This past Saturday was a capper. (No! There's no missing "r"!)
Every Saturday has pretty much the same routine: breakfast with friends, shopping at Jungle Jim's, a trip to Costco/Sam's, and maybe mowing the lawn or fixing something around the house when I get home.
Sometimes there's a haircut thrown in there, and about once a year a side trip to a gun show.
Every few months there's a conference call and I can't make it to breakfast in time for food, but I still stop in for coffee. C'est la vie!
Once a year I go to Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course when the Indy cars are running there. It's the first weekend in August, or so. Those Saturdays start with the sound of cars coming up the front stretch, around the keyhole, and down the backstretch. As much as I enjoy my breakfasts with friends, that one Saturday stands out as special.
It's all pretty routine, but a routine I like. Some would be bored. Some might be envious. But, like I said, it's mine and I like it.
If I'm not going to make it to Men's Breakfast (that's the official and unimaginative name, and women and children are not turned away), I usually announce it the week before, either with regret (conference call) or gloating (Mid-Ohio).
As the routine goes, I announced on the last Saturday of July that I would not be there the following week.
Later, but still during breakfast, one of our members, Jim, walked over to me and another member and told us that he wanted to tell us something he had told the others the night before at another gathering.
I was fairly certain it wasn't something good. Jim had just celebrated his 79th birthday. He had been losing weight and had less appetite since retiring the previous year. I had asked someone else the week before if he was OK.
He wasn't. Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the day before his birthday. He, of course, was choked up when he told us, but he did what he saw as his duty to friends.
We all knew the prognosis: 6% survival rate. We had another breakfast member die from pancreatic cancer two, maybe three, years before. Jim's had already spread to his liver and bones, but he was still going to see a specialist the following week. Head up, moving forward.
At the end of breakfast we usually have a last hurrah outside the restaurant, a bit of fare-the-well conversation that can go on and on. I told Jim how impressed I was with his ability to tell us what was going on. Then I did something I've never done at Men's Breakfast. I gave him a hug.
I was pretty certain it was a good-bye hug, and I'm sure the thought was with him, too. we just weren't going to say it. We both wanted it to be an "Until the next time" hug and our fears proved wrong.
All week I toiled with what to do. I asked some who were closer to Jim and his wife to keep me abreast. They did.
My dilemma was not what would Jim want me to do, but what would Jim do. He would say "Go!" but I was certain he would be there for a friend, if needed.
On Friday, the first day of racing, there were no changes, so I headed to the track. Great day of racing, even if I was semi-working through text and email on the phone.
On Saturday I got word he wasn't at breakfast. Later in the day I heard he was in the hospital and his wife was asking for no visitors.
Typical of Jim, through Shirley, without even thinking about it they took my concerns away of "What should I do?" and replaced them with "Nothing. Not needed."
Racing was great on Saturday and Sunday, all four levels of Indy cars plus two groups of sports cars.
Jim passed away a few days later.
The following Saturday, it was breakfast, but Jim's usual chair was tilted in as a reminder to us all, as if we needed it. The next Saturday, this past Saturday, his chair was still empty.
At 11:30 Jim's memorial service was held, and it has taken me this long to make my second post.
Head up. Move forward.
Every Saturday has pretty much the same routine: breakfast with friends, shopping at Jungle Jim's, a trip to Costco/Sam's, and maybe mowing the lawn or fixing something around the house when I get home.
Sometimes there's a haircut thrown in there, and about once a year a side trip to a gun show.
Every few months there's a conference call and I can't make it to breakfast in time for food, but I still stop in for coffee. C'est la vie!
Once a year I go to Mid-Ohio Sports Car Course when the Indy cars are running there. It's the first weekend in August, or so. Those Saturdays start with the sound of cars coming up the front stretch, around the keyhole, and down the backstretch. As much as I enjoy my breakfasts with friends, that one Saturday stands out as special.
It's all pretty routine, but a routine I like. Some would be bored. Some might be envious. But, like I said, it's mine and I like it.
If I'm not going to make it to Men's Breakfast (that's the official and unimaginative name, and women and children are not turned away), I usually announce it the week before, either with regret (conference call) or gloating (Mid-Ohio).
As the routine goes, I announced on the last Saturday of July that I would not be there the following week.
Later, but still during breakfast, one of our members, Jim, walked over to me and another member and told us that he wanted to tell us something he had told the others the night before at another gathering.
I was fairly certain it wasn't something good. Jim had just celebrated his 79th birthday. He had been losing weight and had less appetite since retiring the previous year. I had asked someone else the week before if he was OK.
He wasn't. Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer the day before his birthday. He, of course, was choked up when he told us, but he did what he saw as his duty to friends.
We all knew the prognosis: 6% survival rate. We had another breakfast member die from pancreatic cancer two, maybe three, years before. Jim's had already spread to his liver and bones, but he was still going to see a specialist the following week. Head up, moving forward.
At the end of breakfast we usually have a last hurrah outside the restaurant, a bit of fare-the-well conversation that can go on and on. I told Jim how impressed I was with his ability to tell us what was going on. Then I did something I've never done at Men's Breakfast. I gave him a hug.
I was pretty certain it was a good-bye hug, and I'm sure the thought was with him, too. we just weren't going to say it. We both wanted it to be an "Until the next time" hug and our fears proved wrong.
All week I toiled with what to do. I asked some who were closer to Jim and his wife to keep me abreast. They did.
My dilemma was not what would Jim want me to do, but what would Jim do. He would say "Go!" but I was certain he would be there for a friend, if needed.
On Friday, the first day of racing, there were no changes, so I headed to the track. Great day of racing, even if I was semi-working through text and email on the phone.
On Saturday I got word he wasn't at breakfast. Later in the day I heard he was in the hospital and his wife was asking for no visitors.
Typical of Jim, through Shirley, without even thinking about it they took my concerns away of "What should I do?" and replaced them with "Nothing. Not needed."
Racing was great on Saturday and Sunday, all four levels of Indy cars plus two groups of sports cars.
Jim passed away a few days later.
The following Saturday, it was breakfast, but Jim's usual chair was tilted in as a reminder to us all, as if we needed it. The next Saturday, this past Saturday, his chair was still empty.
At 11:30 Jim's memorial service was held, and it has taken me this long to make my second post.
Head up. Move forward.
