Last updated on September 21, 2025
You can find the rest of the workhere.
During that January trip to Cuba, Becca and I started to reconnect. Because I could not keep away – and, well, she could not either. As I previously explained, she had a way of holding on to relationships that was, in a word, unhealthy. Looking back, I can only say that I was equally so. I believed I felt something there, something that did give me hope. I could dream of a happy life with her, where we had solved all the problems in each other. We decided that we would give it another go, and we did try, even to the point of setting up an appointment for the reversal surgery. It was not a sure thing since it had been so long since the vasectomy. But I did want another chance, and frankly, children are among the best of God’s creations for us mortals, something that lives on past us to carry our tales and memories to the next generation. We are immortal in their lives and the lives of their children, on and on.
But, it would never happen.
When I returned, I started working on the next expansion – moving my company from a behavioral health agency to a truly community care practice to include primary care. I also had this vision of adding other services because healthcare in the United States is not meant to make people healthy. I wanted to end the cycle and keep people from coming back for the same problem. I used this analogy so often, and I’ll share it with you: If you go to the doctor for a cough, and he gives you cough syrup, the cough will go away. But what if you come back, and again, it is repeated? And again and again, until the cancer is discovered, except that now it is too late. That is how we treat people in behavioral health. We never target the problem, only the symptoms. I wanted to target the problem, whether it was trauma, diet, or other.
That was my vision: to make my community healthy and eventually work myself out of a job.
During the same trip to Cuba, Dan’s rage had become apparent, with him directly countermanding my directives, blowing up at staff, and having a toke or dozen while in the office of the infamous Colorado Advil. When I returned, I placed him on a month’s leave, only to find out that for some time, his work performance had not only suffered but was causing harm to others in the office. Dan had been an alcoholic and had returned to all the ways since then that he had longed to try to suppress. In finding this out, I was forced to terminate my friend. By then, we were not friends. He would, shortly after that, do his best as well to bring down the company, meeting with various people – including my ex-wife, among others – as well as threatening blackmail. He had the domain names in his possession, and while the separation agreement had determined he would return all property, he thought he could turn a quick buck by trying to shut everything down. He did relent. I hated every moment because when I believe in people, I believe in people. Finding out what he was doing, harassing women, targeting friends, all in the name of protecting me – all in my name – I was disgusted and blamed myself. I’ll never forgive him.
I met with our most significant stakeholder, an insurance company – and I will not go into much here – and they promised help. Ultimately, their support was not there, and they sank my company. That comes later in the year. But for now, things were going well. Becca and I were good, dreams were coming true, and the business of helping people expanded. Rich and I were growing closer. Every morning, he would come by my house and bring coffee. Admittedly, some days, I would ask him to come by because of the issues with Becca and me. Other days, he would come by because of the issues with his girlfriend. You’ve met her before, earlier. The one with ill intent. On the other hand, Becca’s red flags were rising. She had a significant issue with jealousy and insecurity. They are not necessarily the same. From February until early June, we struggled with this.
I admit I do not know how to deal with this. As a therapist, I could easily deal with it in clients and their partners. But we are taught not to be a therapist in any way to our loved ones. My tools were kept hidden, and I was ethically bound to do so, and I did what I knew to do: passively let time slip to see if we could work through it. That did not work. A crescendo was building. During the off-and-on cycles, my assistant and I would occasionally reconnect. I did her wrong. We would not have worked out, as we were vastly too different (she made me a rosary – although she was a self-proclaimed witch), but I should have either stuck with her until the last or cut it completely off. Instead, I ran back to her when Becca and I were off.
In early June, my friend Jamie started asking me to visit Dubai. I had no need to visit a place so hot, but on a Friday in the middle of June, after Becca had placed me into a very tough situation at the office with another employee, I went to the local bar in that godforsaken town and started to drink heavily. I had always had a rule. I never drink on good days or bad days. I would never drink in response to something. That changed that night. And it took me a while to recover it.
