he passed. Three weeks ago, a single rose rested on his pillow marking where he once laid. Three weeks ago...

Nine months ago, Craig was running around a cross-country track.

A sentimental overture

It's Friday night. A nearly full moon floats just outside Craig's 31st floor window as Jill quietly strums his guitar. After a bit of tuning, she is playing one of her own--a song that would mesmerize Craig by her picking ability time and again. If you close your eyes, you can see him listening, staring intently at her fingers and strings waiting for the opportunity to try his hand. "How do you do that?" he'd say before showing off his own talents.

Ten more years of Craig's musicianship and who knows what we'd find. For so many, he was that very sexy harmonica bluesman, playing on stage with a mysterious story to tell. To us, he was our brother hamming it up for the masses, and probably using routines he first tested on his sisters. I once had the opportunity to see him play at one of his gigs. I had a hunch he was talented (being a "Lawler" and all), but never knew his talent hit the next stratosphere until I saw him perform. He came alive; he made people come alive. Ten years from now...

Boxes now crowd Craig's living room and bookshelves are empty except for a few keepsakes. We packed most of Craig's things, leaving the more emotionally tormenting items for some other time. Hard doesn't begin to describe the process or the feeling when we find paper towels and chapstick in his long business coat, which he likely wore prior to being diagnosed. Or, the harmonica found among his jump drive and pens. The sight of his things left behind, the seemingly mundane items that defined him that are now left waiting cut to the bone. We stumbled upon a plastic bag found in his more "winter" coat pocket, the one he wore when visiting Oklahoma over President's day just weeks before diagnosis. Before being officially diagnosed with recurrent cancer, he'd have a bag handy for the "recurrent" spontaneous vomiting. I suspect that's why he had it in his jacket. It's a difficult detail to face.

Hard doesn't begin to define what it's like to box up Craig, to see where aspects of my brother's life stopped.  His things rest in the same place, as if waiting for re-engagement, for the vibrant harmonica player to return with a new Friday night activity up his sleeve. His "industrial strength" paper towel left in his coat pocket somehow magnifies the notion of never taking life for granted. In a day, life as you know it can very well change.

Jill is still strumming. She looks at a music book she found while boxing Craig's things. Still, the music she plays is her own...and Craig's.

Finding friends on a Friday night

Tonight, we spent the evening with some of Craig's closest friends dating back to his first weeks in Denver and his time at his "first job". Two long tables were pushed together to fit Craig's crowd to which we had to pull even more chairs. I remember gazing over the group; most have found other jobs and other lives since their first meeting at the "first job" years ago, yet they were friends, still friends, connected in some way by Craig. I'm not sure if the other patrons noticed, but, to me, this group was the envy of the restaurant. It's no wonder why this was his crowd. Personable, inviting, kind, unique--they all have something different to offer, and complete one another in that way. I couldn't help but envision Craig amongst them and wished that I could have been a fly on the wall as he interacted with his group--oh how he'd shine. I'm sure he was that guy who'd crack a joke or would share some sordid tale of a date gone awry.

From his stories, I know Craig counted himself lucky to call these folks his friends. His friends are indeed lucky to have known Craig.

Speaking for his family, we're lucky to know both. ~E