The Small Chill

The Small Chill

You may recall that in July, I shared a story about my old college friend Rob taking his own life. Today was the day his family decided to hold the memorial service at Rob’s home in rural Connecticut. Seven of us who went to Cornell with Rob decided to go (actually Rob, Laurey, Jeff, Ronnie, Cliff and I went to Cornell and Linda might as well have gone to Cornell since she spent four years there visiting Cliff from Cortland State University). All four of us guys were fraternity brothers with Rob. Cliff and I were on the same freshman floor. Rob and Rob roomed together one year. Jeff was Rob’s “little brother” at the frat. Cliff, Rob and I were three of six who shared a half-house our senior year. All of that makes me wonder what causes someone to feel compelled to attend an old and distant friend’s funeral. We spent three or four years together forty-five years ago. Rob was not much of a joiner. He never came to reunions and most of us only saw or communicated with him once in a while. We all saw Rob much less than we saw one another. Most of his life was lived with different people and in a different place. And yet, with seven of us in attendance, I would say we were the largest cohort in mourning, larger even than his family, since the total gathering was perhaps only twenty-five people.

When I think about relationships like this, I think in overlapping circles. There is the circle of physical proximity. One of Rob’s close childhood friends (there were three that we all knew from prior encounters) could not attend the memorial due to being in Dubai. I’m not sure I would have attended if I had moved already to San Diego. But the seven of us all lived within a few hours drive. I met no one there from more than three hours away. Then there is the circle of emotional closeness. Rob had a few neighbors and co-workers there. Where there were two childhood friends and seven college friends, there were no dental school friends. Of the three senior year house-mates who did not attend, two are geographically distant and one was simply not close to Rob. Of the other ten or so fraternity brothers who might have remembered Rob, half of whom are geographically close, those five or so were just not emotionally close. The third circle that occurs to me as relevant is professional, something that none of our college group shared. There were no dental colleagues in attendance either except his prior employees, who seemed very close to him.

I’m not sure what all that says about our relationship with Rob. I suspect that if we were younger when this happened, like in the movie, The Big Chill, the dynamic might have been very different. Younger people taking their own life seems tragic and invokes guilt and thoughts of prevention. Older people with debilitating and irreversible illnesses who take their lives seem less tragic and more noble and brave and invokes resignation. There were some shows of emotion as one might expect, but much less than I have seen at other memorials. I attribute none of that to the degree of emotional connection and everything to the circumstances. The most unusual, but strangely calming reaction was from Rob’s thirty-year-old son, Eric. He spoke of a shared existential philosophy with his father and a belief that they were both loners with iconoclastic approaches to life and happiness. He shed not a tear today, but spoke calmly of fulfilling his father’s wishes to spread his ashes across his beloved mossed-over stone walls that surrounded his property. It was not in the least cold, but seemed strangely appropriate and centered.

Before the memorial, we all arranged to meet for lunch near his house. Rob lived in, of all places, Sandy Hook, the scene of the horrendous 2012 mass shooting that took twenty-seven victims, mostly young children. That factoid made me feel strange about this unusual first visit to this infamous town. I chose a local restaurant for the seven of us to gather for lunch. It turned out to be a rainy day as we arrived at the restaurant in the center of this small, otherwise nondescript town. We had a few hours to catch up with one another and we all had a jovial time doing so while enjoying a nondescript brunch. It was like any other gathering of old college friends. Stories of kids, jobs and mutual friends, but very little about Rob. What was the point? We knew of his illness and the terms of his death. We would soon be seeing his family and other friends and filling whatever blanks could be prudently filled in.

When we got to the house, Rob’s house, we found his family and few friends along with the self-designed and decorated house that meant so much to him. It was a small colonial on a long driveway that looked similar to any other Connecticut home you might see along the road. Approaching the house, it became obvious that Rob’s obsession with Frank Lloyd Wright caused him to add touches outside and inside to remind one of the famous man’s style. A Taliesin Sprite statue in front and by the pool set the landscaping stage. Wooden carved window valances in the craftsman style gave the FLW feel to the interior, as did bent-wood chairs (actually more from the Charles Eames collection than Wright). Shortly after introductions, Rob’s brother made the executive decision that we should gather on the deck since the rain had stopped. We spent about an hour sharing funny and poignant stories of Rob. It was the normal array of remembrances with several dominant themes. Rob was fastidious, witty, ecologically-conscious, quirky, talented and genuinely kind, particularly to those of lesser means where he worked and lived.

In The Big Chill, the premature and self-inflicted death of their college friend caused a chilling effect on all the relationships of the gathered mourners. It was, indeed, a big chill. The story is one of many unresolved and lingering issues. Our memorial gathering had the same chilling theme of the suicide of a friend we were all close with many years ago. But our lives were little impacted by Rob’s passing. His son, ex-wife and brother seemed prepared to carry on their lives in his absence. The house would get sold and other than a few distant and fading memories, Rob’s life would pass by. We, who had Rob-related circles of relationship that overlapped cared enough to pay our respects. That is all we can do. We’ve now had our small chill, which probably gave us all reasons to be thankful for our more connected lives than Rob chose to live.