second hand

My friend Andy passed away almost two weeks ago. He had been diagnosed with cancer in June last year, and had gone into remission, but it came back at the beginning of this year. Andy married Melissa in the midst of his treatment. i know i write some marathons, but he found them pretty dull - he once told me to not bother writing an email to him because he'd rather hear it from me.

despite this, i've sat back trying to write a few words of inspiration or succinct feeling about our friendship, however i wrote this instead.

Andy was very funny. he made a lot of people laugh. we had a similar sense of humour (probably a major basis for our friendship) and could ostracise a third party in any conversation just by talking about the weather. we worked together for a short time and when he drove us every morning, i could've just travelled around all day chatting (the work wasn't particularly exciting). there are many funny things he said in my presence, all probably not funny without the context. here is my favourite pickup line of his:

'I may not be the best looking guy in the room, but I'm the only one talking to you.'
there was another one, but i can't recall it. i never could. he had to repeat it to me on a weekly basis and i laughed at it on a weekly basis.

a few of us were sitting in the hospital one day and he was talking about his options and, the leukemia being in his arm, he chatted about amputation. Andy said it wouldn't be so bad because he could get another one second hand (i'm giggling just thinking about that).

and then, of course, intense Andy. serious and forthright. i often felt uncomfortable with how direct and no-nonsense our conversations could get, but they grew on me to the point that i could actually join in. one evening, we drove around Wellington for a couple of hours as he talked about his relationship with Melissa (not a story for me to tell), and in the conversation, he was resolved. his love was obvious to him and he was happy.

his demands weren't consistent with this intensity though. there were times he asked for something (or simply told me to do something) but nothing overbearing. i wonder if that's a paradox...


during our conversations after his diagnosis, there seemed to be nothing we couldn't say to one another. i feel blessed to have spent that time with him and honoured to have been invited to do so.
i miss Andy. i've missed him since i left NZ. the last time we talked, we barely mentioned death. we said we'd watch the rugby world cup together in september and october. and the last time i saw him was in a hospital, so it isn't really the setting of the relationship i know.

i'm not sure if this is a sad indication of our lives or not, but it's real: our friendship was basically developed sitting on couches while watching TV, or out playing pool, or going to the movies and giving Ben Affleck shit about his acting. we sat in an AIESEC office trying to offend other people, went to parties and irritated people with our obnoxious dry wit, and, on many occaisions, looked more deeply into our souls together. i believe Andy found something in his soul he loved, and that's what kept him fighting.

every time, EVERY TIME we talked about his cancer, he was looking for what he'd do next to beat it. that's a man who loves his life, the people in his life, and himself.

i love you, Andy.

i don't know how to say goodbye, but i think it'll probably include a long, drawn out drive around the Wellington Harbour bays, followed by fish'n'chips, a game of pool and maybe a video. i would save Damo the annoyance of me talking too much shit during said vid, but that wouldn't be appropriate, would it?

then again, we always considered doing other things. if i think of anything more inspiring...