I told you about the friend who had a heart attack last week and was in the hospital. I just got an update. Before that, I sort of figured he’d be fine, that medical miracles could put him back together again and he’d go home and be as brilliant and amusing as he always has been. I wasn’t worried. He’d be fine.
A mutual friend called a few minutes ago. “He’s still unconscious. He’s still running a fever despite a week of antibiotics. S has issued a DNR on him.”
Those letters keep reverberating in my head: Do not resucitate. That’s goddamn serious. If his heart stops…he’s dead.
D is older than I am, by six years. We met through the internet, and we’ve been friends for almost twenty years. He’s been there for me every time I needed someone. I love him, and the thought of him not being around anymore is freaking me out.
Why is it so sunny today? In light of this news, it should be gray and raining. The whole world should be weeping for my friend.
D, you asshole, don’t you dare die because I’d have to go buy a suit and I don’t want to. There’s too much wine with our names on it, too many fine books not yet read, too many conversations not yet had. We’re not done with each other yet!
DNR Oh, the power in those three letters!