surreal

A solid two weeks since my last post, and fifteen days since any real substance. Here I had all kinds of quirky observations I wanted to write down, interesting and bizarre occurrences in my restricted bubble of life.

Things change; all anecdotes are now erased or overcast by a substantial happening. Saturday February 20, 2005, my dear friend Jason Broome passed away due to lymphoma complications. Surrealism describes the haze I am under; but honestly, for the first time in my life does the term 'surreal' carry such dismal connotation.

I met Jason in the Fall of 1999 at Boise State University. He was one of the 150+ students enrolled in Physics 211 with me, and one of the meager three dozen or so that actually showed up to lectures. We did not have much in common at first, maybe a shared amusement with Dr. Willy Smith who rubbed his stomach, spoke some garbled resemblance of Arabic and answered questions with questions during lecture. Nonstop laughs. Else, we seemed to be on very different paths: he smoked, drank, was majoring in GeoScience or GeoPhysics (which I, in my egotism, didn't even bother to ask); I was nineteen years old, an engineering over-achiever and racer-boy.

He saw no such social boundaries with me or anyone else in this world. During class, outside of class, he learned that I raced bicycles and always used it as an ice breaker. I also found that he was beyond capable of every topic we covered in Physics, and I must admit that our early friendship was fortified through sharing and comparing homework solutions. I recognized his genius, and his generosity, but in true Jason Broome fashion he would never accept praise without praising me in return. More on that later.

Sophomore year passed, then junior and finally senior year. Throughout my mechanical engineering mayhem our occasional encounters fueled a subtly blooming friendship, and we started creating excuses to spend time together. He would often pass by the study table in the Engineering Center just to say hello, even though it was a stiff twenty-minute walk out of his way. The topic of cycling never lost its affinity between us; in fact since we'd met he had quit smoking, quit boozing, and lost the equivalent weight of a third grader. I remember him telling me that he'd finally had enough and decided to quit abusing his body. His diligence and tenacity drew much respect from me and everyone else he knew. Again, he would never acknowledge praise, or when he did it was considerably downplayed in comparison to another's achievements. Not insecurity, just a refusal to be highlighted.

We rode a few times and I learned of his cycling aspirations. I was (and still am) quite interested in physiology, nutrition, and sport, and he flattered my ego by barraging me with questions, then praise and admiration, then more questions. He was a sponge for any and all types of information, and for some reason he valued my input. He wanted me to be his coach, and though I had little to offer other than an objective perspective, I agreed. Soon after, however, I went to Spain. And like my many other relationships here on the mainland, ours slid to the back burner. It didn't matter. That is, was, the amazing thing about Jason. No maintenance required, just one-hundred percent loyalty, encouragement, and support regardless of the circumstances.

Two more years passed: our interaction undulating but the relationship unwavering despite the months sometimes spent without contact. Around Christmas of 2003, on the verge of my trip to Arizona and the eminent emotional meltdown, I recommitted to coaching him. I felt pretty phony in my status: I being bulimic and spiraling out of control and he trusting my input. I went to AZ, Cali, and cracked hard before coming home. He offered me a place to stay, just like that, with he and Christy and baby Philip. Just like that. He had always alluded to an extra room for me, but this was serious considering I was trying to restructure my life and redefine my persona. He was there, selflessly offering everything he could.

Within a month's time Jason went in to see a family doctor regarding some strange breathing difficulties and chest pains, and in a week the cancer diagnosis snapped its jaws around him and all of us with him.

This is where things get fuzzy... Not in my memory, but in life's motives and purpose. Jason battled his lymphoma for months and months: radiation, chemo, more chemo, more chemo. You could ask Jason any day about his outlook, his perspective, and it was always overflowing with optimism. It was not naivete, it was refusal to dwell on the shit he was dealt.

I remained living with he, Christy, and the Little Man until August, in which time he asked me about my status at least four-times as much as I questioned his. Even in times of devastating sickness and weakness he made me feel like a rockstar. Me? Who was I, who am I compared to him?

Jason will be remembered. Wow, those words seem so... hollow, and do not convey how strongly his image shines in my mind. He taught me and so many others the true definition of love: shoving aside yourself to feel another's emotions. Jason could feel your pain, your joy, your fear and your confidence even better than you could, well before you could. He took it too far though, as I do not think he ever fully realized his own magnitude in this world. If I can apply just a fraction of his character in my own life...

I will always think of you and always miss you Jason. I'll make damn sure Phillip knows what a man of integrity you were, and he'll be hearing stories about you as long as I'm alive. Thank you for teaching us all so much, and revealing the significant in life. Goodbye.