Remembering a neighbor

The late afternoon Friday phone call from a “310” area code took me off guard, as did the news that came from the other end of the call. It was a manager at the apartment complex I used to live at in San Diego. He tracked me down, found my number in the apartment records (thankfully, I have yet to change it even after three years), and wanted to let me know that my old neighbor Grif died.

My heart started beating faster, and I could feel the tears well up.

Many of you have heard me talk about Grif or read my blog posts about him. Old man. Diabetes. Married and divorced three times. No children. No living family. I checked on him nearly every day, and he did likewise with me; our front doors were about 10 feet apart. I usually wouldn’t go to bed until I heard his TV turn off (usually set on MASH very very loudly!). That meant he was OK and on his way to sleep.

Since I’ve moved, he and I continued our correspondence. I last sent him a little note along with our wedding announcement. I have visited him on trips back to Cali, and he has sent me packages, most recently a set of coins. I found it odd that I hadn’t heard from him after the wedding announcement and fully intended to send him some pictures and a letter telling him all about it. Additionally, I’m headed back to San Diego next month and was hoping to swing in and give him a hug.

These plans were stopped with the phone call. The guy on the other end told me that Grif had been getting increasingly sick. He urged Grif to go to the hospital. When he finally did, they discovered a large tumor in his stomach. He went home for a bit, but quickly landed back in the hospital. He died July 5—a Monday, four days before our wedding. This guy visited Grif a number of times and told me that Grif talked about me and all of my letters were lined up on his kitchen table. This guy said he knew I was important to Grif and wanted to let me know.

So disconcerting is the quiet and speed with which Grif left this world. I was told that his ashes were being sent to some fort, along with an American flag; he had been in the military. I heard the news—that he was sick, in the hospital, and now dead—seven weeks late!

What about a funeral? What about people crying outside his hospital room? What about a long line of cars driving to his grave? What about giving money to a memorial in his name? It seemed odd—eery—that life had continued on for me as normal for seven weeks without knowing that someone dear to me was gone.

Recently, as BJ and I were organizing, I came across the set of coins (in a nice case, engraved with my name!) Grif sent me last. They were not cheap, and I was touched that he would have spent this amount of money on me! It was a gift that will last; the coins will be worth a lot more at some point in the future. Chances are good I'll never cash them in.