So Much Life

Our Colin. For those of you who have not been with me that long, our Colin is a man whom I have always written about with the most respect.
Our Colin. He was in a production with me and Marcy and Jan and Pat last year, directed by Kathleen with Judy as stage manager and Denise as prop master and he was Bud The Stud. It was a play called Sex Please, We're Sixty, and Colin was the star of the show, he shamelessly stole the whole thing, he dived face first into my crotch every night and before every curtain opening he was backstage, jumping up and down and saying, "I can't believe I get to do this AGAIN!" in his British accent and I almost wanted to slap him and say, Calm the fuck DOWN, Colin! but of course I never did.
Colin.
There was nothing Colin could not do. Nothing Colin would not do. Need the ceiling in the auditorium of the Opera House painted? Colin could do it. He was a pilot, a builder, a man who could make lasagna and his own beef stew and who could charm the ladies out of their...
Well.
Colin.
A year and a half ago, Colin informed us that he had a melanoma in his eye and was going to Pennsylvania to have it removed. He came home with one eye and the surrounding tissue removed. He came home and was onstage that night. He came home and continued his life with such joy, such enthusiasm, such vigor and SAY YESNESS! that none of us could believe it, much less keep up.
And all was well. He was Bud The Stud. He was his own self in his Levi's and denim shirts, slim like a snake and I gotta tell you that for a man in his seventies he had an ass on him...
Okay. Stop it. I am done.
No I'm not.
He could not stop joking about his surgery.
"How's your eye, Colin?"
"I have no idea. It's in Philadelphia."
Etc.

And then last summer I would look at him and I would think, "Something is not right."
I would say, "Colin, how are you?" And he would say, "Terrific! Never better!"
And then he'd go visit his kids up north. And then he wouldn't show up for stuff at the Opera House. And then if I called and said, "What's up? Why aren't you doing this or that?" he'd say, "Oh, this shoulder. It's still bothering me."

I knew.

But I didn't want to know.

Turns out his cancer made itself known to him again last August. The doctor said, "You've got three to nine months. Nothing to be done."

He didn't tell any of us. He tied up loose ends. He did what needed to be done. He came by here for Kathleen's party to make sure that Vergil was good enough for Jessie whom he has always adored. He sent his cat to his sister's house.

And two nights ago he told Pat and Ron and asked them to tell us and Pat told us after rehearsal last night and we wept. All of us. I came home and told Mr. Moon. He held me. He loves Colin too. Everyone loves Colin. God damn.
That's why I couldn't sleep last night.

And it's been a day of thinking about him every moment. And crying. Fuck.

I called him this afternoon and he actually picked up. "I love you," I told him. "That's really all I need to say."
"I have NO regrets," he told me. "I had a hell of a ride."
He gave me that Colin laugh, even though he was having a hard time breathing. I said, "That laughs reminds me of every time I've heard it. All the times you've made me laugh."
"No regrets."
"God damn. I love you."

I offered help or whatever but he's the way he is. Stiff upper life. Chin up. Survived the Blitz and the eighties, too.

"Well, look. We're getting together tonight to celebrate Kathleen's good news and you. Just wanted to tell you."
"Thank-you."
"Love you."
"God bless."
"God bless."

We gathered tonight. We ate pizza. We drank martinis and wine and beer and we toasted. We cried. I said a blessing. I don't remember what I said. Something probably like, "Goddam. Here we are. Thank-you."

Colin.
All of us.
Here's Kathleen and Jan.

Goddam. Here we are.
Thank-you.

Hell of a ride. No regrets.

Amen.