I am not observant and Dave was not Jewish. But as May approached I could not help but think that this would be the first yahrzeit – the anniversary of one’s death.  In traditional Jewish custom one lights a candle and says prayers in memory of the deceased.  I don’t do either. The best I could do was spend time at Brighton Beach.  It was there, one year ago on a bright Sunday morning, that the week began to unfold into profound sadness.

Up until then grief was an abstract concept to me.  I made it to sixty, and perhaps it was a combination of luck, cluelessness and insensitivity  but I never understood its grip.  That week I joined the rest of humanity.  I was fortunate to have loving and supportive family and friends. I spoke with counselors. I read a lot.  And I turned to writing.

When I spoke at the memorial on the beach I said that we will learn how to heal, though I didn’t believe it myself.  I was told that ‘time helps’ and  ‘there will be signs.’ I researched death and grief, but in the end I realized it’s a lot like reading up on how to run better, ride a bike or develop the perfect freestyle technique.  You can read all about it – though in the end you just have to go through it.  And I did – but in my mind I knew that the last thing my buddy would have wanted for me is descending down a rabbit hole of grief.  During those rough moments I did envision him saying – in a subdued, martini infused voice, “Seth… Seth less drama…” and it always helped.  It still helps.

There have been moments this year that have given me pause.  A few weeks after Dave died I had a vivid dream where he appeared – wearing the blue blazer he wore in China – he looked at me and said, “I have to go do a hundred.”  Not long afterward I learned that Tanya and other friends registered to do the New York City Century 100 mile bike tour in his honor. Last summer Will and Darren told me to take his almost new winter coat – Dave was larger than me and  I resisted. But they insisted and I took it home.  I put it on during the first cold snap –  and in a karmic moment it seemed to have resized itself and fit me perfectly. And though my enthusiasm for winter swimming was negligible I went to Lake Memphremagog in February (with its 25 meter pool cut into a frozen lake) and despite the pit in my stomach I stepped into the lake and halfway through I could hear Dave cheering me on – as he always did in past swims – and I began to feel as strong and as confident as one can in ice water.  I was told that when I emerged from the water there was a smile on my face.  I related this to an acquaintance and added, “But I’m not very spiritual.”  Without missing a beat he responded, “Maybe he is.”  I loved that suggestion.

In going through the cycle of the year I knew I would have trepidation about significant dates and events.  But the seemingly insignificant moments that have been the hardest: driving out to Coney Island and seeing the harbor as the BQE dips and curves into the Belt Parkway – we’d always comment on the water conditions; or noting an article in the Times about an arcane New York City transportation issue that I’d want to ask him about; or knowing I will never again receive a one-line text suggesting we grab a drink.

Last week I learned that the recipient of Dave’s heart wrote to his family.  Dave had signed the back of his license and there was never any thought of not donating anything that could be used to help someone else.  The term is called, “harvesting.” Dave was proud of being a farmer and that word seemed so appropriate.  I recall talking about it a few years ago. He said something along the lines of  “it all goes to whoever wants it.”  And then he wondered out loud “but who would ever want my organs…?”  That was Dave – he was often self-effacing. We probably laughed – but the underlying truth is Dave sometimes thought – as we all do at times – what value he was to the world.

I know nothing more about the recipient than he is a 47 year old man who was in good health until his heart started to fail.  And a year ago this week when we realized that there was no hope left, this fortunate person was given hope. I imagine him getting up each day since, perhaps making coffee, reading the paper, having breakfast with his family and doing all the mundane things we take for granted.  Thinking of that tempers my sadness and makes me happy – knowing that my friend’s heart has become his and is enabling him to continue his life.  I know that is exactly what Dave would have wanted.

Only a few months before he died we were driving up to Vermont to Lake Memphremagog (a six-hour ride to swim for maybe two minutes – there’s a lot of time to talk and share thoughts).  At one point we got on the subject of death.  I remember stupidly saying, “Don’t you notice how when people die they immediately become saints, even if they were complete jerks…”  He shook his head back and forth – as if to indicate ‘don’t ever let that happen to me!’  To his chagrin I’ve failed.  While I am not sure of what’s out there or what comes next, I’ve come to believe that maybe there’s some sort of parallel universe.  And if there is, I know my friend is certainly cringing.

When I was 11 years old the first heart transplant took place in South Africa.  It was incredible news.  I was fascinated by it and clearly remember the interviews with the doctor, the patient, and also the family of the donor, a young woman named Denise Darvel.  I remember her father telling a reporter, “Nobody will ever remember the donor.”  And I thought  I’m going to always remember her name. It never entered my mind that my friend Dave would also donate his heart so someone else could continue. It puts me in awe – and gives me peace knowing that he lived a good and meaningful life – and that it continues to be meaningful.  There is no better legacy.

Vivit post funera virtus  –  Virtue outlives death.