THE FEAR OF THE UNKNOWN

For most people, there is a certain amount of fear in the unknown. That which we do not understand frightens us. Maybe not a lot, but there is a slight trepidation about something with which we are unfamiliar.

We all handle our fears differently, but I think for some people the way to handle that fear of the unknown is to avoid the unknown. At least, that's what I did recently in regards to a close friend of mine named Ryan.

I met Ryan during my three years of living in Tulsa, Okla. Naturally, we lost touch a little when I moved to Buffalo, NY, four years ago and then moved again to St. Louis, Mo., for the past two years. We communicated mostly via e-mail, like so many others in today's high tech and less personal contact world. There were the usual promises of getting together one day, especially after I moved to St. Louis, but it never seemed to work out as planned. Just more of the occasional e-mail.

I made it back to Tulsa to see him briefly for his wedding in the summer of 2000. Again, more promises of keeping in touch and getting together. I finally did get together with him and a couple other friends in August of 2001 for a round of golf when I was in the area for another wedding. Ryan was the one who introduced me to playing golf and taught me what little I managed to pick up about the game. That sparked an interest in the game of golf for me that continues still today. So it only seemed natural that we catch up with each other during a round of golf.

It was unlike any round of golf I had ever played, or will ever play again.

It started as soon as I arrived at the course that day. I thought I saw Ryan at the driving range, but thought, nah, can't be him. So I passed it off, despite the constant glances and thinking, maybe it is him. But I didn't want that man I saw to be him, so I tried to convince myself it wasn't. I went inside and paid, and was told Ryan had already checked in. As I went back outside, there he was, coming in from the driving range. At that point, the fear of the unknown struck hard as I realized that man I saw at the range was indeed my close friend, but not as I had remembered him.

He had lost some weight. Not a lot, but enough to tell that he was slightly slimmer than usual. He was also bald. Not naturally, but from the chemotherapy.

I knew he had cancer. He had e-mailed me a few months earlier with the shocking news. I couldn't believe it and didn't want to believe it, which is why I tried to convince myself the guy I saw at the driving range wasn't really him. But it was, and now I was terrified.

I didn't know a whole lot about cancer. I knew it was a terrible and deadly disease, but not much more than that. I also had never known anyone who had cancer and had never had to deal with that fact. I still didn't want to deal with it as I stood there shaking his hand and saying hello. So I did what a lot of people do when confronted with something that is unknown. I tried to ignore it and go on. But I couldn't. Every time his once mammoth shots on the golf course came up short. Every time he had to rest after walking off the green late in the round. Every time I looked at him and saw the evidence of the disease.

I felt awkward. I wasn't quit sure how to act or what to say. Of course, Ryan was his usual self, making jokes about how nice it was not to worry about having to shave every morning or how much money he saved by not having to buy shampoo. It was like he sensed my awkwardness and despite what he was going through, wanted to do what he could to make me feel better.

Yeah, that's fair. He's got a deadly disease and is worried about my uneasiness.

Late in that round, on the last hole, the four of us playing decided to have a little fun. Ryan and I would take on the other two in our group, and the team with the lowest score on that hole won. It was a long par five with water in front of the green. I was just off the edge of the green in three shots, one of the guys on the other team was on the green in four. He one putted and I two putted, so we tied, and the outcome depending on Ryan against the last player in our group. Both Ryan and the last guy hit their second shots into the water. Both took a drop and had to hit again, and both repeatedly hit it into the water at least three or four times. At this point, the competitor in me wanted Ryan to take one club more and just get the ball on the green. It was only later that I realized he probably took one club less on purpose. Ryan was a good friend of that last guy in our group, and upon reflection, I think it made sense later why Ryan was smiling even after he needed five shots to get over the water. The other guy needed five as well.

We finished that round, said goodbyes, and promised to keep in touch. We did on occasion, and usually via e-mails. My ignorance wanted to forget about the cancer and just think of all the golfing stories and experiences I had with Ryan. Oh the stories. Like the 12th hole at WhiteHawk Golf Club about five years ago, one that will go down forever as the funniest hole ever.

There was a big tree about 50-60 yards from the tee box on the left side of the fairway, just sitting there by itself. Woods were to the right of the fairway and to the left, behind that lone tree. Ryan pulled out a four-iron, wanting to have better control and avoid the woods on either side. He avoided hitting it directly into the woods, but didn't miss them entirely. His first tee shot smacked off that lone tree and bounced straight into the woods. He disgustedly hit a second shot and accomplished the exact same result. At this point the temper was flaring. He hit a third tee shoot, and again, it hit that lone tree and went into the woods. With that, Ryan heaved his four-iron down the fairway in disgust, the first time I had ever seen him throw a club. Like a magnet, his club hit that lone tree, and broke in two.

