On Friday morning, I learned about the passing of my dear friend, Sean. Sean had been dealing with liver problems for quite some time, and was admitted into the hospital a few weeks ago to wait for a transplant. He was put into a chemically induced coma, and while the transplant took place successfully, he died on Friday morning at 4:30 a.m. due to heart complications.

 

 

I heard the news through Facebook, no joke. I cannot think of a more terrible way to discover that a friend has died. I sat at my desk at work shaking uncontrollably, wondering what to do. Then CubeMate showed up and when I spoke the words aloud, I lost it. I pulled myself together enough to tell my supervisor that I had to leave, then went to keep Bob company at her apartment. For the rest of the day, my friends and I stayed together, quietly reflecting and contemplating.

 

 

Sean was an incredible person, and I cannot grasp the enormity of his passing. He was genuinely a friend to everyone in town, no matter what their age or social circle. He was one of those people that I always expected to just be there, you know? There was never a time when I couldn’t call him up and say, “Hey, let’s get something on the go.”

 

 

We had fallen out of touch this past year or so, but we still remained friends. I just cannot fathom that my community has lost so much. His smile, his laughter, his voice. I remember these things clearly. I remember him playing the guitar and introducing me to music by Wilco, and how he loved “Penny and Me” by Hanson. I remember the night a few of us stayed out until sunrise at the beach in Voyce Cove, and how the sky turned pink over the hills in the bay. I cannot believe that we won’t ever have those moments again. I feel like my town has lost something significant…something personal.

 

 

And that’s the amazing thing about a small town… the support that is drawn from all corners of the community is incredible. Overwhelming. People look out for each other, fundraisers are held, everyone shares one common thread of emotion that holds us together when everything seems unbearable. I cannot explain how homesick this makes me feel… how I have placed a wallpaper of the scenic bay on my desktop because I crave the company of my family and faces I have known my entire life.

 

 

So here’s to you, Sean. Somehow I can’t see how Bay d’Espoir will ever be quite the same. I know that in the months and years to come, when we gather in the homes of friends or around the table at the pub, it will be your name on all our lips. It will be your memory that keeps us together. God Bless you, Sean. Heaven is definitely richer with your presence.

 

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