That night, I called my assistant and my friend to join me. Both did. After some heavy drinking, I also purchased a one-way ticket to Dubai because I knew that after Dubai, I was finally going to Ireland on my own. I had to get out of town. Ireland had become the place of refuge for me when things were going south. When things were dark, I would want to retreat there, and it would refresh me. A one-way ticket to Dubai meant I would go there for a few days and, from there, I would spend time in Ireland. By myself. That night, my assistant and I reconnected for quite some time, only to be awakened by a phone call.
I had gotten into Harley-Davidson the previous year. I had two, and Rich and I often rode around western Colorado to see the wide world on the back of those steel horses like we were wanted dead or alive. As he was finishing a certificate course, I made him a deal. I would buy him a Harley when he graduated with his undergrad – some two years from then. However, Rich was doing so damned well. He said he had never had anyone believe in him, except me. He was struggling, to be sure, balancing a sudden new home life, his schoolwork, and all the new technology we all take for granted. His time in prison, jail, and in blue-collar work had slowed his adaption of the new devices. And since college is so now rooted in technology, he was struggling. But he was making it. As he always did. So, instead of waiting for two years, I bought him a Harley. I surprised him. Just bought him a bike.
The phone call was from our crisis team, who told me Rich had been involved in a head-on collision with his bike. They were life-flighting him to a nearby major hospital. He had had the bike for two weeks. Then, I knew this was it for him. I always know too much. I did go to the hospital. He was my friend and my team, and I needed to be there. I had been to that ER so often in my crisis work to deal with suicides, accidents, incidents, and child abuse. Walking in there that day was different. I asked the ER nurse how bad it was, and her face only confirmed my fears.
Rich was a towering hulk of a man—at least 6’5’’, square jaw, and strong as a mule. Police, gangs, and others had mauled him in his years. He had survived terrible car accidents that would have killed you or me. He would also tell me he was descended from the great William Wallace. I would, in turn, promise him that one day, when he could get his passport, I would bring him to Ireland. He would have to get off probation first, of course. He had overcome so much that he finally walked proudly in his community. When I put him on my crisis team, I faced pushback from local law enforcement, who had only the year before tried to put him in prison. They showed up to sway the judge for prison for 20 years when I had shown up to sway the judge for leniency. He, after all, had attacked officers of the law, and that would not stand. I knew what I was doing when I put him on the team. Every person deserves a second chance, and I was giving him one.
During the two weeks, I had to step up and become my friend’s medical power of attorney. I knew the moment the call came, the moment I walked into the ER, and the moment I saw him roll out to the helicopter that Rich was not going to survive this. When your brain is jostled and separated from the stem, you cannot recover with any meaningful life. I had to consider so much, namely, what would he want. Then, I had to spend time walking his girlfriend through the decision, knowing that she would hate me for it.
On the Saturday before he died for the last time, I sat in front of the organ donation team, signing papers. Signing papers to let my friend do some good in this world, if possible, on his way out. By Sunday, we had gathered in his room for the final few hours. Here, all these people worked with me and Rich. Here, we were all family. I witnessed the rawest, most profound humanity in that sterile hospital room. We had a former DA that wanted him thrown in prison. We had others who had been to prison. We even had a preacher. We had others. In fact, we were a real motley crew that night, coming together only to say goodbye to our friend who had in some way united all of us.
My mother died when I was 17, my grandfather two months before, and a woman as near to a grandmother as possible to me two months after. 1995 was the worst year of my life. And it gave me nightmares. I would dream from time to time of a good day with my mother. We didn’t have the best relationship due to her alcohol, me being an angry asshole of a kid, and the normal goings-on of life. My last words to her, my very last words, were on a Wednesday in September 1995. I told her that I never wanted to see her again, and when I did, it would be at her funeral. I then added that she would be lucky if I showed up. That following Saturday, she was killed in a car accident. I did show up for the funeral. But I would dream of a good day when she would show up, taking my younger sister and me to the mall. But something wasn’t right. I would, in the dream, start to feel uneasy. Eventually, I would realize she was dead. It was then my obligation to tell others, then to tell her, that she was dead and that it was time to go.
