So far away, so close to home.

Once upon a time, in my somewhat misspent youth, I was a college student. I would even say a strange one. I was frsh out of the Marine Corps. I had far-off dreams of being a doctor. I was young and strong; a bohemian biologist used to rough language and rougher company. One of the things I loved doing as such a young man was playing rugby. I was a rugger, and proud of it, despite our checkered and often embarrassing antics. I made a lot of good friends on the rugby pitch. Rugby, you see, seems to attract men of unusual character. From knaves to saints, the ruggers of UD were a unique, if not odd breed. We would fling ourselves fearlessly into the rucks and mauls. We would bloody our faces, and sometimes break our bones. Then, afterward, we would get kegs of beer, sing the traditional songs of ruggers, drink to excess cheap beer, flirt to abandon with cheaper women, and in general, behave in a manner unfit for civil society, and only possible when you believe that the blood will stop gushing, and the bones will always heal. Those were, in the blood and sweat and comraderie, some great times, with great friends all around.

One of the closer friends was a stocky chap named Jason. He was a man of strong intellect, impeccable character, and a good catholic. He was upset when I skipped out on a rugby trip to SFA near Houston to see my girlfriend. When I returned with her as my fiancee, he not only forgave me, but was overjoyed. I, too, shared in the joy of hearing that he was engaged, about a year later to his long-running girlfriend, Susan. Susan herself was a sweet lass, who was wholesome and strong, and the very best that a man could hope to raise his daughter to be. Susan was a convert. She was baptised, confirmed, and engaged all within three hours.

Time however, drew us apart. As medical school and marriage loomed on the horizon, time and distance conspired against us, and we drifted apart. There was no falling out, or sense of being left behind, or anything like that. We just fell victim, like countless others to losing touch with friends along the way. AS much as we try to fight it, it will inevitably happen to most our friends. I didn't really miss him, though. Perhaps it is bad to say that, but I had entered another stage of my life, and so had he. I was content in the knowledge that he had a good job, a great wife, and was likely enjoying a kind of quiet stillness to his life. I had not thought about him in months when I ran into some other ruggers from the team at a rest stop along I-45 earlier this year.

And then, this morning, while grabbing a bagel, at the cafeteria at the hospital, I saw his face staring at me from the front page of the newspaper, with a smaller picture of Susan inset above his.

Jason had been doing well. He and Susan were about 21 weeks into expecting their second child. On May 7th, while they were having dinner, Susan suddenly lost consciousness and just dropped. Jason used his lifeguard skills to begin rescue breathing, and called for an ambulance.

Four hours later, a neurologist was explaining to him that his wife was brain dead. SUsan never regained consciousness.

 Just like that, Susan was gone forever. He is now keeping her alive on machines in the hopes that their child will get far enough along in gestation to deliver. He is now facing issues that even my nightmares cannot look upon, and my heart is weeping for him.

There is, somewhere, an answer to this dichotomy. There is an explanation as to how such strong men can live when life itself is so fragile.

I have more to say, but my heart is refuses to let me proceed.

Take courage, Torres. I am with you in spirit, and my prayers alight on God's ear even now.

Your Friend,

-"MASH"

UPDATE: There is a fund set up in Susan's name.

Please consider sending the family some money to help defray the massive costs.

The Susan M. Torres Fund
c/o Faith and Action
P.O. Box 34105
Washington, D.C. 20043-0105