I Wanted So Much More
- KevinBurman
- Apr 7
- 5 min read
When the earth beneath me starts to shake I reliably do two things - I run and I write. I don’t always do them right away, but I always end up there, on some trail or couch, feet and fingers moving to an internal rhythm in hopes of regaining some stability and sense in my shaking world.
On Monday, I received a call from a friend. She is the manager at one of our clinics and we had been discussing a previous issue, patient-related, the week before. I figured this issue had escalated and was the reason I saw her name on my phone. I couldn’t pick up just then, but when I called her back, her voice was breaking and without breath.
There is a man, Oliver, who works next to her, who is a mutual friend. We’ve come into friendship because of work, but these friendships have been deepened while on humanitarian trips to Guatemala. We would often sit under this white tent that is a shelter from the sun’s heat for the patients by day. By night, it was merely a place where there were plastic chairs upon which to rest our weary bodies while we chatted about the delights and comedies of life. These nights, when we were most fatigued and our mouths the loosest, our laughter would rise up from under this white tent, a sort of sacred delight. The world felt light and easy in these moments, impossibly permanent.
I don’t even know the words she said - I have no recollection. I remember standing in the break room and then I remember falling to my knees leaning on the table, disbelief and gravity pulling me towards the shaking earth. “Oliver died.” I had nothing to say. It was the day before April Fool’s and I prayed that this was a horribly mistimed joke. Tears, under the same pull as my knees, fell to the ground.
I am stunned. After we hang up, I look at the call log multiple times, verifying that this phone call did indeed take place. I look at my text messages. Oliver and I texted on Saturday night, after I climbed Mount St. Helens. I invited him along, but he couldn’t go because he had family in town. He commented on my Strava outing. He was just right here. How could he be…gone?
He went out for a run. I don’t know how long he was gone, but he was found down by another runner. He had already…left.
We had plans to run in Guatemala this May. We had plans to climb Mount Adams as well as circumnavigate Mount Hood. We had plans for yellow larches in the Enchantments this October. We had plans to meet for more runs and more wonder and more life. I wanted so much more with him.
Oliver was a curious man. He was smart and witty, charming, honest and authentic. I longed to be in his company because life was OK there. I could be myself and we could explore the world, as if discovering it for the first time, together. He danced horribly, but he danced. He used shoe horns and swore by their usefulness. He gave and gave and gave of himself to others. He had already been to Guatemala in January of this year, helping humans see. His ability to suffer, voluntarily, bordered on prodigious. On September 1st, 2024, he rowed around Sauvie Island, a 63,876 meter (39-ish mile) effort. He routinely rowed kilometers upon kilometers on his erg at home. He had an odd ability to find joy and delight in the monotony and pain of such suffering, willingly choosing it over and over again, a dark thriving. He was flexible, malleable, always coming into relentless curiosity. I reveled in his company.
Last year, I came back from an afternoon, off-base tour in Huehuetenango and he was standing at the entrance to our barracks in his short shorts and running shoes. “Do you want to go for a run?” I didn’t. I wanted to take a nap. “Yes.” I said.
In minutes we are on a trail exploring this military base that had been our home for the last week, and the last few years when we visit. We ran, saying yes to arbitrary splits, heading left, then right, then retracing our steps until we found the inside of the perimeter of the fence surrounding us. We ran through artillery fields and across creeks, up loose hills. We talked and laughed the whole way. We ran, but it felt like more, like a fullness of being while running with him.
Once in Antigua, we planned to summit Volcan Acatenango, in hopes of seeing Fuego doing Fuego things. We summited and Oliver took off running along the rim of the crater as Fuego burped and gurgled and shook just beyond us. Our wonder dripped from us. We couldn’t have been more enthralled. We wished we had lawn chairs to take in the sights and while away our day.
This human pulled me in. I wanted to do more life with him. And so we made plans. Our last run together happened in October, a loop of sorts along the Columbia River Gorge. We are self-admitted solo-adventurers, seeking wonder in our own ways, almost always alone. As we ran from one waterfall to the next, he said, “Let’s stop. Let’s see if we can experience wonder together.” And so we did. We paused, trying to quiet our minds of the noise that another person brings to our minds. And while the scenery was oozing its wonder, I felt a wonder at this man and his curiosity of how to go through life in real time, right now, with no fear of getting it wrong. We tried it on for size and we both decided that we would like more of this. We hugged our sweaty bodies at the end of our adventure and promised each other more.
And now, more is all I want.
The last thing he texted me: “I dream of endeavors too crazy to be safe.”
Oh, how I wish I had more time with him. Oh, how I wish I had been next to him, to push on this chest when his heart apparently stopped doing heart things. It all feels so cruel, unfair. My disbelief has morphed into anger and back to disbelief. Then, there is the guilt. How do I get to go on with the delights of life - celebrating my wife’s birthday this week - while he can no longer participate in any of this?
Grief is a monster. This void he has left is formidable.
I miss him so much.
Comments