Not everyone knew you as you were, but I did. I tried to share that with them. But, I understand it isn’t easy. It’s easy to become jaded. Still, I hope you know that I remember you from before.
My heart aches when I think about you. I am saddened by what happened to you, yes. A combination of poor genes as well as, perhaps, a long chain of not the right care. One in the few. You were unlucky. I’m sorry.
You almost made me start crying, you know. When, for days, your voice was so hoarse you couldn’t communicate, which usually you would accept with a sad shrug of your shoulders, or a pitiful grin that seemed to communicate this sentiment that, maybe, life was but playing some massive joke on you.
But the one night I cared for you, 4am, when I walked into your room and saw the panic rising in your chest, your eyes blinking too fast, the swelling, urgent need to just communicate and you couldn’t — I hurt for you the most. Silent agony. Drowning. It’s always the worst. I’m sorry I didn’t know what to stay. I felt useless, standing there: literally the only thing I could think of was take off my glove and hold your hand. And you looked at me, and somehow — somehow — after multiple tries, pleading you to keep trying, I was able to make out a hoarse, “I want to thank you for everything.”
It’s quite pitiful, this person I have been lately. Sad, weepy, feeling like I’m always struggling against the tide. I overthink even though I know better. I think the universe sent you to me, instead of the other way around. You remind me of what I can do; the power and influence I still have, if only I know where to look for it. It isn’t reputation, or social standing. It isn’t my job, my department, my title, my money, or all the knowledge in the world. It’s love, communication, and acceptance. It’s patience, understanding, and openness. How silly I am to forget, so often.
Thank you, Lou. I hope to see you soon.