Today, I buried my mentor.
I knew Mr. B my whole life, as my grandmother shared a fence with him. He used to yell at us "damn kids" to stop hanging on it all the time. I'd yell over that fence to see if his daughter wanted to come over and play. It was over that fence that half his tree toppled into my grandmother's yard during Hurricane Gloria when I was 8. Gram screamed at him that he'd "better get that son of a bitchin' tree outta my yard or I'm calling the cops." Just to spite her, he left it for a good 2 weeks. His daughter and I had a grand time using it to climb into each other's yards.
According to the neighbors, Mr. B was a little crazy. He was gruff, he was cranky, and your hands were as good as broken if you touched that fucking fence. I didn't know him too well back then, so I took the neighbors at their word. It wasn't until my first year of college, when I called the financial aid office with some questions about my scholarship, that I started what would turn out to be 10 years of friendship and guidance. Mr. B ran the scholarship office, and he picked up the call. Within 6 months, I was assigned to be his work-study student.
I spent 2 years working for Mr. B...well, more like shooting the shit than working. Sure, I handled his calls and his secretarial work, but most days we'd just talk. He'd ask me about my family, what was going on in my life, what I planned to do with myself after graduation. I'd go to him for advice and for general therapy. This one time, when my mother had beaten the hell out of me, I ran away from home and stayed with my grandmother for a month. He gave me a ride back from school almost every day and just listened. Sometimes I'd chatter about inane things, other times I'd cry. He'd just listen.
He quietly arranged for me to stay in a dorm for the next semester, and did all he could to talk me into leaving home for good. I eventually allowed my mother to talk me into coming home, but in retrospect, Mr. B was right. I should have listened to him. He always knew the right thing to do.
He'd make bets with me about my grades. I took 7 classes one semester, and he wagered a lunch date that I couldn't get straight A's. When I walked in with my grade report, he was prouder of me than I could ever have been of myself. Every semester, he would be the first to whom I would report my grades, as his opinion was the only one that was worth anything to me.
Without Mr. B, I wouldn't have made it through college. I wouldn't be where I am today. I credit him almost entirely for setting my stupid ass straight. Never did he doubt my abilities, never did he lead me to believe that I wouldn't succeed. He never lost confidence in me. He was the only person in my life up to that point to give me that gift.
We kept in touch over the years. I'd stop in, get the update, hear stories about his trips to Ireland and what his kids were up to. I'd tell him about my job situation and whatever bullshit I happened to be wrapped up in at the time. He'd generally shoo me out after 15 minutes or so and tell me to "go take care of those kids, don't waste time visiting an old man." I wanted to spend more time, but he was insistent.
Get home to your family, kid, they're the ones who need you. I did as I was told. Mr. B always knew best.
2 years ago, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. My father, who had run into him in town, gave me the news. I immediately went to his office to ask him how he was doing, and he just shrugged. "Every day is a miracle. I'm just taking it a step at a time." I'd check in on him, get the update, and of course he would downplay it every time. I started getting my information from the girl who had an office across the hall from him, as she'd been his work study student before me and was just as close to him as I. I knew she'd tell me the truth. She was the one who told me he'd gone into Boston for his latest hospital trip, and that things didn't look so good. To Boston I went, dropped everything and went straight from work. I had a nagging feeling that I had to see him. I prayed I was wrong.
I walked into the hospital room and saw a person I hardly recognized; skinny, haggard, his hands and feet covered in sores which are apparently a side effect of chemo. His wife, who had been soaking his feet and wrapping his hands, left us alone for a bit, and we talked. He was amazed that I'd driven into Boston just to see him, as he knew full well that I do NOT drive in Boston. I told him I would have driven to Timbuktu. He insisted he was going back to work and that I could have gone to see him there. I told him he was crazy and needed his rest.
I asked if he was finally going to retire, and he laughed. "Never! What the hell would I do with myself all day? I'm going back next week." As per usual, he updated me, I updated him, and he told me not to waste my time and get the hell out of there. I told him my time was never better spent. I kissed him on the head and said goodbye for what turned out to be the last time.
At the services, his wife and children told me how proud Mr. B was of me. They said he talked about me all the time, and went on and on about how wonderful it was that I came to see him in Boston...which of course sent me into an hysterical crying fit. I felt like I had done so little for him when he'd done so much for me, and to have his family say such nice things and be the ones doing the comforting instead of being comforted...all I could really do was thank them for sharing such a wonderful man with the rest of the world. I was honestly embarrassed every time a member of his family came up to me and went on about it, because I didn't feel it was deserved.
I'm not sure why he thought so highly of me. Perhaps he saw some potential in me that I've yet to realize. It was that endless confidence that he had in me, the encouragement that he gave that was a big part of what drove me on to be academically successful. He must have seen something in me that I still don't. Perhaps I still have work to do.
I left the service and went to work for half a day. I sat at my desk, numb, doing my damnedest not to cry. Nobody at work really understands why I'm so upset, he wasn't a relative after all...and frankly, I don't care to explain. I feel like I've lost a father, and I don't give a flying fuck what anybody thinks. Let them think I'm out of my mind, they don't need to understand.
On my way home, I had to stop for gas, and the station was about a mile from the cemetery. I don't really know why, since I'd been there not 6 hours before, but I turned in and headed to his grave. They'd buried him by then, and put all of the flowers over the dirt. Mr. B was in the ground. I completely lost my shit.
I sat on the grass next to his headstone for a good 10 minutes, sobbing uncontrollably. Now, I've done my share of crying already this week, but that was the first time I flat out lost it. Nothing brings reality to a situation such as this like staring at the freshly-dug hole in which your loved one was just planted. I pulled myself together, looked around, and started getting angry.
Mr. B is dead, he's fucking DEAD, and he's in the ground and he's only 67. I went from grieving to pissed in 3 seconds flat.
Where was God for him? There are plenty of people I can think of that belong in a hole, and he is not one of them. He went to church every week, raised money for the poor, sat on every committee the church had...where was God when he was throwing up blood and too weak to eat anything? Some people find comfort in these situations by saying he's gone to a better place, God called him home, blah blah blah fucking BLAH. Right now, I'm not buying it. Maybe I'm selfish and immature and a heathen, but he should be HERE. He should be healthy and happy and raising hell HERE. He should have lived to see grandchildren. He should have died in his sleep, warm in his bed, because THAT is what he deserved. Not this. Mr. B should not have suffered as he did, but here we are and it is what it is. This is what leading a good Christian life got him.
Just as fast as it came over me, the flash of anger was gone...Mr. B wouldn't have wanted me to feel that way. I mumbled a prayer and an apology for being such a brat. He wouldn't have liked me getting all pissed at God. I know Mr. B would say God had nothing to do with his cancer, and that it must have been His will that he be called home so soon. I wasn't exactly buying it, but for Mr. B, I figured I had to try. I got myself together and said what I came to say.
I sat by his grave and told him I was sorry. I'm sorry you're in a hole. I'm sorry you're cold. I'm sorry you suffered so much at the end. I'm sorry I was powerless to help.
I'm sorry you couldn't have seen me finally grow up and be the person you knew I could be.
I'm sorry I couldn't tell you how much I loved you, and how much you meant to me while you were alive. But something tells me you already knew.
The world is a little less interesting today without him in it. Rest well, Mr. B, and know that there was and never will be anybody quite like you.
