When Bad Things Happen to Good People

In general, 2012 will go down in Gabaland as a pretty decent year.

But it sure didn't start out that way. In fact, 2012 started as a really bad nightmare. One of those "Seriously, what the fuck just hit me?" moments that dragged me down to the deepest seas of depression I have tasted in years.

That's what the loss of one of your best friends can do.

RIP, Dr. Robert Mills, dentist extraordinaire. January 5, 2012, was a shot to the gut, a sleepless-euducing stab to my soul. It was, in a way, my - and my group of friends' - first real brush with mortality.

It was ... unlike any other death I have experienced.

When I got the news that evening, around 6 pm, from my brother, I kept it together. Somehow. Charles did a good job of telling me the news, I suppose (I mean, is there ever a really good way to broach the subject?), and I sat at my dining room table, numb. It was totally out of the blue. He opened with the traditional, "Are you sitting down?" which, as you are more than aware, is rarely followed by an emotionally uplifting statement. After what seemed a decade of awkward silence, Charles told me the news.

We spoke for about five minutes or so; Charles offered to call other friends of mine in the area who knew Rob. I thanked him for that. After we hung up, I knew I still needed to talk to someone (well, a bunch of someones), and the first I called was my mom, who was nearby in Boca Raton for the winter. She could tell something was wrong; I blurted out, "Rob's dead," and then as I tried to tell her more, the tears just started gushing. It was only the second time I've really, really cried over someone's death, the first being my dad's in 1988. I don't think I even cried at any of my grandparents' deaths ... and if I did, it was nowhere near my reaction to the loss of Rob.

The talk with my mom was followed by phone conversations with several Michigan friends who were part of the circle, including Jon Gold and Mark Mosesso. We were all in shock. We spoke in somber tones, about the pain we were feeling, the pain his family was going through. We discussed some of the happier moments we had together, from the Sunday morning softball games and adventures on bowling alleys to Rob's taking over running the Pontiac Silverdome concession stand for me over one Thanksgiving weekend when I was out of town. I'm pretty sure my horrid rendition of Barenaked Ladies' "If I Had $1,000,000" at his wedding reception in 1999 probably came up as well.

Jon asked if I was going to be coming up for the funeral, which was taking place that Sunday. I told him I wasn't going to be able to fly in to Detroit, that I wasn't able to make the funeral. But I vowed to make sure my upcoming summer vacation in Michigan would allow me to spend some quality time with his wife, Jodi, and their two young children (which I did, in July, and again - for a bit - over Thanksgiving). Meanwhile, I spent a lot of time on Facebook and the phone the next few weeks with family and friends, all of us checking to make sure we were doing at least passably alright. And I did talk with Jodi several times as well.

Not that it always worked. From my January 14, 2012, Facebook page:

Eight days. Still experiencing moments of tears and general welled-up eyes, mixed with fond memories and random moments of Barney Rubble-intoned laughter (watch Better Off Dead, you'll understand). Haven't really been able to fully focus on things at work, though. Yeah, I've noticed it; there's a ton of things in preparation for the debate tourney we are hosting the 14th (which is today, now, I guess), that I haven't jumped on like I normally would, or have completely blown off or forgotten about. Not good. I'd punch a wall if I were a violent sort (or didn't really care about not having the ability to type for a while). I need to get my shit together.

Sigh.

One of my favorite moments with Rob resulted in his meeting his future wife, Jodi. We were out to dinner one Friday night at one of my old stomping grounds, Chi-Chi's Mexican Restaurant. Our stay lasted about 20 minutes, most of which was spent waiting at our booth for someone - anyone - to come and greet us. After about 15 minutes of waiting in what was essentially an empty restaurant, our waitress finally swung by and asked if we were ready to order. We asked to see the manager instead, and upon doing so, expressed our displeasure in the long wait, and we were about to leave. The manager said she understood, asked us to wait a minute, disappeared, and returned with a voucher for dinner "on the house" the next time we were there. We thanked her, left, and ended up finding an amazing Middle Eastern restaurant that had just opened up instead (one which we frequented quite often after that night). When we got back to the Oak Park house my sister and I were renting, Miriam was there with Jodi, having returned from watching a movie (Fargo ... I think). They hit it off, and the rest, as they say, is history.

(Sidebar: Rob and I went back to Chi-Chi's a week later to use our freebee dinner option, because we were worried if we waited too long, the manager would have left, and we'd be without said option. We were seated in the middle of the restaurant, where the floor was an epic disaster of crayons, crackers, and other restaurant paraphernalia. We asked our hostess - and, when he arrived, our waiter - if they could get the floor cleaned. Several times. Forty-five minutes later, when the cleanup still hadn't been done, and our comment card had already been filled out, our waiter informed us our dinner was just about ready. We inquired again, and our waiter responded, quite seriously, "Well, I asked the bus boys, but no one really wanted to do it." Rob's jaw hit the table as I gave an absolutely blank stare back at our server. The waiter went back to get our food, and I left to go flag down the manager (a different one from before). I showed him the letter, explained in clear language our visit from the previous week, expanded the extremely animated one-way conversation by presenting what had just transpired, and calmly declared, "Once we were finished dining, we will leave through the front doors, and never frequent this establishment again!" He nodded and quickly disappeared to the back of the restaurant; literally 15 seconds later, our server and the entire bus crew came out with floor vacuums in hand and cleaned the entire area.)

(No, we never went back.)

Shortly after Rob's death, I received a book in the mail from my cousin Robbi Laker-Tall in Phoenix called, "How to Survive the Loss of a Love," by Melba Colgrove, Harold Bloomfield and Peter McWilliams. Her note, attached with lots of hugs, said, in part, "You mentioned the loss of a friend ... and it truly hit my heart. Losses & vulnerabilities about life are common pains. So I chose to send you a book that has been awesome hugs throughout my years. Open to any page & feel my hugs."

So I did. And have continued to do so, on a regular basis the past year. Just randomly opened a page and took in the words of wisdom, of comfort, of reflection. (The entire text, as I've discovered, is also on-line - see the link above - but I think it works better as a "pick up the book and flip to a page" sort of thing, personally.)

I have also turned to Rabbi Harold Kushner's 1978 book "When Bad Things Happen To Good People," which was released two years after "How to Survive the Loss of a Love." This is something I have turned to occasionally since my father passed away in 1988. Both have given me, at times, a sense of understanding, of trying to make sense out of seemingly irrational events.

What they have not done is bring closure to the emptiness in my heart. Nor did I expect them to.

The last time I saw Rob was over Thanksgiving 2011. It was my last night in town during a somewhat short holiday visit, and I managed to spent about 30 minutes with him, Jodi and their two children. It was the usual banter of inside humor mixed with the standard inquiries about family, the workplace, and school. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then came the phone call six weeks later.

Sigh.

A year ago, today, I lost a good friend, a true mensch in every sense of the word. A year later, and not a day goes by I don't think of Rob and his family, and pray for all of them. Let He who makes peace in the heavens, grant peace to all of us and to all Israel. Let us say, Amen.