Losing friends is hard
06 Apr 2019.

Last week I lost one of my closet friends to liver cancer. He was only 58.

We met on December 7, 1997, which he would fondly remind me was also the anniversary of both Pearl Harbor and the Halifax Explosion. When I first asked him his name, he replied. “Trouble.”  We dated for two-and-a-half years, then broke up. But something interesting happened. We stayed friends. In fact, we were better friends than lovers. So for the next 20 years or so, we hung out regularly. 

Sean was an odd duck, a Newfoundlander with a stammer who loved throwing parties. Anything was an excuse to have a party. Once we had a Mardi Gras party just because he had the masks. He loved to dress up. Once, we entered a talent contest as Shania and Shanana, twin cheerleaders from Timmins whose daddy owned a puppy mill. I wrote a bunch of saucy cheers, and we rode around in a Jeep shaking our pompoms and shouting our chants. How could something this brilliant not win?

He was a picture framer by trade. He believed that artwork deserved to be preserved and showcased properly. When he met me, he started framing all my citations and photographs. He even framed my grandpa’s war medals. I now have 300 times more artwork than wall space. 

He was an outdoorsman and he took great pride in his trailer at The Cedars. We’d get really high and start huge fires. Once we burned a rainbow umbrella just to see what colours the flames would be. Though I am not naturally a camper, I did love it and it is still to this day a great thrill for me. Sean was also a vegan and through him I fell in love with vegetables. Sure, I’d still sneak burgers into the woods when he wasn’t looking, but I honestly did enjoy eating roast carrots and fennel. 

Several years ago, Sean suffered three heart attacks while drinking at a Church Street bar. When they performed surgery, they noticed a lesion on his liver. He quit drinking and followed the demanding protocol necessary to qualify for a liver transplant. But in September, his oncologist informed him that the tumours had spread to his lungs. He bravely made all his funeral arrangements, because at least he could control this aspect of his life. We had a Christmas party, an Oscar party, a road trip to Port Hope, and even his birthday party. But a week later, he slipped into a coma and died at home, in his own bed, surrounded by his family. 

I’m still a bit in shock. He was essential to my life, and I have nothing with which to replace him. His love for David Bowie and Bette Midler has forever coloured how I listen to their songs. I doubt I can ever go camping again. Losing friends is hard. I hate it. This one was bad.