Giorgio

 I have a friend named Giorgio. He didn't start out as my friend--he was my third childhood soccer coach and the father of my new best friend when I was eight. Our team was called the Dolphin and I do not remember how I linked up with that team. He is Italian and loud and smart and passionate in his opinions and values. He drove a brown Cadillac, fast. He used to yell, with vigor, "Acchuge Fumigante!" as our girl team ran the ball down the field. It sounded like he was yelling "Charge!" He said it meant "roasted mushrooms" although now when I tried looking it up for the proper spelling the internet told it could find no such thing. He once said being nervous gave one 70% more power and I still carry that wisdom around with me, leaning into it when I need to.

He showed up big time for me twenty years ago when I was sick with liver failure. I don't know how he decided to come or what message he received that pushed him to get into his car and drive to see me. When I was in the ICU, refusing the placement of the feeding tube the medical team insisted I needed, I had to drink thick, chalky milkshakes full of protein. He was visiting me as I attempted to eat the anemic shrimp salad the hospital had provided me. He scornfully assessed the tiny, tasteless shrimp. My friend Giorgio is a foodie and an excellent cook. Some of the best and weirdest food I ever ate as a child was prepared by him as I spent many a night and day with his daughter at their house. The first time I ever ate sushi or went to a taqueria was with their family.

In the hospital, I don't know if it was the day of the shrimp salad or another day, he went to Mollie Stone's down the street from the hospital and came back with fat, juicy jumbo shrimp for me. And a bunch of round, perfect grapes. It turned out the grapes had seeds in them so as he sat by my bed, he took each grape and cut it in half so he could take the seed out before handing me the grape. I don't remember him asking but my mom tells me that while visiting me in the hospital he leaned in and asked me "Are you going to fight?"  Yes. I am going to fight. I got transplanted a couple days after that.

A week after my transplant I found out I needed another surgery. My surgeon told me an errant ligament was constricting the blood flow to my liver and he needed to open me back up again and cut the arcuate ligament. I went numb for about twelve hours and then completely lost it, terrified to have surgery again. At some point during that twenty four hours between being informed of and then having the surgery I talked to Giorgio. "I'm pissed!" I said. "I want to go smash some widows, break some glass."

He came to visit, holding a small brown paper lunch bag. He smiled as he shook it, as we both heard the tinkling of broken glass he had smashed on my behalf. I'm still not sure where that came from or what he did to get it.

In my 20's and 30's he and I would meet for lunch and he would mentor me, professionally. He gave wise counsel and pushed me to think about things I hadn't considered before. We always ate delicious food.

When I was preparing to get married, I asked him if he would officiate our wedding. He said yes. He asked my ex and me to come meet him for dinner once a month or so. During those dinners, he asked us many questions about our future marriage and what mattered to us. I can't remember a single question he asked but I know those dinners were wonderful and invigorating for me, very challenging for my ex and me as a couple. I felt grateful to both of those men, my ex for being willing to let one of my people play such a big role in our wedding, Giorgio for being so thoughtful and loving to us during that time, despite what I imagine now were possibly some significant questions or concerns about the match. He stepped into those unexplored spaces with us and led us into some important conversations.

He gave us a list of restaurants to seek out on our honeymoon in Italy. We walked many miles in attempts to try at least one of them and I don't think we ever had success.

When the honeymoon was over and I was knee deep in having babies and everything that came along with that period of my life, I was not good at keeping in touch. He kept trying and I kept. . .hiding. He could see me so clearly and he asked for accountability from me. I was afraid of both of those things at that time.

The last meal we shared was at Nola Po'Boy and Gumbo Kitchen in Concord where I live. The food was good. I was divorced or almost divorced. I was working on my recovery, learning how to take care of myself in new ways. I told him during that meal that I was recently discovering that I had some control issues, which surprised me as I had always thought I was very go-with-the flow. He burst out laughing. He told me a story about working at a soccer camp when me when I was a young teenager and how apparent it was to him that I had a serious need for things to be done a certain way. I looked at him in wonder, surprised to have been seen so long before I could see myself.

In the years when I was blogging regularly he often told me that he couldn't read my blog because it scared him. It was too raw and he didn't know how to read those details about my life, how to be connected with information but not close contact. I felt shame when he said that, afraid that my words were too much, too painful. Afraid to be scary. Those exchanges were also part of my questioning how I wanted to show up in my writing, in my life. How to stand in my own truth, even when it brought up feelings in others that made me or them feel bad.

Last Friday as I was walking through my living room, I got a Giorgio hit. This is how I describe the feeling that comes up when someone important to me pops into my consciousness seemingly out of the blue. Oh hello, Giorgio, I thought. I see you there. You're right, it's been a long time. I will reach out.

You are in my heart today, my friend.