Friends forever touch your heart

These are my dear friends Tony and Cynde Condon. We met about six years ago when our Golden Retreivers crossed paths. Since that time we have hiked a thousand miles or more with Dancer, Buck and Hannah.

What wonderful times we have had. About every two or three months we would try different restaurants around the Springs, some good, some very bad! Cynde and I would drink a couple of glasses of Merlot and be laughing and giggling all through dinner. She hardly ever drank, but I guess she felt some freedom around us and would let go a little. She is a bright and beautiful woman, married to a wonderful loving man. One year ago in May, Cynde was diagnosed with cancer. Our hearts were heavy. How could this happen to our vibrant, loving friend? Cynde has fought the fight with surgery, chemo and other research drugs. In just the past 6 weeks, her cancer went from a one inch tumor, to the spread into her bones and liver. She is in constant pain.

Cynde has brought light into our lives, her brilliance could illuminate a room, her kindness boundless.

It brings me great saddness that my friend is so ill, that her time, in all probability is short, and that my friend Tony is so very depressed. We talk a lot, not nearly enough. His road is hard, he dodges the ruts as best he can, perhaps too well. He is not in denial, but has intellectualized somewhat, it eases the pain.

Today we walked through the woods and talked, Karen ahead of us with the dogs and another friend. Saddness has covered me like a thick blanket. I am angry and hurt. At the same time I recognize that the universe is random in it's expression.

Cynde's body will die, but Cynde will live on through us.

12 June, 2006 Tony came up and walked with us yesterday. He appreciates the outdoors like we do. Cynde is feeling better this week and is scheduled for a scan this morning to see if the cancer has progressed or receded. Tony says she is nauseas most of the time and just doesn't feel like eating. Her pain is constant, but with a new cocktail of pain medication it appears to be helping.

We gave him a framed copy of the picture that you see. The picture of a healthy Cynde. His eyes teared, and I could feel his thanks. I think he cries alone. I think he needs to cry in front of another to reach the depths of his sadness.

Cynde is in my heart today. I am praying, asking the Universe to intercede for her. Tony is completely dedicated, so much in love with her. I just don't understand, are things really just random? Can we somehow bring blessings and healings? Has intercession ever made things change? I guess I have flashes that allow me to briefly fantasize that I may ask intersession from the Universe. But my inner mind doubts. I feel helpless.

July 4th, 2006- Cynde is on my mind today. It is unshakable. I talked to Tony earlier in the week. He says she is feeling stronger, has good and bad days. It is what he does not say that weighs heavily upon me. I send my blessings to the universe, palms held upward. I guestion more than ask. Like the rest of the world, I cannot comprehend the selection process. I can only ask why, and ask for positive change, and a return to health for my dear friend.

July 8, 2006- Cynde died this morning at 5 AM with her husband and friends at her side. Karen and I were gone for the weekend and did not hear until this morning, (Sunday), on the same morning that we were to attend a memorial for another friend who recently passed. Our hearts are heavy. Tony's heart is broken. Our dear friend has made passage to the greatest of life's mystery. I ask for the blessing of the Universe to lead, guide, and direct my friend to happiness and peace. She was a blessing in our lives.

I am going to close out this part of my blog with some material that I read just recently that seems so appropriate:

Gone From My Sight

by

Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and moves to the open sea. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, "There, she is gone".

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is within me~~not in her.

And, at just the moment when someone says, "There she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that, is dying

Oanh

After much consideration, and conversations with my wife, we feel that it would be remiss to not talk about my first love. It happened so unexpectedly at such a critical juncture in my life. The relationship enabled me to understand some of the Vietnamese culture, how they felt about the war, and what their dreams are. So this story is for Oanh. She is out there somewhere, and I hope that one day either she or someone she knows will read this. About once a week I got to Saigon for a layover between missions. Oanh was a girl who worked in a shop cleaning and taking care of inventory. The first time I saw her I was amazed. She was a young woman with poise, who was respectful and kind, with a wide eyed wonderment about Americans. I started talking with her at the shop after a few times visiting, and asked her to dinner. She said no several times before finally giving in. Dinner was exceptional, and the three wheeled carraige ride to where she stayed with several other women was a wonderful experience. Later she was to tell me that a villa, next door in the Din Tin Huong section of Saigon was for rent. A month later I had a little place to go in Saigon when I was there. Oanh moved in with me and our love affair began.

For 18 months I was in Saigon as much as I could be. My mission was such that I travelled extensively throughout Southeast Asia, with Saigon as my transportation hub. Oanh and I would visit holy sites, got to movies, dinners, and just be together. A young soldier stuggling to learn Vietnamese and a young woman learning English, neither needed in the dark of night. She was a passionate, lovely young woman. A woman who taught me about the philosophy of the people, the peasants and the wealthy. I was sitting in a bar one night buying drinks for a young man who spoke only Vietnamese, I was just babbling away with my limited knowlege of the language when Oanh came in to get me. "Loong", she said, "he is VC (Viet Cong), he is telling about killing Americans." To put it lightly I was pretty damn scared. I left five dollars (a huge sum) on the table and told him all the drinks were on me. I shook his hand, and left. It was the first time that I realized that to the people, the war was far beyond them. It did not matter who won, Vietnam would remain the same. Communists and non communists lived in the same homes, and visited the same places.

