No Time for Regrets

No Time for Regrets

Regrets probably aren’t so bad if you learn from them. Yet for me, the reliving of them brings back that overwhelmingly emptiness that only comes with failure or when you fail someone who is truly important to you.

The first time I saw Mike with the hyphenated, European surname I knew I wanted to meet him and be his friend.  He was tall, dark and handsome, and yet he didn’t seem to know it.  He irradiated warmth and kindness when it wasn’t common among many of the young men I knew. 

As I think about his smile, I can’t help but remember his formidable nose.  A nose that suited his face and gave it strength in a sea of warmth.  Mike’s eyes said hello well before he could tell you that he was glad to see you.  Even when he was feeling unwell he would muster a smile and make all of us feel like the most special person in the room.    

I walked past him in the corridors of the Microbiology department amid all the smells of agar and bacterial exotoxins, completely in awe of how he was always surrounded by his tight-knit group of mates.  Their joy for each other was obvious as they bumbled along the corridors joking and laughing.  Back then, I was always moving too quickly to the next class to work out what they were joking about, but I subconsciously hoped that one day I could be part of a social group who cared so much about each other.  Thinking about this now, I wouldn’t say that Mike was the ring-leader. His role was more like the glue that bonded individuals to the group.  

Fortunately for me, we started to work together almost four years later and became close friends.  Of course that also meant I was a part of that close knit and fun group.  They became my family.  We had a great time at work and even more so afterwards and during weekends. 

Mike remained the unassuming nice guy who quietly looked out for us all.  He was always ready to help-out if we needed it, or just wanted his counsel on life, computers or immunological technique.  This was at the dawn of the personal computer and as the skills and knowledge were being developed that were later used to map the human genome.  Legends of our immunology all graced our tea-room, and

many were interested in our work.  It was exciting because we were young, and as we were working at the frontiers of immunology.

At 18, Mike battled and beat cancer following a variety of treatments.  We all thought it was ancient history so we didn’t talk about it much.  Sadly, 20 years later he suffered all manner of annoying symptoms ranging from severe abdominal pain, no appetite to having to take a pill full of enzymes to  digest food when he did feel like it. He was often really unwell, but never did we think of Mike as sickly.  Adorable, kind and warm - definitely.  He was gorgeous, extremely loving and supportive of all of us, in a non-threatening, avuncular way.   Poor Mike was one of only three or four blokes in a research unit of at least 40 women.  He was a real gentleman.   

Over a period of years of working and socialising with Mike, it became evident his health was waning slowly.  The last time I saw him was during my pregnancy with our daughter.  Having reached a fork in the road I left the Institute and changed my career.   

Later, when our daughter was two or three, I bumped into a colleague from my days at the Institute.  She told me Mike was sick again and in hospital.  Somehow I knew that he was dying and was I frightened that I didn’t know how to react so I put off visiting him.  I didn’t drop everything and go to see him to hold his hand.  I didn’t go and tell him how much I loved him and how he was a dear and adored friend. I should have gone for both him and me.  I will always treasure him for enriching my life and helping me to direct my future towards my goals. 

I allowed my fears to justify my inaction.  I found so many reasons why it was acceptable not to tell him how important and special he was to me, to all of us and to the body of science for his contributions.  The excuses I used were “he may be too sick” or “he has other more important friends than me” and even “he may not be able to see me or even recognise me”. 

I regret, more than anything, that I didn’t go and I didn’t try to see Mike before he passed away.  My regrets are for Mike and for me.  I should have trusted that I am perceptive enough to know if I wasn’t welcome and could make a quick exit.  Whatever else, I should have gone. 

Many years of dwelling on my inability to do the right thing brought me almost as much sadness as Mike losing his life.  He was always so unassuming and so friendly.  I really hope that our friends filled up his final days so he knew how much love that he created on his journey with us.  I really hope that he didn’t wonder who was missing.  More importantly I hope he felt really loved, because he was.  I wish I could have been there for him too.

I had never considered that I was a significant person in his life.    Now, all I have are a few photos.  There is a photo that he took of me that I like to look at because I remember turning around to his voice and smiling at him.  I can’t see him in the photo of course, but I will always remember how it felt whenever he walked into a room.  After hours sitting at the microscope, all alone,  he came by and I turned to him and he caught my affection for him.  It is a beautiful photo for what was between the subject and the camera, far more than the subject in the photo.

Ten years later when my husband was dying in our bedroom I knew I didn’t want anyone else to feel that they couldn’t come and see Simon, even if for just a little while.  So I sent out an open invitation to all of our friends explaining that if they brought food, they could eat with us.  They could stay as long as they liked, and come whenever they could.  I explained that they needed to do what they needed to do so that they could manage their own grief.  During this time, Simon loved seeing everyone, particularly when he wasn’t too tired or suffering.  He told me how he felt like the “luckiest bugger in the world” because all these people would come and spend time with him.  He didn't know if anyone was missing, because he was filling up on what he had, not what he didn't have.  Many people timed their final visits when before he was too sick or too manic.  I respect and admire everyone's decisions to manage their own grief.  There isn't enough time for regrets in our life.  

And yet, I still regret missing Mike in that week when I could have taken some love and caring to him.  And I feel intense sadness for his early departure.  However, I am grateful that I learnt the lesson and am honoured to have friends who did come and bring Simon so much love and care to help him through the tough end of his journey.  

It is now a year and a week since Simon died.  I feel intense sadness for all that he had endured in his final year and a half.  Now I miss him.  I miss the love we shared.  I am glad for him, and for Mike that their pain has stopped.  They both loved every bit of life and appreciated every day they had.  We can all learn from that.

Drafted 27 September, 2009 (1 year and 1 day after Simon’s funeral)