A truly wonderful man died this week.
His name was Mick Murphy, and he was an exceptional person - larger than life, full of stories, always meeting and befriending new people, bringing groups of strangers together for smashingly good times, regardless of the activities of the day. A world traveler, writer, devoted husband to an ailing wife, he was the sort of person that was keenly interested in what was going on with you, made you feel like the only person on the planet worth knowing and talking to at that moment, taking in your stories, pulling forth an anecdote or helpful piece of information to the topic at hand. And always laughing, lots and lots of laughing.
Mick was a friend of my Dad and stepmother for almost 25 years, and I'd see him and his lovely wife Laura during summer and holiday trips to Oregon. We went on several adventures, hiking up to Mt. Hood, berry picking, picnics and outdoor concerts at Washington Park and the Riverfront. He was the master of finding fun, free events, and terrific Happy Hours in Portland, "Pub Meals" he called them. I ran into him in Trader Joes 7 or 8 weeks ago, and after a bear hug and a "We don't hear much from your folks down in Mexico these days" (to which I replied "Well, neither do I, so what are you gonna do?") he asked when would we get together for a Pub Meal. He said that he and Laura had both been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, but that as soon as they were all clear and back up to speed, off we would go.
We exchanged a few emails, then a long silence and the next thing I know he's gone, within a week of finally receiving a correct diagnosis. The lingering pneumonia was not herpes in the lung or any of the other random and seemingly implausible ills hypothesized by the medical folk. It was lung cancer that had metastasized to his ribs. Until this illness, he was a robust and incredibly young 82 and I thought there were going to be several more good years before a decline. There is so much that I take for granted in this life. It's shocking to confront. How very easy it is to forget how absurdly fast things can change. Especially when you are 32 and a lot of things have not yet sunk in below the surface tension of your life.
When I was much younger I had a crush on Mick, a Grandpa Crush, I guess you could say, and longed for some of his charm and good nature to rub off on my father. I know my Dad respected and looked up to this utter gentleman - gentle man - who was about 20 or 25 years older, and I always thought that perhaps Mick could teach him a thing or two about being a man, a husband, a father. I guess maybe it doesn't work that way. Admiration and emulation, respect and edification, are not necessarily bound up with each other. I suppose it's never too late, as they say, but I am not holding on to any hope. To be a better version of yourself, a more fully developed person in general, you actually have to want to be, to desire the most evolved state you can imagine for yourself. Mick, it is clear, was just that sort of person - a "suck the marrow out of life" kind, and a learn-all-that-you-can, be-all-that-you-are-able, taste-all-that-can, live-the-best-you-might, love-beyond-the-capacity-you-thought-possible while wandering through this mortal coil. A rare man indeed.
I attended the memorial on Sunday. It was beautiful. Mick's children, who have filled so many of his stories over the years, are wonderful. His Grandchildren are wonderful, shining stars even on a darker day. Everyone had such sweet, raucous, hilarious stories to tell. I could not stop crying.
One dear friend of the family told a story about sitting with Mick in the last day or two of his life, and his taking her hand and telling her that it is all amazing. I am paraphrasing, of course, but in essence he said that life is amazing, living is incredible, and even this dying is wondrous. It is ALL amazing. Leave it to Mick to be excited, not to leave this world, his beloved family, his fading wife, but having no choice in the matter, to remain excited to learn about what it means to be dying. Oh my god.
On the program from the service was an Emerson quote that struck me and even in the weeks after I started this post, has stuck with me vividly:
"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can.
Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."
I've taped it to the side of my computer screen. I hope you might take this one with you, too, and maybe think of Mick, someone you never met but who had a thing or two to pass around about the simple and yet ever complex topic of living life.
Be well wherever you are, Mick. I'm so glad I had the pleasure to know you.
His name was Mick Murphy, and he was an exceptional person - larger than life, full of stories, always meeting and befriending new people, bringing groups of strangers together for smashingly good times, regardless of the activities of the day. A world traveler, writer, devoted husband to an ailing wife, he was the sort of person that was keenly interested in what was going on with you, made you feel like the only person on the planet worth knowing and talking to at that moment, taking in your stories, pulling forth an anecdote or helpful piece of information to the topic at hand. And always laughing, lots and lots of laughing.
Mick was a friend of my Dad and stepmother for almost 25 years, and I'd see him and his lovely wife Laura during summer and holiday trips to Oregon. We went on several adventures, hiking up to Mt. Hood, berry picking, picnics and outdoor concerts at Washington Park and the Riverfront. He was the master of finding fun, free events, and terrific Happy Hours in Portland, "Pub Meals" he called them. I ran into him in Trader Joes 7 or 8 weeks ago, and after a bear hug and a "We don't hear much from your folks down in Mexico these days" (to which I replied "Well, neither do I, so what are you gonna do?") he asked when would we get together for a Pub Meal. He said that he and Laura had both been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, but that as soon as they were all clear and back up to speed, off we would go.
We exchanged a few emails, then a long silence and the next thing I know he's gone, within a week of finally receiving a correct diagnosis. The lingering pneumonia was not herpes in the lung or any of the other random and seemingly implausible ills hypothesized by the medical folk. It was lung cancer that had metastasized to his ribs. Until this illness, he was a robust and incredibly young 82 and I thought there were going to be several more good years before a decline. There is so much that I take for granted in this life. It's shocking to confront. How very easy it is to forget how absurdly fast things can change. Especially when you are 32 and a lot of things have not yet sunk in below the surface tension of your life.
When I was much younger I had a crush on Mick, a Grandpa Crush, I guess you could say, and longed for some of his charm and good nature to rub off on my father. I know my Dad respected and looked up to this utter gentleman - gentle man - who was about 20 or 25 years older, and I always thought that perhaps Mick could teach him a thing or two about being a man, a husband, a father. I guess maybe it doesn't work that way. Admiration and emulation, respect and edification, are not necessarily bound up with each other. I suppose it's never too late, as they say, but I am not holding on to any hope. To be a better version of yourself, a more fully developed person in general, you actually have to want to be, to desire the most evolved state you can imagine for yourself. Mick, it is clear, was just that sort of person - a "suck the marrow out of life" kind, and a learn-all-that-you-can, be-all-that-you-are-able, taste-all-that-can, live-the-best-you-might, love-beyond-the-capacity-you-thought-possible while wandering through this mortal coil. A rare man indeed.
I attended the memorial on Sunday. It was beautiful. Mick's children, who have filled so many of his stories over the years, are wonderful. His Grandchildren are wonderful, shining stars even on a darker day. Everyone had such sweet, raucous, hilarious stories to tell. I could not stop crying.
One dear friend of the family told a story about sitting with Mick in the last day or two of his life, and his taking her hand and telling her that it is all amazing. I am paraphrasing, of course, but in essence he said that life is amazing, living is incredible, and even this dying is wondrous. It is ALL amazing. Leave it to Mick to be excited, not to leave this world, his beloved family, his fading wife, but having no choice in the matter, to remain excited to learn about what it means to be dying. Oh my god.
On the program from the service was an Emerson quote that struck me and even in the weeks after I started this post, has stuck with me vividly:
"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can.
Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."
I've taped it to the side of my computer screen. I hope you might take this one with you, too, and maybe think of Mick, someone you never met but who had a thing or two to pass around about the simple and yet ever complex topic of living life.
Be well wherever you are, Mick. I'm so glad I had the pleasure to know you.
