But that’s where we are, that’s what life has done to us, to Tony. There is nothing more ironic than a man who loved science dying young because science still isn’t good enough. And that makes me mad. We are not alone in this grief, this anger. Many people have died from cancer – young, old and in between. I often say that in 300 years they will laugh at how we fight cancer today. I wish I could invent a time machine, move into 2314 and return with whatever secrets mankind dreams up between now and then. I can’t. None of us can. As much as Tony studied and understood science and loved its base principles, he could not have done it either. And that is the senselessness that has many of us so bitter and so angry.
Tony deserved better because he embodied hope. I don’t know if many people realized that about him. While he called himself a Darwinist, he knew that people could make the world better.
Look at all these people here today. It shouldn’t surprise us. Maybe the sadness of someone dying young isn’t really all that sad. Maybe they are young enough to still have important people around them and in their lives. We hold a grandparent’s funeral, and family attend but most of their friends have passed on or are too weak to travel, or have just faded away over the years. The memory of this moment might just be that Tony touched so many lives – and in such a short amount of time. You aren’t here because Tony died young; you’re here because Tony meant something to you, and you meant something to him. While that does not numb the heartache, it makes something seem to be meaningful.
There are some good memories I will choose to keep and some bad ones I will make myself forget.
I will remember the night a few weeks before the surgery when he simply asked to go a movie. I said, “What’s up?” He said he didn’t feel like being alone. It was his way of saying please.
I will not remember the pain of seeing someone we love die so young, because he lived a lot in his two decades. He was a part of our lives, and that fact made all of our lives a little bit better.
I will remember going to the auto show in February of 2013. He was like a kid at Christmas inside a candy store and at Disneyworld all at once. It was his groove. He bounced from car to car, telling me about specs I didn’t understand, appreciating the fine engineering of other people’s work, pointing out what features were “boss” and which were “lame.” I learned a little, but more I will remember watching Tony revel in his element. He was having fun and smiling and dreaming of driving those cars – before he even knew he’d have cancer. I will remember him smiling.
I won’t remember the vitriol he expressed for what he lost. But who could blame him? There is so much we take for granted – what we eat, how we kiss, when we talk, why we breathe, and all of it was taken from him in the prime of his life.
I will remember that Tony was a child of his generation. He loved skateboards and bikes as a kid, grew to dig computers and apps and his cell phone as a teen, and absolutely became passionate about tools and engineering as a young man. They made sense to him.
I choose to forget all of the things he vented about during a ride back and forth to Deep Creek. He needed a sounding board for his pain, frustration, anger and confusion. He said some pretty nasty things. It does no good to recount those things, and I will not remember them.
I hope I can always remember his laughter. His laugh was like a quick-strike rifle. He would burst out, laugh hard and then stop. He would just stop because the funny part was over. He appreciated humor but he balanced it with such a seriousness. He was a fan of satire but there were so many other things that made him laugh: silly internet memes, people falling, girls doing things in an illogical way, and how we Pittsburgh sports fans take our teams too seriously. Tony even managed to laugh at his own misfortunes.
When he had the PET scan on December 12th, it happened to be the night the newest Hobbit movie was to be released. He asked if I would go with him to the midnight showing no matter the results of his PET scan. If it was good news, he wanted to celebrate; if it is was bad, he wanted to commiserate. I said I don’t know, I had six hours of class to teach the next day. That might be tough. His response? “Come on! I just got the shit kicked out of me by cancer for six months. You can handle being tired at school for a few hours.” I will remember that bravery. And I will remember going to that movie, to celebrate just for that one day.
I will not remember the cancer. What good does that do? If we remember it, it wins. Cancer can’t win. The memory of Tony must be better and bigger and braver than the disease that ended his life. We must continue to fight cancer and fight with those who suffer.
I will remember his words. The funny things he said, the many things he taught me (some about cars that I never really understood); the way he loved to talk about ideas both profound and silly. I will remember how he went out in public and lived after the surgery that removed his tongue. He never asked that I speak to store employees for him at a movie theatre or at Best Buy or at Lowe’s. He did his best to communicate. And he was patient with people even when he knew they had trouble understanding him.
And his generosity. I will remember the times when he let me off the hook. He would say something I just could not figure out as his speech became worse, and I would give an “Uh-huh,” as if to let him finish. He would say, “You really didn’t understand what I said, did you?” I had to admit I hadn’t. He would simply repeat it because that was his way.
I will remember how he accepted his fate. I will remember he had plans. I will remember how we came to be friends before it was too late.
Tony and I became very close in the last 5 years. And I can tell you that he was outspoken because he cared. He was assertive not because he was arrogant or conceited, but because he had ambition. He had hopes of doing something important. He may have come off as being a bit abrasive, but it wasn’t because he was rude or self-centered. He was insecure. We all were at 21, at 22, at 23, at... And that is the tragedy, isn’t it? He’ll never get to grow into his developing twenties, his calming thirties, his patient forties, his focused fifties, his graceful sixties, his grateful seventies, his reflective eighties. Please, if anything, enjoy your twenties because you can. Live your thirties for all their joy because you can. Embrace your forties because you can! Reinvent yourself in your fifties, celebrate your sixties, accept the struggles of your seventies, and hold onto life during your eighties...only because you can.
I will not remember cancer. I will remember that he had cancer. But I will not, cannot remember what it did to him. I will remember him young and sharp and handsome and full of life.
I will always remember that I could not comprehend the last thing he tried to say to me – but I will enjoy a life spent imagining all the great things it might have been that he was trying to teach me.
I will remember that he gave me the chance to be a decent uncle. I’ll remember how he stuck to his point of view and was always willing to argue a point because he believed in the power of his intelligent dialogue; in a way, he believed in words. I will remember his words. The ones he wrote, the ones he said, even the ones he had to repeat after he lost the ease of speaking.
I will remember his dignity.
I will remember his words.
Words made of letters designed to make sense of the unthinkable...