My dream became my reality for two weeks in June of last year. I had to tell others – friends, his family, my entire company, people in the community – that Rich was not coming home. I had to prepare everything and everyone. I am not sure I slept, I am not sure I ate, and I am not sure of much. I am sure only that for some sick and twisted reason, the haunted dreams of my childhood had come true in a stark and startling manner, a way I was unprepared for, a way I did not appreciate.
Colorado is a right-to-die state, but in a Catholic hospital, there are still rules. I had to learn the code to tell the doctor.
“Doctor, I want my friend to go as peacefully as possible.” That was code for “medicate him to the point where the organs can be saved, but kill him fast.” Because there is a point at which once the body is removed from life support, after 90 minutes, the organs can no longer be transplanted. Rich had to go in 90 minutes, and it was my task to ensure he would get all the help he needed.
“Are you sure you know what you are asking?” the doctor replied.
I could not answer verbally, but I was sure, so I nodded. Tears were in my eyes, as they often were then and are now as I write this about my friend for whom I signed his death warrant.
The doctor put his hand on my shoulder and nodded, “We will take care of him. You’re a good friend.”
Late that night, as the bells tolled, we marched behind Rich’s bed. Only his girlfriend and I were allowed to go with him into the final room. We waited 90 minutes because that is all that the body could handle if the organs were to be harvested. Harvested. What a word for human tissue that moves from the dead to the living to keep the dying alive. He made it 90 minutes. We were crushed.
I went back to the hotel but could not sleep. I only had a few hours anyway before I had to get back to see Rich. When I walked in, his girlfriend said she would get coffee. “Tell him it’s okay to go. He always listened to you.” I had told him that for 90 minutes, encouraged by the palliative care team only a few hours before.
I sat down by his bed and put his hand in mine. I leaned to him, whispering, “Rich, I’ve got them. I’ll take care of them. It’s okay to go.”
My best friend waited until the words had escaped my mouth to breathe his last. His last, at that moment. I felt the death rattle, the force of air escaping his lungs, and heard the beeps and buzzes indicating that life was over. Immediately, he grew cold. The nurses rushed in. We stayed there until others could come and say goodbye.
That night, I drank myself into oblivion. The next day, we started planning his funeral.
The following Saturday, I delivered his eulogy, standing on the raised platform inside a church, trying to keep it together. I told the large crowd, something he never expected to have, of who I believed Rich was. I told them of the tragedy of having him taken from us. I told them of the goodbyes we all had to make. This was not my first eulogy or sermon, but it was the first one for a friend that I had held so dear. “Richard was my friend,” I said, “I knew Richard – Rich – as a man who was determined to change his life for the better and, in doing so, changed those around him. I have thought for some time as to what to say about him. We could detail his life in our very human way, or we could comfort ourselves with the cliches of our faith.”
I told them, “We prayed for a miracle, and in some way, I think we were provided one. At mass that morning, the priest had spoken about finding commonalities that erase fear. In that room, with people who might be naturally antagonistic to one another, we found the miracle of humanity, a commonality many of us have seemingly lost, that each of us share in the burdens of another. And in a lot of ways, Rich helped us find that humanity in an inhumane moment, providing us the miracle to us when we had only asked for one for him.” Truly, had you been there, you would have seen this event as a miracle, a light in the darkness.
In the last three years, Rich made me believe in this power. He was able to demonstrate this with several clients he worked with – with people I had given up hope on – and he never told me what he was doing. Instead, he went and did it. He proved himself by providing to these kids, these young men, the idea that belief is the most powerful and the most important weapon we can offer someone. And when you believe in the downtrodden, those society has cast aside, there is nothing more powerful. He taught me many lessons during our time together.
