Tuesday, September 16, 2008

525,600 minutes

I attended Larry's memorial service last week. Only one of two I've attended that have been truly spiritual experiences. Larry and my late best friend Ron would have had a lot to talk about. Their love of theater as their calling in life.

The opening music at Larry's memorial was a beautiful, legato rendition of "Comedy Tonight." Yes, the same one you've heard Zero Mostel bellowing in "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum." This was poigant and very touching. "Tragedy tomorrow, a comedy tonight." And it was. Theater people who can pull off comedy are a special breed. It was "Larry's Open Mic Night" and for 90 minutes, we heard some of the most amazing stories that made us all laugh and touched us to tears.

It's not that I knew Larry well. But I felt like I did. He reminded me of many of my friends from college and my early adulthood. It brought back memories of my college days, and I got melancholy thinking of people who were so important to me at a critical time in my life who are on the periphery of my life today or only in my memory.

Ron died at age 35 of cancer. I'd been with him for it all. When he discovered the first lump and was too scared to tell his parents because his sister had only died two years before from cancer. I was there when he was "cured" and then when he found another lump, and then the last that eight years after the initial diagnosis would take his life.

Ron knew he was dying so his funeral could be the theatrical masterpiece of his career. And it was. It was like every heart-wrenching, half-a-box of Kleenex movies, you've ever seen. It was "Terms of Endearment" and "Field of Dreams" and any other movie that stays with you for years. Those who spoke, the entire wall of floral tributes, the poster-sized professional portrait taken when he was healthy and well seemed to be something so well orchestrated that there was nothing but joy left by the time we had cried out every ounce of pain.

He asked us to play, "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" at his graveside, because "nothing will keep me, keep me from you."

But the song that changed my future outlook was "Seasons of Love" from the Broadway musical, "Rent."
"How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets,
in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife?
In five-hundred, twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes?
How do you measure, a year in the life?"

Ron lived the belief that life was precious. His younger sister died at 19 from cancer and since that time, he lived every day as fully as he possibly could. His message was to live as if every day were your last and live with no regrets.

When we remember those who die before their time, it is hard to consider that maybe they lived the life they were meant to live. How do you measure a year in the life? Could it be about how much you have loved others and told them so? Ron's message and the lesson from Larry's sudden passing is to not take anyone you love for granted. Tell those people who are important to you that they matter and that your life has been richer for them. And then live that way. It's the very best tribute you can give.

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