I had the sad task of driving 300 miles (one way) from my mountainside home to attend the passing of one of my best friends who had been stricken with incurable cancer. He fought a losing battle with this disease for over five years, and had the very best doctors trying treatments beyond the ordinary radiation and chemotherapy; and he suffered with strange symptoms resulting from experimental/ research drugs. All to no avail. My destination was the home of a very close friend (Craig) who had moved Al (the victim) into his home and cared for him diligently throughout the five-year ordeal. What prompted my rush to St. George,Utah, was a late night call from Craig; who said, “Al is now in the terminal stage, and he will be dead in a few days.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll call Rip (another close friend who is a professional musician) and tell him the bad news.”
“Why don’t you come down in the morning. He’s all doped up, and I don’t want you to hit a deer or something else in your headlights, the way you drive”.
“O.K.”, I sighed, “I’ll leave about 5:00 AM. What’s the air temperature in St. George?”
“Well, it topped out at 105 degrees this afternoon, but it will be 111 tomorrow, according to the forecaster.”
“No problem, I’ll see you around 9:00 in the morning. Is Al coherent?”
“He fades in and out, depending on how much Morphine he’s taken. You can probably talk to him and be understood, but don’t expect much in the way of a reply.”
“Okay; See you in the morning.” I hung up and called Rip. Rip said he would hurry down as fast as he could reschedule stuff, and that he would bring his guitar (he’s an excellent musician).
From different backgrounds and age groups, we were part of a tight knit band of brothers, mostly musicians and artists called “The Loose Trucking Company.” As a group, we had explored the hidden reaches of the Colorado Plateau ‘slickrock’ country, and skied the wild peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. We have been getting together to go exploring for over forty years.
I arrived in the toasty heat of the early morning in St. George. Craig ushered me into his home, which was located beside a long fairway of one of the famous golf courses in the area.
“How is he doing?” I asked.
“He’s downstairs. He’s in full hospice care now and he didn’t take any heavy jolts of the pain killers so he could talk with you.”
I followed Crag down to the lower level of house, where Al was setup in what seemed to be a hospital room complete with a hospital bed, wheelchair, oxygen machine, hospital supplies, etc. Al was lying on the bed with tubes for a catheter and other stuff emerging from the bed sheets. He was so thin and gaunt that I hardly recognized him, and as I peered intently at his face, his eyes fluttered open and he saw me staring down at him. His lips quivered a little beneath his mustache, and then slowly broke into a smile. “It’s good to see you, Cox; thanks for coming.” he whispered.
I won’t bore the reader with our weepy conversation. I reminded him of the good times we had shared, skiing, hiking, backpacking in the wilderness and so forth. Several women came by while I was visiting with him, and they kissed him goodby tenderly. A little later Rip showed up, talked a bit privately with Al, and then got out his guitar and played a full concert for Al as if he were in a big auditorium. The sweet and complex music filled the room for over two hours. Al had Craig prop him up in bed, and he watched Rip play attentively. Craig’s father, who now lives with him since his wife passed away, came downstairs to listen to the beautiful cords of the guitar. When Rip took a short break, Al motioned me over to his bedside, and croaked in his feeble voice, “You know, Cox, it’s pretty weird listening to your own funeral music…”
In spite of all of his pain, and all that he had been through, he joked around with me once more, because that was Al. The next morning, I drove across the Nevada border and went into a casino where they got me drunk, took all my money, and kicked me to the curb. They weren’t having anything to do with a crying old man slouched over a video poker machine; it was bad for business.
Left to right: Dave, Craig, Al, & Cox golfing in St. George. Rip is not in this image