Rich deserved more than any words I could say about him – to tell you about him. He deserves to be remembered as someone who died better than he was born. He was born hated and grew up hated and hating. He died loved, loving, and showing people that faith – in him and others – can change a man. Faith in someone changes someone more than medicine, therapy, or other. If you would do me one favor, just one – if you would find someone no one else believes in and believe in them for me. Believe that they are human and they deserve to be loved for their darkness and their light. See what change is wrought not just in them and the people around them but in yourself, too. Do me that favor, and I will eternally be in your debt.
I went to Dubai after that, carrying some of Rich’s ashes. After all, I was going to Ireland, and I had promised to take him one of these days. I had not counted on it to be so soon or be in such a way. As I boarded that plane in Denver, I held him close. I would talk to him from time to time and wonder where he might be. Was he watching over me? Was he too busy eating from the Tree of Life and finding healing?
Dubai is hot, busy, and loud. Did I mention hot? But I had a great time with Jaime, who is very much about the busy city. I met him a few years after I moved to West Virginia. He had his own marketing company that of my then-board members brought in to help on a project. We struck up a minor friendship. It was not until his dad died suddenly that we became lifelong friends. I went to the funeral. That was the nice thing to do. Jamie is a few years younger than me, and I knew what it was to lose a parent. It was snowy and miles and miles away from my house. He took that as some great sacrifice. I do not understand it. But he does, and that is all that matters.
Years later, he found the girl of his dreams. I had never known him to be happier. Suzy was perfect for him. Except she did not want to remain in West Virginia; he did. He would not leave, he told her. She gave him an ultimatum to which he responded with a resolute stubbornness. She left. He stayed for a while. It destroyed him. His heart was never the same, and neither was he. In some ways, he was better. He never, and still does not, held relationships the same way. It has been 15 years, and he has yet to get into another one. Sure, he has casual flings from time to time, but if he senses them or he is getting too close, he stops it cold.
The ultimatum was to leave West Virginia with her. He refused. But something changed. A few years after she left him in a miserable depression that ripped him to his very soul, Jaimie decided to travel the world. He would spend as much time in Japan as he could. Or elsewhere. When COVID hit, he had to return to West Virginia, but he was miserable. The irony of the situation, which is not something I would broach with him, is that he could have left with her, but he did not. Once COVID was lifted, he tried Japan again, but it had changed. He settled in Dubai. He never intends to go back home, back to West Virginia. I understand that at this point. If every road in a certain country somehow leads back to the woman you can never stop loving, why get anywhere near that road?
In Dubai, Jaimie had found something of a center. Honestly, once you have genuinely fallen in love and it breaks, there is no place you will find a true center. But you will find a place that looks like just enough so that if you close your eyes hard enough, you can imagine that the center exists. Or perhaps it is only a place for you to hide from your pain. For him, that is Dubai. For me, that is County Kerry. That is Tralee. In his hiding place, he showed me all the best places he liked to go. We even went to the Louvre in Abu Dabi. I will tell you, if I were not so pale-skinned with my red hair and could tolerate sand, humidity, and a giant ungodly city worse than Dublin, I am sure Dubai is a place I could settle. I might even have visited again. It is simply not for me, and I have never looked forward more to Ireland than I did the night I jumped on the plane to go.
I had spent the days before planning my trip. I wanted to, in such a foolish gesture, drive the entirety of the Wild Atlantic Way. I chose the most northern part of Ireland to start. I planned stops in Sligo as well, remembering my night in Portroe. Something about the way he spoke about Sligo intrigued me. Anyone who loves their hometown so much so, well, I would need to see it for myself. Then to Lisdoonvarna so that I could hop a ferry from Doolin to Inisheer, but this time stay the entire day, or as much of it as possible. As has been the choice the last time, I knew I had to get back to Tralee. I knew where I was going to spread Rich’s ashes, Carrigafoyle Castle, with the band of rebels, outlaws, and pirates. I figure he could either redeem them or join them. Either way, his ashes would float out to the Atlantic or gently settle on the bottom of the romantic Shannon.
