Funeral for a Friend

To be honest, to say that Chase was my “friend” is stretching the term. My relationship was, more or less, formal. I was doing some orthodontic work for him that was extensive enough to require regular visits over the course of a year or more. We would text occasionally as a way to connect about his orthodontic progress. Chase drove from Pasadena to Malibu to see me, until he entered NYU in the fall of 2017…at which time, by serendipity, I was able to see him in my office in NYC.

Chase was 16 or 17 when he first came in as a referral from his father. In a significant way, Chase was quite different from you and me; he skipped high school completely and at 13, he went directly to college at Cal State Los Angeles after middle school. He excelled. After his undergraduate degree he was accepted into a Phd program at NYU in Organic Chemistry. He told me he was planning to follow up with a law degree and business degree. He was exceptional, but underneath he was an 18 year old kid. I knew Chase’s father and mother but didn’t know at the time that Chase had an older brother.

Chase was pleasant, courteous, keenly observant, and I would describe him as slightly reserved. He was a kid that any parent would be proud to call their own. He was not the kind of person who would mention his academic exceptionalism. From listening to the many eulogies from his peers he avoided any opportunity to separate himself intellectually from those around him; that is to say, he didn’t want to create an unnecessary “gap” between himself and his fellow students and friends. Among his friends he just wanted to be another kid…another student, not superior or exceptional, or conspicuous.

He was very invested in his orthodontic progress…he was specific about his goals. It was a unique orthodontic adventure and Chase and me were compatible accomplices in the journey. It’s the kind of relationship I enjoy; there is a common goal or objective, the relationship is unique and intimate (in it’s own way) yet it is not social. Our relationship is confined to the task at hand with a sprinkle of personal sharing at each other’s discretion. I remember at his last appointment in NYC I was playing my relatively new Amazon Alexa system. Coldplay was playing over the speaker. Chase asked, “what is your favorite Coldplay album”? I said that I didn’t really know Coldplay by albums. He said, “My favorite album is their first”.

Chase had an appointment with me in NYC a few Thursday’s ago. He was relentlessly punctual and responsible, always a few minutes early, except on this day Chase didn’t show up for his appointment. There was no announcement, no phone call, no text. He never hesitated to text and his need to skip the appointment would surely bring about a text alerting me, or so I told myself. Chase was tidy about these types of things. Because it was Chase, it made me a little uneasy. I texted him at 11:14 am the next morning, March 22, “Chase, we had you down for 1:15 yesterday”. I didn’t hear back and I sent him another text at 7:25 pm, “Chase, We had you down for 1:15 yesterday”. Nothing from Chase came back. It was on my mind a little in the next few days. I flew back to Los Angeles and on Monday I asked my office manager to call his father.

Chase took his own life a few days after our last text exchanges. He would not make it to his appointment. He was done with appointments. His keen concern for the specifics of his orthodontic treatment was, just a few days later, replaced with a disinterest in being alive. He didn't care about seeing sunrises or sunsets ever again. I couldn’t get it out of my mind for the rest of the day, or the next. The news of Chase’s suicide weaved throughout my consciousness for the rest of the week. His funeral was the following Sunday. I asked his father if I could say a few words.

Chase was black and his family was very involved with their church in Altadena. Altadena is a largely black community just north of Pasadena and as I entered the packed church I couldn’t help but notice that I was one of a small handful of white people. It mattered, and I’ll tell you why. From the moment I walked in I experienced an unexpected warmth. It was extra-ordinary. There was such a dignity about everyone in attendance. I was nobody they knew or heard of but I received countless warm smiles and eye contact. It was like they were expecting me. I felt comfortable in that church. I felt like I was with family.

The tearful eulogies from his young friends were an amazing testament to the impact that Chase had made on people. Any thought I might have had that Chase was a lonely, withdrawn kid were quickly dashed. To a man, Chase was admired, loved and cherished. Friends and family described him as warm and funny and a few described him as “the best person I knew”. It brought relief to my heart. I now could probably erase “loneliness” as a likely cause of Chase’s sadness. And it was that…it had to be sadness, intense sadness. No one knows exactly what, but it was certainly sadness, and despair, and ultimately, hopelessness.

I don’t remember all that I said. My contributions were pale compared to those eloquent and emotionally raw testimonies of his teenage friends. I wanted to say something for one reason. I wanted to express the fact that Chase was my kid, too. I wanted them to know that, since I have had my own kids, it has been inescapable for me to not see their faces in the faces of other kids, even total strangers. The gap between my own kids and the children of others has closed dramatically. Chase was my kid. I felt his loss profoundly. I grieved so for his parents and his older brother. For a moment I put on their shoes and imagined. I think empathy requires that you imagine. Chase was my kid, and if you don’t mind me saying, he was your kid, too. The chasm we see between our own children and the children of others is more mirage than real. It is an illusion. The gap between our loved ones and the loved ones of others is fake. Chase was my kid.

Most of the people in the church were, I suspected, members of the church. His mother and father, and Chase as well, were very devoted churchgoers. On this day, Chase’s parents were held upright by their faith. It appeared to me that without their faith in “a plan for Chase in heaven” the weight of the loss would have brought them to their knees, unable to speak, or swallow a breath of life. I am less certain about the Universe than those whose hearts were most broken in that church but I learned something that day. Whether God is real or not (who can say), I am deeply glad that Chase’s mother, and father, and brother, could lean on something with all of their weight at a time when nothing else would work. Anything that could possibly assuage their pain was desperately needed. It was desperately needed. I imagined that.

His father shared that Chase, being an experienced chemist, had ordered some compounds online that, when mixed together and injected, would bring about effects similar to carbon minoxide poisoning. As he had planned, Chase would go from being drowsy and sleepy, to unconsciousness, and into death. He left this world peacefully. Chase’s funeral should not have happened, not on March 29th, 2018, but maybe in March of 2090, or 2086, most certainly sometime many many years from now. Chase will not get married and have children. He will not live to see tomorrow, or next month. He will not see another summer day, listen to another Coldplay song, make his friends smile, or wake up on a Christmas morning. The human mind, and heart, and soul, can be so delicate and frail. The line between happiness and sadness is often fine and mystifying. Answers are often elusive.

Chase was my kid.

"Stop all the Clocks”

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-W.H. Auden