A Funeral For My Friend
The following story was written in tribute to my dear friend Max, who died in November, 2019. His death was particularly tragic and certainly ironic as the sudden appearance of his brain cancer diagnosis just one year before, came just prior to the time that I was hospitalized for the planned surgical treatment of my advanced congestive heart failure. The message that I hope to convey here, is that we all need to be grateful for the days we are given here on earth — because…well…you simply never know when our last day will come.
When Hurricane Sandy hit Long Island in 2012, my parents’ home in the East End of Long Beach, New York — that little house that I grew up in, was destroyed. My folks, having been warned to leave, had come to stay with us in East Meadow several days before, until their next steps could be figured out. The day after the hurricane, I left my house which had lost power, like so many of us here on Long Island’s south shore. I jumped into my big Honda Pilot, and was among the first (crazy) people to wind my way through the flooded side streets of the south shore — filled with fallen trees, downed electrical poles and broken houses, finally arriving at the devastation of our house at 317 East Fulton Street, which was almost unrecognizable — from the fifteen feet of water that came from both the bay on one side and the ocean on the other. I spent the rest of the day trying to figure out how I was going to tell my father, who’s life revolved around taking care of that little house and the garden, that he wasn’t going back there any time soon.
Early the following day, I got a call from my good friend Max, who of course, being concerned for my parents (whom he had come to know well), insisted, in the way that he often did, on taking a ride with me back down to Long Beach to see the devastation with his own eyes. I would soon learn, at the moment when Max laid eyes on the shambles that remained, that he was beginning to figure out how he was going to rebuild the house. I just glared at him in wonder, because my being involved in any rebuilding project had never occurred to me. Upon carefully entering the wet rubble, Max ran his hands up and down the walls and banged on them listening for things that I had never known were in the walls — and he walked well into the house on the squeaky floorboards, which were soaked with the mildewing water. He spoke of “opening up the kitchen walls” to improve the viewing area and “making the closets bigger” — all while I stood there praying that the ceiling wasn’t going to come crashing down, ending my hopes of finding a place to eat on the drive back to East Meadow.
But he wasn’t done there. I think I had ill-advisedly told Max that the West End of Long Beach had experienced even more unspeakable damage than the East End. And so, when we left my parents’ house, Max informed me that we were going to drive through Long Beach to the West End, along the beach, to help anyone that we see who seems to need help picking up and salvaging what was left of their belongings and the things they held dear and making sure that these strangers — were all doing okay. My journey with Max then extended to East Atlantic Beach, where he collected pieces of tattered wood and any other objects that I suppose he imagined he would build something with — always quickly looking up if he thought he’d heard a human’s voice, anxious to help them in any way that he could. I was buying into this effort a little bit and I started picking up wood and shells and listening for voices — but now I was getting particularly hungry.
This day that I spent with Max was only a small example of the humanity that Max had. As far as I could see, Max was always looking to help people who were in greater need than he was. He always put others first, even if it meant giving up what he had. He treated others as equals, no more and no less, and would rush without hesitation to help at an accident scene. Max thought out of the box to create something new, dreaming of how it might improve the world. And he placed moral principles over fortune and fame, making choices based on values rather than personal gain. Many describe Max as stubborn- and maybe he was a little. But I always thought that he was just trying to do what was right.
Max was very loyal to his loved ones until the very end — always hugging and kissing his family and even his friends, showing the depth of the love that he always unabashedly sent our way .
I’ve been to many funerals, the funerals of children even - and the one for my father just a few short years ago. But today … today is the first time I’ve been to a funeral for a friend. We all loved Max — but the thing I feel the most is that I know that Max loved me.
Max — I am proud to have known you — and so proud that you were my friend.
