28-Dying in Slow-Motion

28-Dying in Slow-Motion

By Jaxon Cohen

Returning to work from lunch, I approached a man, lying in the grass with a sign that read, “Homeless, anything will help.”

I took a second look. The disturbing fact penetrating my mind was this man's identity: my best-friend from childhood. Then I realized I supplied the pen he used to write the sign. My first instinct was to walk away and avoid the impending, unsettling truth of sharing this stark reality with him. I didn't; I said hello. Most of us fear ending up homeless. We use this phrase as if it is the conclusion of a story, a life.  We end homeless. 

My friend insured I witnessed his fate as he advertised his plight a few hundred feet from work. A few days before, he got me out of bed to tell me of his personal tragedy and ask for money. In seven years, this was the second time I'd seen him. Seven years ago, my father died of old age after fifteen years of my 24hr care. A little more than a month later, this life-long friend left me a very short, very formal letter, under my front-door with the $20 I loaned him. He made it clear that our debts were paid, that we were no longer friends, and that I was not to contact him or his family, ever. I next saw him years later when he showed up drunk on my doorstep and asked why I'd not been in touch.

He made a life for himself, stitched from the kindness of others and padded by the luck of the draw. During those many years he refused contact, he placed an increasing strain on his abundant resources. Those who supported him have pulled away. As I write this, inebriation dominates his solitary existence. Despite abandoning me in my hour of need, when he showed up two years ago and again a few days ago, I did not turn him away but accepted his offer of renewed friendship. 

Trust no one. Instead, trust yourself to know others. I know this man, at least I knew him. I loved him like a brother for decades, but scarcely recognized the man holding that sign. His powerful, overbearing personality has been stripped away. The gregarious, confident, mountainous man is now a withered husk. He avoids eye contact and often whispers. But what he says is the same old story, the same old sale's pitch. For this reason, my friendship has strict boundaries.

I do what I can for him. When he shows up at work, I feed him. When he asks for a pen, I provide it. But what I cannot provide is the will to live. We are independent, free agents. We can participate in healing. We can support redemption. We can do all sorts of things for those hungry for our efforts. We cannot make them hungry. My friend has no appetite for change. He has not had a job in a decade and will tally an endless list of reasons why this remains. 

Seeing my friend like this has clarified my understanding of an essential human right: self-determination. As much as it disturbs me to see him holding that sign, I respect his right to die in slow-motion, to await the inevitable in his dark cocoon of oblivion. Should he find a reason to live, should he want the help offered by his family and friends, I will be relieved to know he's put down that sign, stood up, and now walks towards something instead of away from everything.