Shredagavis Frankie

Frank was a very close friend of mine. We met when we were in our late teens while forming a fraternity on the Rutgers University, Newark campus. We remained close until his death just two weeks ago. We spent many, many hours together at a time in life when boys are struggling with the transition into manhood. After we graduated from college we worked together for a while, we took a few graduate school courses and even attended real estate school, pretending to be serious yet well aware we were still struggling to find our way.
He was the best man in my wedding and the Godfather to my daughter. I am Godfather to his older daughter. In my late twenties I moved away from the places where we spent so much time together, heading to a small town in southern New Jersey. Eighteen years later I moved even farther away to Tennessee. We didn’t see each other very much once I moved away but we stayed in touch on a regular basis. Frank married a good woman and went on to a successful career in sales. Toward the end of his career he taught autistic children which he loved. He played golf when he could and he followed the Yankees the way some men track the Dow Jones. He had his demons and while it’s probably fair to say they got the better of him more often than not, they never defined him.
Now that he’s gone I realize that one of the great conceits of post modern man is the conviction that we have plenty of time later to catch up on the things that matter most, like family and friendships. Then we are shocked when we discover that neither the calendar, nor the actuarial tables are actual promises of anything.
When he was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis three years ago I understood immediately that Frank, then 59, probably would not reach the average life expectancy, you know, the 80 years we all secretly assume is guaranteed. I was heartbroken.
As his illness got worse, I managed to fly to New Jersey a few times and we talked nearly every day on the phone, right up until an hour before he died. Fortunately he had friends living close by and some of them found the time to call or visit, doing what they could to keep his spirits up. Paul, another fraternity brother, also spoke to Frank daily and made frequent visits to see him. He helped him get the things done Frank could no longer do for himself, filling in around the edges for Frank’s family. Paul got him out of the house and above all, listened to him, often demonstrating a saint’s patience as he tried to reason with a man who was rapidly losing the capacity to reason.
Frank became increasingly agitated, often obsessing over what would appear to observers as inconsequential. His behavior was typical of people suffering from that miserable disease. As each breath became harder to draw, he was forced to stand (sit or lie really) helpless as his independence drained away, seemingly in slow motion. Yet, even through his pain and his fear Frank never lost his wit. He could still make us laugh. And he never stopped fighting. My last conversation with him was about a treatment that might improve his breathing.
Most of us will die without having a spot reserved for us in history books, without having lived a “lifestyle of the rich and famous.” Except for an incredibly few people, the world at large will neither know nor care that we existed. And yet, I am sure that our lives matter beyond our wildest imaginations to those we have touched. In spite of our many conversations, I don’t believe I ever found a way to tell Frank how much his friendship meant to me.
Frank’s two daughters and two grandsons meant the world to him. Like many of us, he had a funny way of showing it. Somehow it was easier for him to tell guys like Paul and me how much he loved them, admired them and needed them when he should have been telling his kids. Men are good at that. We won’t admit our sins. We’ll pretend it doesn’t matter and we keep too much inside. It’s not that we don’t know the truth. To paraphrase Jack Nicholson, we just can’t handle it.
And so it is with Frank’s passing. I get teary eyed now and then and I am always surprised by my own reaction. I don’t want to talk about him anymore but I can’t stop talking about him. Shredagavis is a silly word Frank made up many years ago. Depending on the context, it could mean anything; hello, goodbye, tough luck, so what?… The word is still in use in some select circles.
Ever have a friend who made up a word? A friend who’s fighting for his life? Call him. Send an email or a text. Hop on a flight soon. There’s never as much time as we think.