John, who wishes to be called, “ Skinny,” by the way, died on Wednesday. We, my husband I,, met him when he was living on the streets, but that was a long time ago.
Skinny was fifty-a-lot, but would have passed for seventy. Living on the streets does that to you.
I introduced Ray to Skinny. I’m an evangelist, of sorts, and Ray rolls his eyes at God, so they were well suited.
Decades ago, Skinny was a hardworking artisan with a family and a job. Then he was hit by a truck, which took out his right hip, leaving a wound that would never heal. First step to living on the streets:
Bad Luck.
Skinny was not compensated fully for his disability because the truck driver fled the country. Second step:
Injustice.
After a spell, the drugs given to control the pain, stopped working,. Third step:
Intolerable pain.
Skinny took to buying opiates off drug dealers. Fourth step:
Addiction.
This looks like a downward spiral, doesn’t it? It got pretty bad, but Skinny had guts. He got himself help. He helped himself. He managed the addiction, he got off the streets.
Ray and Skinny developed a relationship and regularly took each other out for breakfast. A couple of times, I joined them. We all gained weight.
Two year ago Skinny was diagnosed with acute kidney failure, a year ago, lung cancer.
Consequences.
Skinny’s attitude to dying was to ignore it. I think right up to the end, and beyond, that worked pretty well for him.
His mum was with him stroking his forehead as he died. I’m glad of that. When I’m back home we’ll have a wake. Just Ray, and her, and me. There was no funeral.
But there was a ceremony. I took a stone and said Skinny’s name, and blessed it and him:
“John McGuiness, now that you know who you really are, be at peace.”
And I cast it into the water, where it will rest until the end of time.
Amen.
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