Months ago, a very close friend passed away. I’d like to tell you about him for he was truly a great man, but I’m still wrapping my mind around it. I can tell you that, true to form, he was playing a game (very seriously, I’m sure) when he had his heart attack. His wife was notified and escorted across southeast Texas at a terrifically high speed by a relay of state and local law enforcement in order to be by his side. He waited for her. For his funeral, a city parade was rerouted so as not to be a disturbance. A proud Marine, all branches of the military were represented at his funeral which overflowed the church, and they in their respective uniforms joined the chorus to sing the Marines’ Hymn.

I want to honor him in the manner he deserves – through extraordinary and uncommon actions, through a life well-lived with integrity, intensity, loyalty. I think of him every day, as I do others to whom I am indebted whose legacies no longer enjoy their nurturing and protection – my grandparents (even and sometimes especially my father’s father who I did not know), my uncles Johnny and Butch, my friend Levi. Do I honor my inheritance? Do I earn it?

Just a month ago his wife, herself an extraordinary and inspirational human being, was diagnosed with cancer. The doctor says that treatments won’t cure her, just keep her alive, hopefully long enough for a cure to be discovered.

My daughter went with my mother to be with my friend as she began her chemotherapy. In the waiting room, a patient remarked aloud aggressive-passively “This is no place for a baby” even as my daughter’s cherubic smile was reflected in the glowing faces of others around her. As my friend told me the story and how she responded, she loomed and glowered lovingly as she said “And so I turned to your daughter and I smiled…” (as she related this she re-smiled a smile that said, to me, “You’d better fucking smile”) “…and I said, so everyone could hear, ‘You are the most beautiful little girl, I am so glad you’re here.’” I fucking smiled, and I’d like to think that other gal did too, if only a quivering, compliant smile.

My friend will be happy, damn it. She will welcome happiness, damn it. She will make room for it. She will protect and nurture it. And she will live. This she assured me; as certainly as she had dealt with the unpleasant and defeatist, this unpleasantness would be dealt with. She will win.

She may not know it (because I don’t think that she even has to think about it) but she has chosen to live a life of extraordinary and uncommon actions… by living.

I love my friend. I want everyone to know this because everyone should know how much she deserves, has earned my love (to say the least). Should I buy a pink shirt? When I can’t wear it, should I have a ribbon at the ready? When I’m driving, my bulletin-board bust out of site, how about a sticker for the bumper?

These aren’t extraordinary. In their ubiquity and ease of access, these fail to impress. Worse, I may succumb to the pacifying notion that in pink my friend is remembered and her story told (to anyone who isn’t color blind).

It would be much harder I imagine to live so exceptionally as to have even one opportunity to say “That which I have done that has brought you so much joy/pleasure/pride/courage – my friend inspired it, the lessons she has taught me made it possible, let me tell you about her.”