David Morris left behind a lifetime of memories
by Rick MacLean
I don’t remember when I first met David Morris.
But I remember the day he told me he was going to die.
Terminal throat cancer. There was no hope.
Then he found a doctor in Florida who was willing to try.
It would be awful. Radiation so severe he’d lose most of his salivary glands. For the rest of his life he’d need a bottle of water nearby to keep his mouth moist. He’d have to live on liquids because he couldn’t swallow properly.
Chemotherapy so horrible he’d be violently sick, barely able to move. Weeks of it. Unrelenting.
He debated going through with it. Unless there was hope of a cure, he wasn’t interested, but he was a fighter, so he did.
It was horrible. But there was hope after, maybe not 50-50, but hope.
We went for a walk that spring, out onto the Strawberry Marsh near his home. We sat on a bench by the water.
We talked about dying.
“Do you believe in an afterlife?” he asked simply.
We never lied to each other.
“I don’t. I wish I did. I believe what we leave behind is what others remember about us.”
He nodded, silently, still looking at the river.
“Of course,” I allowed, “I could be wrong.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he smirked.
We ran together for years, starting in 1989. We weren’t fast, but we wanted to be. So did Brian Richard, a former high school track star determined to recapture some part of those days. We trained together. Insults and playful lies were part of the deal.
Friday nights, we’d jog from Brian’s house to the start of the five-kilometre course, stop and turn.
“How are you feeling?” David always asked.
“Back’s sore. Foot’s sore. Didn’t sleep last night,” Brian would smile.
“My wooden leg has arthritis. I’m going out easy,” I’d add.
“So. Plan A,” David said.
“Plan A,” we nodded.
Then we burst down the hill, hell bent. Every week we’d go faster. Pounding each other. We became dangerous men to race against and we loved it.
Finally, David decided to try winning the master’s jacket, the top prize for men over 40. His competition was Brian.
David ran great times in January and February. Then Brian announced the running club’s President’s Executive Appeal Committee – Brian – had met.
“Times run before you’re 40 don’t count.” David’s birthday was at the end of February, so he’d lost those results.
David railed for weeks at the injustice, smirking the whole time.
“Nice move,” he acknowledged one day. David won the jacket, by one point, in the final race of the season in December.
Days later, David handed Brian a present, a T-shirt. Brian was speechless. He unfolded the shirt. “Second place, masters,” was written across the chest. We laughed about it for years.
Time ended our Friday runs. Brian lost a hip to age. When I visited him in the hospital in Fredericton there was a Rest In Peace wreath in the room. Brian howled with laughter. It was from David.
There was also a Phillips screwdriver head in the gift, one that plugs into a screwdriver. Brian kept it in his pocket, right next to his artificial hip, for five years. He’s still upset about losing it. He still has the wreath.
Last Sunday, I ran the 5k, three days after David died.
“One of our friends died this week. We’ll have a moment of silence,” Brian said just before we started.
“That’s long enough,” he said after the nearly 30 of us stood in the middle of the road for 15 seconds or so, our heads down. “David wouldn’t want anymore.”
“Besides, he would never have been able to shut up for any longer than that,” I said. Brian smiled.
“Remember the time David lied to you in the Terry Fox run?” I asked Carolyn Bent as we ran. I knew she did.
The 10k race was nearly over and David was egging her on.
“Don’t look back,” he urged in the final kilometre. “They’re right there. They’ll see you looking. It’s a sign of weakness.”
She doubled over at the finish line, spent. She looked back. There was no one in sight. Sunday, we laughed about it. David and I cackled about it for years.
I saw David for the last time four days before he died. We sat by the pool as the kids played in the water. We’d brought our kids to his house for years. “Uncle David” bought pizza and did flips off the diving board.
There wasn’t much time left. He was weak. His face was swollen. There was pain.
We didn’t say much. He left mid-afternoon. Some work to do at the Opera House. He loved it there. He died there days later in a fall. I was stunned. And I was glad he didn’t suffer the indignity of dying slowly from cancer. He’d never wanted that.
But David, I’m so sorry you died alone.
You were my friend. I promise. I will remember you.