It occurs to me that next month I will turn 24 and, barring some unforeseen catastrophe, knock on wood, the year after that I’ll be 25.I do not mean to imply that when that happens I will be old it is simply a statement of fact. However, with that statement is an epiphany of sorts, a solidifying of a well-known truth into inescapable concrete fact. On May 20, 2010 I will have officially outlived Anthony.
As I said the fact itself does not surprise me, in fact I suppose it could be argued that I had outlived him from the second his family made the choice to remove him from life support when I was 10. Perhaps it would have been better to say that next year and every year after I get the chance to experience life one day longer than Anthony ever got. That statement, so simple to put in print, carries with it a daunting sense of responsibility. I find myself holding my breath and praying in earnest that I won’t, to use a phrase uniquely mine, “screw the next 25 years up royal.”
I realize some back story might be a little bit helpful in explaining my trepidations over turning 25 which shouldn’t be all that scary for most people you would think. When I was 10 my dad managed a comic book shop for a friend, and because my family had recently chosen to home school us my younger sister and I got to go to work with my dad most days of the week. I remember bagels and cream cheese breakfasts from a coffee shop around the corner and, from the same coffee shop in winter hot chocolate with cinnamon, the memory or rather memories that stand in sharpest relief when looking back are those of Anthony. Tall, (at least to a 10-year-old) thin and lanky with red hair I don’t think I ever saw him without a smile on his face. I didn’t realize then it might have been painful for him to smile until shortly before his death.
The other thing of immediate note about Anthony was that you never saw him without a baseball cap, one baseball cap in particular. It was impossible to separate him from a baseball cap with the seven dwarves stitched into it, I know, I tried, repeatedly. Yes, as in Walt Disney. It became a game between us. I was determined to snatch his hat and play keep away with it until he left and he was equally determined that I wouldn’t get it. It should be noted that in the end he won. I never achieved my goal though he appeared to receive no end of enjoyment from thwarting me at the last possible second.
Dad also had several sets of foam swords covered in sparkly silver cloth which people would use to jokingly challenge each other to duels with, both inside the store and outside in the parking lot. In my scheming for his hat I grabbed one and attempted to knock his hat off his head. Well he couldn’t let the insult go unchallenged so of course he grabbed one and a “sword fight” ensued. Most of the time he would deliberately “handicap” himself and fight on his knees from the beginning though the few times I complained that he was making it too easy for me he would stay standing for the five or ten minutes it took him to make few halfhearted feints pretending to block my clumsy attempts at taking his knees out from under him, he always ended up on his knees anyway, and the end of that particular game usually saw him sprawled theatrically on the carpet, eyes rolled back in his head, tongue lolling out of his mouth, twitching in the throes of an excruciatingly painful “death” which I had, of course, dealt him.
I believed myself to be the greatest wielder of the blade that there was or ever would be. In my euphoria over my magnificent victory I temporarily forgot that my goal of obtaining the sacred hat had once again been thwarted, by the time I remembered (which was about time Anthony got up off the floor) and before I could become indignant at being duped… again… he said the one phrase that proved that no matter how sharp the blade that wins the battle subterfuge most often wins the war, “would you like a Dr Pepper?” Well now I couldn’t swipe his hat, not with a clear conscience! On the rare occasions that he won I would get myself a Dr Pepper and pay for his Mountain Dew. On further reflection I’m almost certain it was rigged in my favor. No” death” is too theatrical if it puts a smile on a child’s face apparently.
I remember almost down to the exact second I realized that death doesn’t care how much life you haven’t lived, it’s coming on its own schedule and then there is nothing you can do about it. Anthony had just left for the day and watching him walk out the door something clicked in my mind, “Dad, is it just me or is Anthony’s hair really brittle?”I knew that brittle hair was often a sign of sickness so the next question came out and sort of a breathless rush “is he sick?”
I don’t remember Dad’s answer verbatim but I remember the gist of it. Yes Anthony was very sick even though he didn’t look like it most of the time. Anthony had cancer. What kind? (Me) Leukemia, blood cancer. (Dad) Can he get better? May be for a little while. He has been sick for a long time, since he was your age. Will he die? Sigh. Probably.
If I had been able to stand I would have stumbled back in shock. I knew people my parents’ age could die from things like a gunshot wound (I knew this because we had recently had a friend die of one) but to die from illness was still the sole province of the elderly, and nobody I knew was that old. It wasn’t a matter of being sad, I couldn’t even be that. At 10 years old I was faced with a brief but still unsettling glimpse of my own mortality. If a young man could be sick from the time he was my age still not get better then what stood between me and death? The answer I came up with scared me then and, if I’m completely honest with myself, scares me now. The answer to a question that no 10-year-old ever expects to think about is: absolutely nothing. That is a very sobering thought no matter what age you are.
Life continued on, I never said a word to Anthony about his cancer and he never brought it up. Time flew past as it always does when you’re dreading something though on the surface nothing had changed, unless you can count the fact that my efforts to steal his hat had redoubled. I was determined to show him that even if his was falling out from chemotherapy (and it was) that I didn’t care and neither would anyone else.
Fast-forward to early spring. Somebody had rented a movie and bought hamburgers for everyone at the shop. Right at the beginning of the movie the bell over the shop door rang and Anthony walked in. There are some moments in time that of forever imprinted in the mind of a single person. Anthony’s last conscious moments on this earth are burned into my mind with all the permanence of a cattle brand.
To my eyes it was a miracle he was even standing there much less walking under his own power. In the short time since I had last seen him the leukemia had taken hold with a vengeance. For the first time his bright laughing eyes were clouded over with pain and dull. He had drawn in on himself and his skin, which now appeared almost as brittle as his hair, was paper thin and in that moment he reminded me of a little boy wearing a coat much too big for him.
Despite this he laughed and joked with everybody and looked at me with mock indignation and shock when as he was turning to leave I jokingly asked if he thought he was escaping without a hug. Anybody who knows me at all knows that if I choose to I can hug hard enough to knock the breath out of you, when I wrapped my arms around him I hugged him with the force that I would a very small child and still felt as though I was teetering on the edge of breaking him. All the same I held on for just a little longer than I normally would because a small voice told me this would be my last hug from him. He was smiling as he went to the parking lot, got in his car and drove home.
That was the last time I ever saw Anthony.
I found out on the day of his funeral that he made it home that night and went to be. At some point in the very early hours of the morning he slipped into a coma and was transported to the hospital, where he was kept alive via life-support for the next two weeks. I didn’t attend the funeral but Dad told me that they buried him with his hat. For some reason that made me feel better.
It’s been over a decade since Anthony died and some things have changed. Dad doesn’t run the store anymore, and the coffee shop around the corner has been closed for quite some time. I still give hugs that could endanger your life but I’m in college now and have been for several years. Right before spring break the first semester of my freshman year I decided to cut my hair, which I had not done since my senior year in high school and I knew exactly what I would do with it.
That was the “first haircut of the rest of my life”. The lady who cut my hair that day took off 18 inches, and instead of littering the floor to be swept up and thrown away later it still had a purpose. I cut my hair once a year now and smile to myself every time, sure in the knowledge that one child will not have to cling quite so tightly to a much loved baseball cap.
I have never met Anthony’s parents, I’m not even sure they still live in this state, but I hope they know that their son’s short life was not lived in vain. Because of Anthony I believe in haircuts and Walt Disney.