A Covid Death

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About a month ago I heard about the tragic passing of a work friend.

He was just 52 years old.

He was trim, did not have any health problems in recent decades. 

He’d been sick as a young man...his mid-twenties...and he had quit smoking and drinking way back when.

Covid ended his life. He suffered mightily before he lost his battle.

And I was certainly sad when I heard the news, but I was way more than sad when I saw his photo and read the obituary.

As I stared at that photo I remembered all the talks we had about football and golf and work.

He was one of those type of people who was always up.

He smiled a lot, and talked a lot.

He never missed work. He loved his family.

Good, solid man.

Gone.

30 damn years too early.

What is infuriating to me is that I mentioned the loss to a man on one of the job sites.

A man who was who refusing to wear a mouth or nose covering.

A man ready to insist that the flu kills people too.

“How old was he?” Was the first question.

“52.”

“Did he have underlying conditions?”

“No.”

“Did he smoke?”

“He quit smoking when he was 25.”

“Oh.”

Then he paused and tried to figure it out so they somehow he could continue with a narrative that served his ‘Covid isn’t a big deal’ argument.

“Well, maybe it was his time. I don’t want to sound like an asshole but people do die.”

“Guess what?” I respond.

“What?”

“You sound like an asshole.”

“I’m not saying that there isn’t a virus, but he’s an exception to the rule. Most people his age don’t die from it.”

“I’m sure that’ll comfort his wife and kids.”

That’s when I walked away.

“Sorry about your friend!” He called out.

Yeah.

Thanks.

That means a lot.

May M.P. Rest In Peace.

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