Prodigal Dad loses a friend

SALT LAKE CITY — Someone I was close to in college died last week. He was one of my theater friends from the days I used to spend much of my time on the stage or on camera.

I had to read the original notice twice, and then I needed to look up information on the Internet before I actually believed it. “It couldn’t be accurate,” I thought.

I sat there stunned.

I read the information quickly, amassing on Facebook from a specially created page, but there was only so much my brain could take in.

I looked at the photos posted on Facebook from those who were better friends with him than I was and had more reason to grieve, I suppose. They had had more experiences with him, and more recent one-on-one with him.

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There were many stories that I hadn’t heard about — involving those I didn’t know. But there were also stories that bordered with mine, when he was in this show or another — and I had to smile because I was in that show as well, and had a slightly different perspective.

My friend had always had a solemn side, something I seem to see in him more that many did. Yes, there were happy memories of him joking and laughing — using pseudo-sign language to interpret theater songs in his humorous way.

But I remember him sitting quietly off stage just out of the reach of the lights, watching and smiling sadly.

In bed that night, I decided that I would attend the service, even though I usually send flowers and skip out on most funerals. But, in trying to absorb everything I could from his posthumous Facebook page, somehow I had completely missed any note concerning when the service was to be.

The next day I re-read the information and it became obvious that I had missed the morning service. (Why on earth they would have a morning service for a theater person is beyond me.)

I sat on my porch in the wind and drizzle, and I thought how many important events I have missed out on, not realizing that I needed something until it was too late, like saying goodbye. Emotionally, I was a wreck.

I sat there and shivered and remembered how much I used to care for my friend. His dying reminded me, jolted me, and feelings from 25 years ago came flooding back.

Mostly I felt pain — for him, certainly, because of the circumstances around his death — but also for when our paths had led us differently all those years ago. He moved on to grad school and to a career. I remembered what it was like to be close to someone and then have him or her leave me behind.

Remembering good times — great times — didn’t quench my sadness like I thought it would. If anything, I felt even more like an open sore.

I felt a great melancholy, and I thought it was empathy for my friend. But quickly I realized my mistake. My friend, in his current estate, was better off in most ways than I was. The person I was really feeling sorry for was myself. I was afraid that I would miss him — that I would be left out because he went first.

I changed my clothes into something dry. I picked up my kid from school. I made dinner. I watched my wife's fantasy football team lose. I threw a load into the wash. I went to bed, thinking I would feel differently in the morning. It took a few mornings before I felt like me again.

Sadness has given way to something a little more bittersweet today. I still grieve, and will for months.

Mostly, however, I grieve for me: that I will not hear my friend’s clear voice, that I am not in contact daily with friends I made while studying the art I love, that relationships I have now taken years to develop instead of intense days of school and theater.

Fortunately, my personal religious beliefs, many of which I shared with my friend, allow me to let go of death and look forward to something … else. To remember that my Heavenly Father wants me to be fulfilled, and all I have to do is to keep getting up in the morning and trying my best.

I will write my friends from college, people who have made a difference in my life without even knowing it. I will tell them of my love. And I will be aware of the people around me now that look to me — like I looked to my college friend — for affirmation, love and for a sense that we belong together.

I will remember my bright friend and his light that still shines — only from a little farther away.

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Video: Davison Cheney's friend singing his heart out. (Courtesy: Davison Cheney)

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Davison Cheney writes "The Prodigal Dad" series every week on ksl.com. See his other musings at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.*

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