My Friend Andy

Andy and I met in a yoga class about twenty years ago. I was a student and he was an experienced yoga teacher, but in this particular class he was a student, too. Good yoga teachers never stop being students of yoga.

I liked to put my mat near his. When the teacher called out the names of the poses in Sanskrit, I’d look over at him and see what to do. He knew the names of all the poses. I did not. (Twenty years later and I now know most of the names.) I also liked working with him when we had to partner up for certain poses. I knew he wouldn’t let me fall and hurt myself if I was trying a pose that was beyond my grasp, like handstand (vriksasana for those of you fluent in Sanskrit).

We developed a yoga class type friendship. We enjoyed seeing each other and exchanged a few words, but we didn’t socialize outside of class. There were more brief exchanges during the time we sat on the studio’s Board of Directors at the same time, but we still didn’t socialize outside of class.

Andy approached me when he decided to retire from the yoga studio and said: “Let’s keep in touch. Maybe get together for a beer or lunch. Not too often. Every few months or so should be enough.” It was a nice thing for him to say, but how many times has someone said to you “Let’s do lunch” and you never hear from them? I didn’t expect to hear from Andy. But I did.

He’d call every three to six months. We’d meet at Noodle House near Bloor and Spadina. It wasn’t a restaurant. It was a joint. We both liked the food, but it was the company that mattered. We had relaxed conversations about anything and everything that was on our minds. There was no pretense. That’s the kind of guy he was. He inspired me to be the same way. 

Andy contracted cancer two or three years later. We started meeting at his home instead of Noodle House. Our visits went from every few months to every month to every two weeks. Always scheduled around his treatments and recovery times. I found it relaxing to be in his company. We still talked easily about everything, including his cancer. He didn’t shy away from answering any questions in his matter of fact way. A mutual friend told me Andy enjoyed our visits because he also found them very relaxing. I was glad to be able to help him feel that way.

Ultimately Andy was admitted to hospital. I started visiting him every week, sometimes twice a week. I really don’t like hospitals, but I wanted to see him. We continued having good, relaxing talks about his cancer and everything else. I was always impressed with the integrity and dignity he displayed. No anger. No complaints. No denial. He knew he was about to die, but it didn’t seem to change him. At least not to me. 

After about a month, Andy said: “There’s something I want to tell you. I’ve been approved for the assisted dying program and my date is in ten days. I’d like you to be there if you’re willing.” Of course I was willing. I was honoured. But Andy didn’t make it to that day. He died a few days later.

I miss Andy. I often wonder if we would’ve become so close if he didn’t get sick. Doesn’t matter. It happened and it was a gift. I also wonder how many other gifts are out there waiting to be claimed. Are there potential meaningful relationships with people I know only casually or haven’t yet met? It’s something to keep in mind. But it’s not something for which I’m looking. I already feel I don’t have enough time to spend with the people who mean so much to me. 

I think of Andy whenever I practice yoga. Sometimes I can hear his voice. And at the end of every practice, I look at a statue Andy got in India and say “Thank you Andy”.  

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