Holding On

“Is there something he’s holding on for?” the hospice nurse asked the visitor.  Clearing his throat, he said “Yeah, a bunch of us are putting together a golf tournament this Sunday to raise money for his family.  We just want to do something to help.”

The patient’s name was Ed.  He was in his early 40’s and had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer just 2 months earlier.  His working life had been spent in the local lumberyard mixing paint.  All the contractors knew him and appreciated his knowledge of painting and his patience in working until he got just the right color for their fussy clients.  But now he was dying and all of their tools and skills couldn’t fix him.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear and there were all the guys teeing off in the possibly the worlds longest game of golf.  For 7 hours the ex-PGA pro taught the guy who had never played a round before.  The competition was friendly tinged with sadness.

In late afternoon, everyone met at the Elks Lodge for burritos catered by the Mexican restaurant that all the guys like best.  The room was full as we all waited for the program to start.  Prizes were awarded for the best game, longest drive and other achievements, but they weren’t ordinary trophies.  They were little plastic golfers on the top of a paint roller with a small can of paint by its side.  A most appropriate memento for a paint guy.

Then the raffle started with prizes ranging from hand tools, to Subway sandwich coupons and golf balls. I sat there, with my back to the wall, watching the scene around me.  I know the next thing you expect to read it that the scene was “smoky and stifling” but it’s California, no one smokes indoors anymore and the day was actually quite pleasant.  What I did notice were the guys in their baseball caps and polo shirts, laughing, talking and doing what they could to help a friend. 

The women and kids were too, whooping when they won a golf club or stuffing an extra $10 in the donation bucket as it went around.  We imagined ourselves in Ed’s wife’s position, having these big, tough guys raising money to help us if our husband was on the edge of death.  We only hoped that we would have this kind of support, this empathy and dare I say, love, extended to us. 

What was in that room was not only beer and burritos, laughter and giving, but the spirit of a small town coming together to help one of their own and give what they could.

Ed wasn’t at the party, but he survived it, just barely, he died early the next morning.   

We won a Nascar blanket to remember him by.