It's too late to say thank you

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

ORLANDO, Fla. - We met Tuesday in the hotel lobby on our way to somewhere else. It took a minute for me to match a name with his face because I hadn't seen him in a couple of years and then we were in another city in another hotel lobby. He was smiling, extending his hand, saying his name and when he did, I thought: of course. And it all came back then, the details of our last conversation.

"How've you been? How's the family?" he was saying. Then he was talking about my husband again, telling me how well he looked and what a good job he had done speaking in Toronto the week before and what a good friend he is and then he said, "So how's he doing? How's he feeling?"

He asked the same questions two years ago right after my husband's surgery. How is he, really? Tell me: Is he going to be OK? Is there anything I can do to help? "You sent the nicest flowers he received," I told him, and he smiled.

We talked diet then. I remember discussing the fat content of food. And I remember how he listened, how he was interested, how he wasn't just being polite. He wanted to know what exactly open heart surgery did and how it was going to affect the rest of my husband's life.

But the conversation ended too soon. He went his way. I went mine and two years passed. Now here we were again, on the run, people rushing by us, picking up the old conversation right where we left off.

He talked about how well my husband looked, how trim and fit and how much energy he had. "You're taking care of him. I can see that," he said.

I introduced him then to our oldest daughter and he told her what a great father she had, and then this great father happened by and we all stood and talked and he confessed that he had been in Canton recently right down the street from where we live, buying furniture at Connors' because he and his wife bought all their furniture there.

"You were in Canton and you didn't stop by?" my husband said.

And this long-time business associate shrugged, and it was a you-know-how-it-is roll of the shoulders. And we all nodded because we know how it is: no time to stop by, to say hello even when you're in the same town.

No time now, either. Hurry, hurry, hurry. A bus was waiting for him. Friends were waiting for us. We'll see you later, we said. He shook my hand and said good-bye and leaned close and whispered, "Make sure you keep taking care of him, OK?"

Then we went our separate ways.

That was Tuesday. Wednesday he was found dead in bed. He'd had a heart attack.

If he had a history of heart disease I didn't know it. He didn't talk about himself. If he had shortness of breath or stiffness in the jaw, he never admitted it. He probably never even admitted it to himself.

He was a kind man. That's all I know about him.

Now he is gone.

There are, on the other hand, those we know will not be with us much longer.

My mother-in-law has shortness of breath. She has high blood pressure. She has a slow heartbeat, chest pains, diabetes, hardening of the arteries. And yet she goes on.

We call her the Eveready Grandma. We joke. She jokes, "I'm still here," she'll say when we stop by.

But here was this man, no different from most men. He didn't look sick or pallid or act tired or have to sit down to catch his breath. He looked just like everyone else.

You'd think we'd learn from this. You'd think we'd value people more, let them know that we care.

We do this with Grandma. We tell her we love her every time we say good-bye.

But with most everyone else, we just assume they'll be there when we return. George Snyder let me know he cared. I bet he let other people know, too.

"See you later," were my last words to him. I wish I had said, "Thank you for caring," too.