I knew a girl once named Shannon in college. She claimed Irish ancestry and always wanted to go there – or do I say come here now that I am here? Odd how our stance changes the words we are forced to use in issuing directions, even decades after the fact. As for myself, inspired by Braveheart and my own red hair, I wanted to go to Scotland. I had even collected kilts of my clan. I was ready and watched intently the news of Scottish independence that failed some years later. The way I understand myself now is this: when I was younger and more of a hotheaded fighter, Scotland beckoned with her legends of warriors. As I have gotten older or matured, which is an easier way of saying “older,” my heart has tended to turn to Ireland with her mystical queens, goddesses, and poets. Her legends of cattle raids, fairies buried under the earth, and sudden stillness do something to me more than tales of ancient clashes between clans, between the Picts and the Romans, or between the Scots and the English. The more and more I understand about the power of stories, and the spirituality enshrouded in poetry – how every poet is in some way a better theologian than any serious theologian — the more Ireland becomes my heart, or perhaps my heart Irish.
This time, I would spend about 8 or 9 days in Ireland. All by myself. I was going to be a lonesome traveler like Jaime. Another mentor of mine had given me the advice to stop and ask everyone for directions, even if I knew where I was going. “Just stop,” he said, “and ask for directions and wait for the stories.” That served me well, and I knew I could make it alone.
Except that after the funeral, I had reconnected with Becca. She was going on a cruise the same week – a cruise we were supposed to go on together, but after a hellish trip to Mexico with her, I backed out. That did not keep me from trying to reconnect again. Or going through with the surgery, which she insisted on bringing me to. I did want the surgery myself. As I said, I had dreams once. Oddly enough, I was something of a marvel because it had now been 13 years, and I still had, well, swimmers. Which means I was likely to be deemed a success.
We also had a trip to San Deigo in April for her birthday. Which was a lot better than the previously planned trip to San Deigo in October when my son was to graduate from the Marines. She was supposed to go, but again, red flags were raised, which led to her shoving me in anger. I was startled and left without her. Again, we were both unhealthy. I should have left and cut ties a long time ago. But it was something about her allure that kept bringing me back. Or maybe it was the fear of being alone. Or worse, because the pattern and habit were so engrained in me that the comfortability of the relationship made sense in some way. I kept going back. And this time, after the funeral, was no different.
During her cruise and the several days I spent in Malin Head, we talked to the point where we decided for her to fly to Ireland and spend the remainder of the trip with me. I picked her up one early morning, driving from Sligo to Dublin and back again. Before that, however, I had had such peace. Something inside of me said not to do this, but I did it anyway. I spent those first few days in Malin Head. There, I discovered Farren’s Bar. Some Star Wars movies have been filmed nearby; as a Star Trek fan, I find that less than important, but the bar is decorated with memories of it. Because in Ireland, memories are important and held close. Given that I come back to Malin Head again, and I will tell you about the days I spent there at the beginning of this month later, I do not want to spend much time on it. However, I will tell you that I did hear “Country Roads,” that I did have a few pints, that I met my first Northern Irish – I’m sorry, Irish people from the north – and that I saw a coast that is still breathtaking, ancient, and mysterious.
What stuck with me about my first time in Donegal was how it made so much sense just to be there. When I returned to the United States after this trip, I would remark to my friends that had I not first found Kerry, I would’ve spent all my time in that part of Ireland that is sparse, green, and, as the locals say, forgotten. I do not know what it is about Ulster, specifically County Donegal, but I knew I had to return. I almost felt as if I could have spent my entire time on this trip in Ireland simply being there.
If you ever get a chance to go, go. Go to Farren’s and have a pint. I wish I could say I could meet you there to show you around or to sit and talk about this story of mine. But, I doubt I’ll ever see it again, at least not in this lifetime. There is now too much distance, too much to do, to get back there.
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