The worst of news on Christmas Day

The news I had been dreading for six months came on Christmas Day. A phone call from my sister told me that Punky Morton, my closest friend from high school, had died. Two months ago, I had written of that friendship and of the cruel fate that put a tumor atop Punky's brain stem. Although he had a great attitude — determined and optimistic at first, resigned and reflective nearer the end — he was not able to defeat the cancer. The news startled me, although it shouldn't have, and turned a happy holiday suddenly bleak.

I recently read Chicago columnist Bob Greene's memoir of his best friend's death from cancer, "You Know You Should Be Glad." Greene wrote of the great effort he and other close friends made to be sure that their friend's final days were all that they could be. Like Greene's friend, Punky was surrounded by friends he'd made over 59 years. They called. They visited. They posted encouragement on a Web site. They prayed. When I visited him, he was most grateful for all the many kindnesses, all the friendships renewed, all the long-lost friends who called, wrote or visited. His church held a special, 24-hour prayer vigil. In the end, the miracle that was needed did not materialize.

In spite of it all, in spite of knowing that his productive life was being cut short, that the inventions he might have created, the products he might have developed would never be, Punky told me with a tear in his eye, "I've had a wonderful life." I could only nod in agreement. He was a wonderful guy who made friends wherever he went.