Today is the one-year anniversary of one of my best friends, Richard Sandoval. I wrote a piece that eulogized him, while saying goodbye. And if I have learned one thing since Rick passed, you never say goodbye. Heres the piece, to Rick… Saying Goodbye to a Beautiful Man©2013 by Michael Raysses Maybe its just me, but I have this very distinct relationship with what I will refer to as the Hello-Goodbye Dynamic. Briefly, what that means is that I am much more likely to remember the time I meet someone, as opposed to when a relationship ends, for whatever reason it does so. The exceptions are rare but when they show up, they can be no sharper than the goodbye I experienced today. You see, today I said goodbye to a man who was like a brother to me: Rick Sandoval, who passed away this evening after a long fight with cancer. Rick and I met 26 years ago while performing as supporting players in a sterling production of American Blues Theaters The Harry Ape. And if the only benefit I derived from performing in that play was to meet and befriend Rick, it would rank at the top of my list of favorite Chicago productions. To me, Rick personified the Chicago actor: talent to burn, humor so sharp I could shave with it, and the kind of resilience I normally equate with sturdy farm animals and cactuses. Oh, and an abiding sense of generosity that almost seemed counterintuitive in a profession where narcissism is something cultivated out of misperceived necessity. He is, what my Father referred to as, a beautiful man; it is the highest compliment he could bestow on another person of the male gender. The reference to my Father, though, has actual application to Rick, but let me digress for a moment. Between 1987 when we met and 2008, Rick and I shared every manner of communication that two reasonably sane friends can share: 2 a.m. drop bys at my apartment when Rick would sometimes stumble his way to my place after a nights reverie replete with more cheap beer than one man should claim. Or crashing on my couch in L.A. with his bride and best friend Beth when they were celebrating their newly-minted union. Or calling me late at night from his basement when the two-hour difference between Chicago and L.A. played out in my favor, while we discussed lifes darker issues under the cover of not having to look into the others eyes to see if that was even something we could do. But then came 2008. I was back in northwest Indiana to attend my Fathers wake and funeral. Pop had just passed, and it was the night of the wake. It was early in the evening, so much so that I was still kind of reeling from the fact that I was in attendance at the wake of the man whose influence on me I knew would be lifelong and more profound than anyone elses ever could. And it was right after my level of discomfort at this fact had set in that Rick walked up to me. Out of nowhere, in that most extreme sense of the phrase. In other words, if you have given me 10 guesses to ascertain the person least likely to have been there, Rick might have made that list. Yet there he was. Rick rocked that patented sport-coat-and-faux-turtleneck look that so many Midwesterners use as their default ensemble to stunning effect. In an instant, it conveyed everything about him that I loved: his intention, his devotion, and his allegiance to who he was and his abiding faith that you would somehow recognize that fact. In that instant that we greeted each other, at a time when a greeting like that felt like a lifesaver that had been extended by the gods themselves, our relationship was forged and set. Never to be less than it became in that flashpoint of loss and love. I personally visited with Rick and his lovely family back in July of this year. By this point, the cancer had a strong foothold on Ricks body, something a blind dead man would have observed. But Ricks spirit refused to submit; his humor was as vital as ever when he ribbed me about people like me traveling long distances to see him because he was dying. I told him that wasnt me; I came to see him live, something the circumstances no longer allowed me to take for granted. And though we didnt laugh as we had so many times past, we both nodded our understanding of a dynamic neither of us ever saw ourselves as being party to but would walk through together, arm-in-arm. In the intervening months, I knew things had worsened because a silence descended so thick between us as to quash all communication. Instinctively, I knew what was happening. Not wanting to burden Beth with anything beyond what was on her radar, I prayed and envisioned. Then I became aware that Rick was in fact home, and that he was officially in a hospice care situation. To the uninitiated, hospice care means that all the parties have admitted that there is nothing left to do but to manage the inevitable descent and landing that awaits. It is a tough designation to accept, if only because it signals something that a lot of working class people are unlikely to admit: defeat. The End. I wanted to speak with Rick, to have a last goodbye. But that wasnt meant to be. At least, not in the way I might have envisioned. Desperate to solve this dilemma for the best of all concerned, I called his wife Beth this morning. The only thing sharper to me than my sense of invading her space at a time when she could ill afford it was my sense that this might very well be my last chance to speak to Rick. Beth understood instantly; she guided the phone to Ricks ear, told him it was me, and to just listen. I didnt expect him to be able to respond given what I knew to be his state. Its funny the things you say when you know youre not going to get another chance. There will be no second or third take. No after-the-fact-editing to be done when all the players have exited the soundstage. You speak words that are so essential they would be as heavy as moon rock but for the inexplicable lightness that that level of meaning conveys. I greeted Rick as I had done countless times before. With the exception that I knew we would in all likelihood never have this opportunity again, I told him I loved him. And I thanked him for being my friend and brother. And how I would never forget him. And how I knew he had put up the most valiant fight imaginable, but that if he wanted it would be okay for him to release, to let go. And that though he would be missed, we all loved him and wanted what was best for him. I heard him grunt in response, a sound so piercing I had to close my eyes to endure it. I cried even more tears than I had reason to believe my eyes could spray, knowing that our time was up. Beth picked up the phone, her voice as wet as the sockets where my eyes swam. I thanked her and told her to call me if and when Rick left. She called me 40 minutes ago. I dont tell you this story to get you to alter your behavior as it relates to the Rick Sandovals in your life. I share it because a beautiful man has transitioned from this world to another. And though I dont categorically know this, I think we on this side of the spiritual divide got the short end of the stick. Goodbye, Rick, you gorgeous human being, you. Bless you, thank you. Your loving brother, Michael
Posted on: Thu, 09 Oct 2014 09:11:46 +0000
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