In the fall, my octogenarian friend Sue's best friend died. A lot of her friends are dying lately, but this one especially hurt. Sue was depressed. Months passed. The depression didn't.
In December, I noticed that her beloved Gonzaga basketball team, ranked #2, was playing #1 UConn here in Seattle. "How 'bout I fly you here for the game, take you out to dinner, and send you home?" I asked. She was elated.
"Oh my God, do I need this, John."
And then the snow came. She wasn't comfortable leaving her home, and she canceled. Her flight took off on time, so no refund was possible. Not only was she disappointed and now even more depressed—how singularly frustrating is that?—I was out about five hundred bucks. I would have gotten more for my money if I'd set it on fire. Heat, at least.
I resolved to try again. Two months later, I did.
"I'll tell ya what," I told her last week. "I'll drive to Spokane and take you to the game Thursday night." She was elated again. And so I mailed her the tickets, lest I get stuck on this side of the mountain pass and have to cancel. I drove eight hours through the fog, booked a motel room (lest my puppy whiz on Sue's rug), and stayed for a few days. I picked her up, flowers in hand. For dinner I took her to Clinkerdagger, a fine steak place, and on our way to the make-good basketball game, Sue spoke of how painful it is to see her friends die. I bet. I can't even imagine.
And then she bitterly spat the following.
"All of my good friends are dead."
Cue the headline.