33 and a Third

An old friend of mine, Jim, died last Friday morning. His funeral is this afternoon. He was diagnosed with a brain tumour last January. He was in his early forties, and lived with his significant other (Laurie) and had two young boys (Alan and Liam). Since I’ve been on sabbatical, I was able to see him regularly throughout the year. I’d drop by in the afternoon, while the kids (both his and mine) were in school. At first, we would go for long walks, but as he became weaker, I would end up just visiting with him in his home.

I first met Jim in 1986 when I started working at CBC. We got off to a good start - he could be just as silly as I was. We sat next to one another, with a tall partition between us. Whenever we got bored, we would shoot elastics at each other, bouncing them off the ceiling. Nothing like having an elastic band go whizzing past your ear in the middle of the afternoon. We would even booby trap each other’s desk drawers or chairs with complicated contraptions made out of elastics, paper clips, etc.

He was a very intelligent fellow. He knew it, too, and could often be arrogant. This didn’t bother me too much except when it came to a bug in one of his programs. If I found something wrong, it was never enough just to tell him about it. I’d have to prove it. I’d have to spend an hour printing out the inputs to his program, capturing the output, go through it all with him — before he’d final acquiesce and fix it. But that was way back, when we were both still programming.

Eventually, Jim became my project leader while I worked as an analyst. He was a good person to work for: he offered praise on a job well done, and was always ready with advice. He prided himself on being fair to the people who worked for him. Sometimes, he’d be offered a little perk on a job well done. Something like a baseball cap, which some department had been handing out to clients. He would decline unless he could get one for each team member, saying the whole team should benefit, not just him. Being fair was important to him at home, too. He would often find a little toy that was perfect for one son, and would absolutely have to find another toy for the other. There was no way he would buy something just for one child. There were many times I’d be with him, wandering around a toy store, trying to find something for the other boy. I’d always complain: “I don’t do this for my kids!!”

There were times, however, when Jim really drove me crazy. I found I had a hard time working closely with him. If we had to work together as a team, gathering user requirements and designing a system, we’d end up arguing. I suppose we were both head-strong. I think he was ok with our arguing, but I wasn’t. He often told me I was just too sensitive. No doubt he was right. Those times were rarer, though. Most often, we worked with him as project leader and me as analyst. He’d give me lots of leeway, and was there when I needed him.

The one thing, however, that really struck me about him was the way we could talk about anything. We spoke about subjects that I never spoke about with any other man (other than Reid, of course). Women often talk about these things, but I’ve never spoken to a man, in detail, about breast feeding, having babies, vasectomies, and whatever else struck our fancy. Sometimes we’d be right out in the hallway, discussing the plugged milk duct I had and how huge and swollen my breast got. I wondered, later, what others thought of these discussions. Must have been amusing to listen to.

I’m amazed now at Jim’s strength as he battled cancer. The only time I saw him become emotional was when he talked about “the guys” - which is how he referred to his boys. He was so very proud of them. Jim valued one’s intelligence above all else - and often told me anecdotes about how smart his boys were. Jim was also very eloquent, and so it was difficult for him when he had trouble finding the correct words to express himself. And yet, he never became angry about it.

I’m going to miss Jim. I’ll miss the way he picked apart a movie, or book, finding all the inadequacies. I’ll miss his detailed instructions on how to swing a bat, hold a pool cue, or rollerblade (I’ve never met anyone who could guide me so well in that way.) I’ll really miss consulting him with a database design question (he’s the first person I think of when I stumble across something difficult and wouldn’t mind talking to someone about it). And I’ll miss the way he said record (reh-chord instead of reh-curd), which drove me crazy all these years but I never told him (because I knew exactly the kind of look he’d give me and it just wasn’t worth it!)

Jim, Rita and I playing pool.