I learned recently of the passing of a friend. He died in the night of an epileptic seizure. He was 37 years-old.
Cameron and I were good friends, though hardly close, during our time together at the University of Colorado. I always enjoyed his company, considered him a kind and thoughtful gentleman, tall in stature and full of life. Over the years we’d kept in contact, exchanging emails, often planning to get together in Chicago or New York or at one of our many reunions in Boulder. And while it never seemed to quite work out, I looked forward to the time it finally did. It’s difficult now to process that it never will.
I’ve known too many people who’ve left this world too early. Some of the deaths were the tragic result of freak accidents, others the sadly predictable consequence of reckless lives. Each was lamentable in its own unique way, but easily written off as an aberration. Something apart, somehow distant. But Cameron’s death is different. It’s entirely too real, a blunt reminder of the harsh indifference of nature. He lived a noble life, enriched the lives of those fortunate to know him, and still he was saddled with a disease and it robbed him of what should have been a long life.
However selfish an impulse it seems at a time like this, I find it hard not to consider my own mortality. I can’t help but think about how much there is I feel I have left to do, how little I’ve actually done, and how precious little time there really is to make something of my life. I wonder if, when my number is called, will I have left an indelible impression on this world or have been little more than a passerby. I don’t know. I’m not sure anyone can know. You simply have to life your life and do the best you can.