Later on that hole, I would serve as the tree. With Ryan's ball in a greenside bunker, I was standing off the side waiting for him to take his shot. I was standing at about a 45 degree angle on a line going from Ryan to the hole. You could have drawn a perfect triangle from Ryan, to the flag stick to me. As he hit his shot, however, I saw a white speck coming straight at me in slow motion. As I turned, I raised my left arm to protect myself, only to feel a solid thud on my arm. The ball hit me on the arm, and to Ryan's delight, bounced onto the green about 10 feet from the hole. Needless to say everyone in the group was laughing till there were tears. My tears were in pain, until Ryan shouted don't worry, I won't throw my club at you like I did the tree. He erased my pain with laughter, much like he did that day I saw him on the golf course and his jokes about having no hair.

Ryan was always looking out for others. In looking back at that round of golf last August, I remember seeing my friend look physically different, but there was something else that didn't look different. It was in his eyes and in the way he carried himself. When I get even the slightest hint of the flu, I act like a 10-year old and whine and complain. Here's my friend, with cancer, and yet still has that spark in his eye like I want to play golf and this won't stop me.

Yet I was still afraid. Scared of not knowing about cancer and what it could do. So I did what a lot of people would have done and avoided the situation. The e-mails with Ryan became less frequent. From my end because I was afraid of what to say, and afraid of what not to say. I got an e-mail from Ryan in August of this past summer, informing me of a new cell phone number he had just gotten through his church, which he was now working for on the side. I never did call that cell phone number. I was afraid of what to say to the voice on the other end.

Ryan was a strong believer in God, and in carrying out God's word. I can think of no greater ambassador. There was just something about Ryan, a sort of confidence that certain people have. A confidence that they know what they are doing and nothing can stop them. Ryan had that, and I always admired him for that as well has his Fred Couple-like golf swing. A golf swing I'll never have the pleasure of seeing again.

My friend Ryan passed away on September, 20, 2002. He died of cancer. He was 27 years old.

In that same e-mail with his cell phone number, Ryan made no mention of his health or how he was doing. It wasn't important. The only thing that mattered was that people had that cell phone number to call and talk about anything if they needed. To let people know he was available to talk to. I should have taken up that offer, but I was too afraid.

Had I called that cell phone, I might have learned about how much worse his health had gotten. How the cancer had spread from his stomach to his lungs, making it harder for him to breath. As the tumors spread throughout his lungs, it got harder and harder for him to breath, forcing him into the intensive care unit at the hospital where he remained until his passing.

I didn't find out most of this until a month after his death. At that point, it was too late to call that cell phone number and offer words of comfort and hope. But again, that wasn't Ryan. Just like at the golf course, when he joked about his condition to make me feel better, he didn't want anyone to worry about him. Even till the end, when he was working at the church to help others and defying the cancer trying to take over his body. Yet he made no mention or complaints about his condition. He wanted no excuses and he wanted no sympathy.

In the end, the cancer won. But so did we. By we I mean those of us who knew Ryan. I can't think of a single person who knew him that wasn't touched by his kindness. That was evident by his funeral when it seemed like the entire city of Tulsa came out to pay their respects.

I made it down to Tulsa for the funeral that day. I can honestly say it was one of the hardest days of my life. It was the first time that someone that I had known that well, someone of my age, who I had loved like a brother, had passed away. Because it was caused by cancer, a disease to which there is a cloud of uncertainty even by doctors trying to find a cure, made it even harder to accept.

In a way, I feel ashamed for how I treated the whole situation. Not only for not keeping in touch with a close friend through a difficult and painful time, but for succumbing to that fear of the unknown. My ignorance about cancer made me want to push it away and forget about it, hoping it would go away. I hid from the situation, and eventually, it did go away. And it took my friend with it.

I had no way of knowing my last time to see Ryan would be that early morning in August, out on the golf course. Somehow it seemed fitting though. Many people have tried to compare golf to life, and compare the lessons of golf with the lessons of life. I know my greatest lesson in life was taught to me on the golf course. Taught by a man who I admire more now than I ever did.

Every time I step onto a golf course, I think of Ryan. I think of that first round I played with him and how he laughed when I hit a three-wood on a par three. I think of him every time I pull out a four-iron and stand behind the guy hitting from the bunker instead of to the side. I think of him and that last round we played together, and how he was defying the odds to even be out there. And it always brings a tear to my eye. I'll continue to think of him every time I pick up a club and hit a ball, and I will always remember what I learned on that final round.