(This is the final part of my essay about friend John Yoakam.  Part 1 is here.  Part 2 is here.)

In early April, John and Gary arranged for hospice after another trip to the hospital to manage pain and complications.  From the hospital, knowing he was going home to hospice care, John said:

 I will be comfortable at home and be able to focus on what is important for the time I have left on this planet, namely time with Gary, friends, and family. 

And on the trip back to his and Gary’s place, he thought of “three good things” that he could celebrate, despite all the recent hardship.  Specifically,

1. That he would receive the GLBT Generations Award for Community Service on May 14 at the Columbia Heights Theater.

2. That he is a nominee for the Sister Linda Kulzer Gender Education Award (College of St. Benedict / St. John's University), and

3. That very morning, his good friend and colleague, Ozzie Mayers was presenting an overview of John’s recent sabbatical research on gay men in retirement at the American Men's Studies Association Annual Conference in Montreal.

Who but John would find those three silver linings to a day when there was every reason to see himself turning a last, sad corner?  And what wonderful timing to affirm his impact on, and contribution to, a world where more compassion and understanding are so sorely needed.

Last week there was another notification from Caring Bridge.  John was adjusting to his new hospice life at home.  He told us:

Gary took me for a stroll around Loring Park in the wheel chair this afternoon. I couldn't have anticipated the joy I experienced being outdoors again, my first time since coming home from the hospital. As we sat by the shelter at the end of Loring Pond, and I listened to the birds chirping, I uttered to Gary "I've lived through another winter," and began to cry. Tears of joy, release, which went beyond the careful preparations for the end of life which I'd been doing in the past few days [prepaying cremation arrangements, purchasing a niche in the mausoleum at Lakewood Cemetery.] While all of those arrangements are important and necessary, it was that sense of Life that burst through as I felt the sun on my face in the park, the smell of the earth, the sounds of nature and others enjoying a spring day in the park. It's good to be Alive! John

I cried at that one.  How like him.  Enjoying every single moment.  Draining every ounce of joy out of a day in a springtime park. Three days later, another notification and John shared his thoughts about a visit from his sister:

What a joy it's been to visit with my sister sharing family memories, tears, family photos and to think about how important we are to each other as brother and sister. With the help of the minister at First Universalist Church we have sketched out the memorial service which will take place soon after my death. What a privilege it is for Janet and me to spend time as adults at this point in life. I wish all sibling relationships could be so loving and peaceful as our own.

This week, on Monday night, I received another notice from Caring Bridge.  A short post from Gary saying that “John's journey came to a peaceful end today at 2:58 PM. He died with dignity and grace surrounded by loving friends.”

            I called Anne and told her the news.  She understood my sadness.  As little as we knew John, we loved him.  I went to work on Tuesday and spent the day doing what I do, working in my small cubicle in downtown Seattle.  But always a piece of my mind was on John. Who he was.  How much he cared. 

Sadness overwhelmed me at the end of the day and I took myself out for dinner on the waterfront.  Anne called while I was there. Hearing the background restaurant noise, she said, “Where are you?”

            “Having dinner at the waterfront, watching a glorious sunset, drinking a margarita, and wishing with all my heart that John were still alive.”

            “Oh.” A pause. “That sounds lonely.”

            “Yes, it is.”

            “I wish I were there.”

            “Me too. And I am waling on God about how cruel it was not to give John his retirement.  Really. He should be consulting me on these things.  And I have a good mind to go blow out all the candles in the cathedral.  It’s on my way home…”

“Are you crying.”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you want me to come down?”

            “Yes.”  Then, “But don’t.  I need to be alone. I need to remember how delicate and precious every moment is.  I need to think about things.”

            “Call me if you want me to come.”

            “I will.  Thank you.”

I don’t know why I felt so blindsided by the news.  Somehow knowing he was still journaling had lulled me into thinking he was “fine for now.”  And perhaps he is.  But I am not.

            I finished my week at work, and commuted back to our island home.    This is a busy weekend.  I need to spend it in my yearly self-study marathon to keep my nurse practitioner credential.  I need to get out and walk.  I need to clean my den. 

After a great night’s sleep, I went out into our yard this morning.  I thought I was handling my grief pretty well. I thought I was just getting on with life. And then, there they were. Three tiny shoots of asparagus.  Faces to the sun, pushing aside the woodchip ground cover, eager to meet the spring. 

A spring that John won’t see.  A spring where we mark the loss of a gentle, generous soul.  A spring where the planet is just a little darker for the loss of her son.

 

***

There are some people who come into your life, however briefly, and leave an indelible mark on your soul and psyche – the way a bright flash of light leaves a lasting image on your retina.  No matter where you look, the image follows, reminding you of that light.  John is everywhere I look today.  In the garden.  On the sparkling water of Saratoga Passage.  And there’s his handwriting on the last card he wrote to me.  I cannot escape him, and don’t want to.

 

            Death is hard.  Loss is hard.  It’s part of the game, but it’s not the easy part of the game.  Now and then we have the experience of knowing someone who touches us deeply with their example.  Someone, who in their living and dying, provoke words like “grace” and “privilege” and “blessing” to rise in our minds when we remember them.  John Yoakam was such a person in my life.  I miss him now, and will continue to.  And I’ve already asked him to put my name on his dance card when I get to the Great Lakes Ballroom for the prom.  I’ve promised to bring berries, asparagus and cake.  I know he is smiling at the thought.  Someday, so will I.

John Yoakam

1947 - 2009

This is a photo in the Caring Bridge website.  The caption reads, “John enjoys biscuits prepared by Gary with Arizona honey sent by John's friend Nancy Arnold.” 

(Food and friends.)

 

 

To see a bio of John he wrote himself in January, go HERE. 

(The photo referenced in his niece’s comment below is HERE)

 

Goodbye, Friend