The Last Supper

A friend of mine is dying. I don't know whether or not to call him a good friend, but he was a friend. My family knows his family. His daughters are the same age as my kids, and they all went to school together. Claire-Adele played on the same soccer team with their daughter for years.

James has a rare and aggressive form of cancer which is now in the end stage. There are no more experimental trials left, except one in Maryland, and the trip would probably cause such a high level of exhaustion, it might kill him. His wife sent out an email informing their circle of the news. He is the first friend of mine who is dying.

I got on the the list of people to make dinner for them. I am dropping off dinner tonight so they can have it tomorrow. As I write, James is at the hospital getting pain meds, and he is expected to come home Saturday. I am supposed to leave the food in a cooler on their porch. The family doesn't want visitors. Jack said he would not want to attend his wake before he dies.

The family is vegan. I am not. I figured a mushroom risotto made with olive oil instead of butter would be good, so that is what I did.

I can't help but wonder if I am making his family their last supper with him. I pondered this as I was at Pike Street Market buying vegetables.

James loved Scrabble. He met his wife at Cornell and he worked at Microsoft. He has two daughters. On New Year's Day, his family would host a game party, which was lots of fun. James is a damn nice guy--gentle, modest and kind, a mensch. I don't know if James knows how much people are thinking about him, but we are. I am also thinking about his daughters and wife, and the hole they will have when James leaves.