Randolph At the end of April, my best friend died.
To clarify, I married my best friend: my husband is my best friend now. But for a significant period of my life, Chris Esterhuyse was my best friend, and I still miss him.
At the risk of writing a navel-gazing post, I want to encourage you to tell the people you care about, that you care about them. I hadn’t spoken to Chris for more than a year, but at least the last time we spoke, it was on the phone (moving countries makes actual conversation challenging), and he told me he was happy. That’s what I remember, and it’s bittersweet.
In June 1994, my father died a week before my brother’s 13th birthday, and right in the middle of my “mid-terms”, which is what we called the practice exams for grade 12. It sucked. There’s no way to convey in words the depths I sank to in the years that followed. Although his last evening with us was upbeat and full of laughter, the one recurring memory I have of him 30 years later is from an argument we had a few weeks prior. That’s what I remember every time I think of him. Also monsters.
I remember thinking a few years ago, while shovelling snow one afternoon in Lloydminster, that I had been alive without my father in my life longer than I had with him in my life. And now that it’s been 30 years since his heart gave out, it feels weird to think about the person I was back then. It was me, obviously, but it isn’t me now. Back then I had no idea who I was, or what I would become. I am more than my memories of trauma.
I recently saw my brother, who has a framed picture of our father on the wall in his house (my brother reminds me so much of our father), and the artist who interpreted the source photograph the picture is based on, told my brother “he’s way cooler than you’ll ever be”, or something to that effect.
Yes, our father was eminently cooler than us. He finished school early after starting late. He smoked like a boss. He kissed the Pope’s ring. He played chess better than anyone. He was fluent in several languages, especially English, and could turn a phrase like no other. He ran circles around the best spreadsheet. Poet, humorist, loving spouse to my mother, and father to three children who never went hungry.
But what I always remember is that fight we had, when he told me, “I love you, but I’ll kill you.”
So, along with telling the people you care about that you care about them, if you’re also a parent, please be kind to your kids. They’ll remember those things long after you’re gone. Spend time with them, create happy memories, and if you fuck up, apologize for it.
I think that’s all. Sorry the last few posts have been bleak. We live in interesting times. That’s why I’m writing a comedy show.
P.S. I have a sister too. She’s awesome. My brother and I walked her down the aisle at her wedding.