I am ashamed of how it ended. I walked away without a word. A kiss goodbye in the early morning fog. She did not know that she would never see me again. I had no choice, the Army had changed the mission and I was one of a few that now did not have a job. I left $600 in the apartment, more than the average Vietnamese made in a year. No note, no goodbyes. I turned my back and walked away. I am deeply ashamed of myself, and today I ask for forgiveness.

I have the wonderful memories, and the touch of her heart upon mine. I have hoped for decades that she found a wonderful man and had great children. I know I caused heartache, and for that I apologise. It is my greatest hope that she is the wonderful woman that I knew, and that somehow, I touched her heart and was a positive influence upon her life.

B.G. Clark, 9 May, 2006

Christmas 1969

The weather isn’t so bad, my clothes still stick to me in the heavy humidity and scorching sun, but there is a slight breeze that lends comfort in the back of the “deuce and a half.” Things had been quiet; our company equipment was shining, waiting for change. We had taken the deuce from the slick section and loaded it with a couple cases of
C-rations and some of the “goody” packages sent from the homes of our guys. The mess hall even threw in a big box of frozen chicken. We have toilet paper and Tide washing soap, and double mint chewing gum.

I was asked by the Commander to ride as “shotgun”. We weaved in and out of the jungle on our way to Long Thanh on a skinny jungle trail. We were headed just north and west of Saigon. The area was known for the “bad guys”, and we were well armed, but we weren’t bothered. We also had two “shotguns” in the tarp covered bed. As the tiny village came into sight, the children, barefoot and barely clothed, ran to intercept us. We continued to the walled and gated compound of the village orphanage, where the nuns in their black and white tattered clothing, allowed us entrance.

We were just in time for lunch. There were small loaves of bread, (the crunchy part was a cooked bug), a small bowl of rice, and cloudy water for each child.

We placed an apple at each setting, with a few nuts and assorted pieces of candy, cookies, and gum. Before the meal the orphanage stood surrounding us in a large room. They began to sing a song of thanks and prayers of blessing. There were four of us, and four of the oldest children took our hands and led us separate ways. I was taken to the nursery, little babies everywhere, crying, being fanned by palm fronds from the nuns. My escort, a little girl maybe 9 yrs old pointed to an infant with one leg. “Baby hurt” she said to me. My heart dropped. We walked further into the hut where the sickest of children were. She never said a thing, she watched me look. It seemed a long time I stood there with her little hand in mine. Bandages were being changed, wounds were being cleaned, and last rights were being said. I knew that if I diverted my eyes I would have to deal with the reality. I was overwhelmed, almost fearful of the understanding running to meet me.

We all met back in the “great room” of the hut, where the children were seated for lunch. We were escorted to our chairs. As we ate with the children, the sergeant that had organized the trip was unloading the C-Rations, Chicken and washing soap. The children stared at us, giggled
and laughed, speaking rapidly in Vietnamese. And then came the dance that we had to learn before we left. Small circles of 6 or eight, singing and touching their foreheads as they bowed and moved in rhythm. As the sergeant came past me he said, “I only have three dollars, but I am leaving them two.” I knew what he meant, I reached into my fatigues and found six dollars, and as I passed through the doors and was given a warm goodbye and the deepest of thanks by Sister Superior, I palmed her three dollars, and the two other guys left her a bit. As we drove away, smiling sisters holding little children smiled at us and lowered their heads. The bow of the head is significant in their culture, it is a sign of great thanks or respect.

I had learned a very powerful lesson. To give to be giving, not for status or position in some organization of many names, and different interpretations, that’s what it is about. It is about not wanting anything back, no promises of streets of gold, not giving thought to “your cup runneth over”.

I needed to remember, to remember the frightened eyes, the vacancy of impending death, and the inability to focus through the pain. How can I possibly do, what I know I will have to do?

I am a soldier, and I will balance with compassion. I don’t “hate” the enemy. I have met him many times in different circumstances and situations. There have been times when I have shared my C-rations with a prisoner, and lit his cigarette for him, his hands tied behind his back. I was not popular with some of the soldiers. But I had rank, so most of it was never directed at me. Whenever I had the chance I talked to guys about how I felt, and the things I have seen, and wondered how it has changed me.

When you come up on a wounded enemy, he is frightened, he has grievous injuries, he feels death is near. Will you taunt him? Kick him, call him a “gook”? Can a heart be that cold? Who taught us to hate? And, why did we buy into it? I feel truly used, a blind patriot. My own people, Americans were hating me. They Called us baby killers. And today, 35 yrs passed, I deeply apologize to those who knew better, and marched the marches. And the deepest of apologies to the peoples of Viet Nam.